Terms and Conditions May Apply

“There’s nothing quite like lying to a stranger with a clipboard to make you question your life choices.”

Having left Cody at home to form a bond with Snowflake and Chloe—an idea that was either charming or catastrophic depending on how long the introductions lasted—I found myself making a sharp left turn into the rent-a-truck carpark.

As I eased into a spot and shut off the engine, a wave of incredulity washed over me.

What the hell am I doing here?

The question echoed with clarity, slicing through the morning’s confusion like a bell. Me. Renting a truck. The sheer absurdity of it settled over me like a heavy coat.

This was the kind of errand that belonged squarely in my father’s domain. He’d have approached it with military precision and the smug satisfaction of knowing where every tool, lever, and cable belonged. I, on the other hand, had always found trucks—of any size—mildly terrifying. They were hulking, mechanical beasts designed for hauling large things and large egos.

And yet, here I was.

Stepping out of the car, I closed the door with a soft thud and took a deep breath. The morning air was brisk against my cheeks, as if even the weather was giving me a nudge. I squared my shoulders and crossed the gravel lot, reminding myself that I was, in fact, a competent adult. Mostly.

The small bell above the rental office door gave a cheerful little jingle as I stepped inside. It was too cheerful. The kind of sound that would have been charming in a bakery or a seaside gift shop, not in a place full of high-vis vests and laminated liability waivers.

Inside, the well-groomed man behind the counter was deep in conversation with another gentleman—clearly regulars, by the casual tone and knowing smirks. Neither looked up as I entered.

I hesitated, momentarily displaced by the unfamiliar territory. The room smelled faintly of tyre rubber and photocopier ink. Posters of towing trailers and weekend specials lined the walls, and everything about the space screamed not your world.

Resigned, I stepped forward and took my place a few feet behind the man at the counter. The transactional rhythm of it all—the line, the waiting—only added to the surreal quality of the moment. Here I was, a woman with cats, a bottle of shiraz, and very little mechanical know-how, standing in a truck hire office as if this were something I did regularly.

Patience was not my strong suit, but today it would have to be.

As I waited, a carousel of thoughts spun through my head. Luke’s strange request. The too-long list of tools. Paul’s credit card, handed over without so much as a mention of its owner. Cody’s maddeningly casual encouragement. And now—this.

Renting a truck.

Not even to move house. Not to relocate furniture. Just to shop.

It was beginning to feel like I was no longer living my life but being written into someone else’s. A strange sort of story where the protagonist is sent on errands that don’t quite make sense, but she does them anyway, because curiosity is stronger than logic.

Still, a tiny ember of intrigue flickered beneath the surface.

How hard could it really be to hire a truck?

I stole a fourth glance at the time on my phone. The minutes ticked by with the weight of something more important than they ought to carry. My fingers twitched. I shifted my stance.

I turned my face slightly, making a deliberate effort not to stare directly at the man’s back. He was broad-shouldered and slow-speaking, judging by the glacial pace of the conversation. Likely someone who knew everything there was to know about gearboxes and none of it about queues.

This is getting ridiculous, I scolded myself silently, irritation prickling just beneath the surface.

What the hell’s taking them so damn long!

“Next, please, ma’am.”

The sudden call to attention made my shoulders jump. A small, involuntary twitch, as if someone had pulled a string. I hadn’t even noticed the gentleman ahead of me leave—so deep had I sunk into my own thoughts, pacing and looping like restless birds trapped in the rafters of my mind.

I felt the blood rush to my face, hot and mortifying. Embarrassment and nerves collided beneath my skin as I stepped forward, adjusting my posture in a vain attempt to appear more composed than I felt.

“I need to hire a small truck,” I managed, my voice steadier than the heartbeat thudding in my chest.

The words were barely out when a wave of disbelief washed over me again. What am I doing?

“For how long?” the man asked, tone clipped and professional, his gaze already flicking toward the stack of forms on the counter.

“Umm. Just one week,” I replied, though the words felt fragile, unconvincing. I hesitated on the last syllable, doubt curling around it like ivy.

Was one week right? Had Luke even said how long this supposed project would take? I couldn't recall. Maybe one day would have been more sensible. Maybe I should’ve sent a text. But I hadn’t. And now, here I was, in a truck rental office, inventing a timeline I wasn’t even sure belonged to me.

The man behind the counter remained unmoved. He didn’t raise an eyebrow. Didn’t glance up. He simply reached for the stack of booking sheets and began thumbing through them with the quiet efficiency of someone long past the point of caring what brought people through the door.

I stood there, feeling out of place. My trainers scuffed faintly against the vinyl floor as I shifted my weight from one foot to the other.

Am I being ridiculous? Renting a truck for a whole week—for what? A mysterious list of hardware supplies? A shed? Chickens? What if I was overstepping? This wasn’t my project. It wasn’t even my idea.

I was halfway down a mental spiral when a single bead of sweat betrayed me—sliding slowly along my hairline, curling behind my ear like it, too, wanted to run away.

“That'll be fine,” the man said at last, his voice cutting cleanly through the muddle in my head.

He looked up and pushed a form toward me across the counter. “I just need you to complete the form and sign the bottom.”

I stared down at the paper—simple, unassuming, and suddenly the most important thing in my world. A commitment. A signature. The next step into whatever all of this was.

Wiping my sweaty palms along my jeans in an attempt to disguise the clamminess, I nodded.

“Sure,” I replied, though it came out quieter than I intended. The nerves had returned to roost.

“Oh, and I need to take a copy of your driver’s license too,” he added, already half-turning toward the copier.

I swallowed hard, another involuntary gulp rising in my throat. The kind you couldn’t talk yourself out of.

Why do I feel so nervous? I wasn’t doing anything wrong. There was nothing illicit about hiring a truck. But something about handing over my licence—my identity—to a stranger, for an errand I didn’t fully understand, unsettled me more than I cared to admit.

I fished through my purse carefully and slid the licence free. The familiar laminated card felt unusually cold between my fingers. I held it a moment longer than necessary, as if it might protest.

Finally, I handed it over, my fingertips brushing its surface one last time.

He took it without ceremony and turned away. I watched as he moved to the copier, slotting my licence into the scanner with all the care of someone filing supermarket receipts.

It was a mundane task.

But somehow, in this context, it felt like crossing a threshold.

“How do you want to pay for it?” he called out, his voice raised slightly to carry over the mechanical hum and whirr of the copier still processing my licence.

I hesitated, just a beat.

May as well pay now and get it over with.

“By credit card will be fine,” I replied, my voice as steady as I could manage.

Inside, though, I was doing quiet mental gymnastics—calculating, estimating. Assuming Paul's card had enough credit to cover not just the truck hire but whatever else this bizarre shopping list would demand. It should be fine. Probably. Hopefully.

Still, the act of using someone else's card for a transaction so significant—it sat uneasily in my chest. Luke had given permission. Paul was apparently aware. And yet, as I stood there, the plastic rectangle nestled inside my purse felt more like contraband than a borrowed favour.

The man returned from the copier, placing my licence back on the counter without ceremony, then moved to prepare the EFTPOS terminal. The faint squeak of the machine shifting on its mat punctuated the silence between us.

I opened my purse with deliberate slowness. My fingers brushed lightly over the edge of Paul's card. A pause.

A question.

What the hell am I doing?

I could feel the familiar flutter of anxiety begin to stir—quickening my pulse, prickling my skin, tightening something in my chest. Would he notice the name? Would he ask me for ID again? A signature? Would I have to explain myself—to justify this strange little errand, as though I were guilty of something?

My palms were slick again. The kind of sweat you get before you speak in front of a room full of people. Or lie to your doctor.

If I tap it quickly enough, the guy won't even see the name on it.

That thought—that tiny rebellion—spurred me forward. In one smooth, almost reflexive motion, I slipped Paul’s credit card from my wallet, pressed it to the terminal, and withdrew it with the swift, practised grace of someone who had something to hide.

My heart thudded in my chest—loud, urgent. It didn’t matter how reasonable the situation was. It felt wrong, and that was enough to trigger the spiral.

Then the terminal made a noise. Not the usual beep of success, but something lower. A churning, mechanical splutter that sounded far too similar to my own roiling stomach.

I held my breath. My thumb hovered over the keypad, ready to enter the PIN code I’d rehearsed in my head like a student before an exam.

“I'm sorry,” the service man's voice cut through my mental preparation. His tone was firm. Measured.

“The machine seems to have failed.”

My heart dropped, the panic rising before I could rein it in. The card. The name. The second attempt. It all felt too conspicuous now. Like a spotlight had been switched on, illuminating every drop of sweat, every nervous twitch, every detail that could betray me.

“Oh,” I managed, a pitiful sound that barely escaped my lips.

“I'll try it again for you,” he said, unfazed. “We often have connection issues with this machine. Mostly we just end up needing to insert the card.”

He extended his hand.

Waiting.

The card, now back in my grip, felt heavier than it had moments ago. I stared at it for a fraction too long. Then, with the hesitation of someone passing a secret note in school, I handed it over—hoping, irrationally, that neither of us would look too closely at the name embossed on its surface.

Staring at his open palm, I felt another bead of sweat form at my hairline. It slid slowly down my forehead, tracing a deliberate, humiliating path of my growing anxiety. The office suddenly felt stifling, the air thick with the potential for disaster.

My heart pounded, a steady, insistent rhythm, each beat echoing a silent plea inside me:

Don’t look at the name. Don’t look at the name.

Reluctantly, I placed Paul’s credit card into the man’s waiting hand. My breath hitched as I did so. My eyes followed the card as he took it—carefully, neutrally—and held it near the bottom of the machine.

My entire focus narrowed down to that small plastic rectangle. That cursed little rectangle and the risk it represented. I felt as though the rest of the world had blurred, shrunk to a single moment teetering on the edge.

Nearly there, I thought. A private chant. A whispered prayer to any force that might be listening.

But then—he stopped.

He looked up at me.

His eyes narrowed slightly. Just enough.

There was a flicker of something—doubt? Curiosity? Suspicion? I couldn’t be sure. But I saw it. I felt it. The way his gaze lingered, sharp and assessing, like he was trying to fit a puzzle piece that didn’t quite match.

I could almost hear the unspoken question forming in his mind. The card. The name. The age gap. My shaky hands.

Before he could say anything—before his mouth even began to move—I jumped in.

“My boyfriend’s,” I blurted out, the words coming out in a rush, laced with urgency. "He’s finally moving in with me."

There it was. A neat little lie, hastily stitched together.

As soon as the words left my mouth, I felt the dual hit of relief and guilt. Relief for having offered something—anything—to smooth the moment. Guilt because it wasn’t true. Not even close.

Cody wasn’t moving in. Paul wasn’t my boyfriend. And I was growing increasingly unsure of whether I was even helping a friend or simply enabling something I didn’t understand.

Still, I stood there—tense, alert—waiting to see if he’d buy it. If my little theatre piece would pass without an encore.

Finally, the man gave a mild shrug and pushed the credit card into the terminal.

“As long as you know the PIN code,” he said, voice flat, unbothered. He pushed the terminal across the counter toward me, his suspicion, if it ever existed, now buried under routine.

My heart thudded in my throat as I forced a tight, nervous smile onto my face.

I typed in the PIN, fingers trembling slightly. The keypad seemed too loud, each button press echoing like a drumbeat in my head.

The machine made another of its dreadful, sputtering churns—less a beep and more a moment of hesitation. As if it too was considering calling the police.

Shit, I thought, eyes fixed on the little screen. Don’t you dare fail me again.

The pause stretched. My shoulders tensed. Every muscle held taut.

Then—

“All good,” the man declared, as casually as if he’d just handed me a loyalty card.

Relief crashed over me like a wave. He pulled the card out, printed the receipt, and handed both back to me.

“Thank you,” I managed, my voice little more than a whisper. I took the receipt with clammy fingers and slipped the card back into my purse like it was a piece of evidence I didn’t want found.

I released a breath I hadn’t realised I’d been holding. The tension in my chest deflated just slightly. Enough to breathe again.

But the moment of calm was short-lived.

From a side door, another man appeared—taller, thinner, with a slightly gaunt face and an air of quiet authority.

“That was good timing,” the service man said, turning slightly toward me. “Garry will take you to collect the truck.” He gestured to the man, who gave a polite nod in return.

I returned a quick, shaky smile. My lips barely moved.

It was done. The transaction had gone through. The lie had worked.

But the cost of it—emotionally, internally—was still settling.

I walked over to greet Garry, trying to hold myself together, to stand up straight, to appear calm and collected.

But inside?

Inside, I was still unravelling. Still reeling from the narrow escape.

And somehow, despite all of that, I was still walking forward. Still stepping deeper into the strange little story I hadn’t asked to be written into.

Sat in the driver’s seat of the small truck, I found myself parked outside the sprawling hardware store, its wide façade bustling with activity. People hurried in and out with trolleys full of mulch and fence palings, as if they all had perfectly reasonable plans for their weekends.

The task had already taken far longer than I’d anticipated—or hoped—and a creeping sense of urgency had begun to gnaw at me, nibbling away at the resolve that had, until now, just about held.

Realising I ought to update Cody, I grabbed my phone from the dash and began composing a text, thumbs tapping across the screen with the efficiency of muscle memory. C-O-D-Y.

Then… nothing.

A wave of confusion rolled through me.

Where’s Cody gone?

His name—his number—wasn’t in my contacts. I stared at the blank screen, willing it to correct itself, to deliver up the name I was certain had once been there. With a sigh of annoyance, I closed the unsent message and tossed the phone gently onto the passenger seat.

“I really need to get that man's phone number,” I muttered aloud, shaking my head, a mix of frustration and self-reproach tightening my jaw. We'd known each other how long now? And still, I was relying on memory and proximity like some lovestruck teenager from 1994.

Determined not to waste another moment more than necessary on this errand for Luke, I made my way into the store with all the steely purpose of a woman on the brink. I flagged down a store person within minutes—young, freckled, chewing gum—and enlisted his help to gather the items on Luke’s list.

The task was straightforward, but tedious. I just wanted it done. Each item ticked off brought me closer to escape.

After the drama of hiring the truck, I wasn’t keen to draw further attention to myself. Despite having Paul’s credit card nestled safely in my purse, I decided—quietly, sensibly—not to use it.

Not again.

Not today.

I used my own card at the register, jaw clenched at the total. Luke can reimburse me, I thought, justifying the expense. Maybe with actual money. Maybe with wine. At this point, a few bottles of shiraz felt like fair compensation for the time, stress, and general emotional labour I was pouring into this surreal little mission.

Back at the truck, I brushed the dirt from my palms and smeared it down the front of my jeans. Hardware and trucks were dirty work. No one told you that when you were the one playing courier for cryptic renovation plans.

I turned away instinctively as the young helper bent over to load the last of the timber posts—his exposed bum crack forcing a hasty redirection of my gaze. Honestly, some things you simply couldn’t unsee.

As he secured the final post in place, I allowed myself a breath—a long, steadying exhale. A strange sense of accomplishment washed over me, mingling with the exhaustion that had crept into my limbs. The day had thrown me one challenge after another. None of them glamorous. None of them expected. But I’d handled it.

Mostly.

The truck was loaded. I was still standing. There was a strange sort of pride in that.

“So, what's ya plans with all this stuff ‘ere?” the young store employee asked, wiping his hands on his shorts as he jumped down from the back of the truck.

His tone was casual, curious. Probably just making conversation. But the question landed harder than it should have.

Caught off guard, I fumbled for a response. “My husband's building a small chicken coop,” I said, voice light, laced with a confidence I didn’t feel. The lie slipped out easily, too easily. I wasn’t even sure who “my husband” was supposed to be—Cody? Paul? Someone fictional who actually had a clue?

“A chicken coop?” he repeated, eyebrows lifting in surprise before he burst into laughter. “Lady, you could build a whole chicken farm with this much stuff.”

His laugh echoed in the air, big and brash. Not unkind, but unhelpful.

As his words sank in, I felt something twist inside me. A sharp little churn in my stomach. An unpleasant confirmation of what I already suspected: this wasn’t about chickens. And whatever it was about, I had no idea.

“But good luck with it anyway,” he said, the laughter still lingering in his voice as he turned and walked off, leaving me in silence beside the truck.

I stood there, staring into the open back of the vehicle. Tools. Timber. Cement mix. Mattock. More than a coop. More than I could explain. More than I could justify.

So not a chicken coop then…

The thought hit hard.

Confusion flared again, this time followed by something darker. A sinking feeling. A quiet despair.

I was in deep—too deep. Wrapped in someone else's plans, someone else’s secrecy, and I didn’t even know what game we were playing.

And yet… I was still playing.