“Won’t be a sec,” he said.
Even in the few minutes he was gone, anxiety constricted her chest. It hadn’t taken her long to get used to having company. Turned out even she had a limit for being alone—and she’d always been fine by herself. Preferred it, most of the time. The only child of diplomats didn’t get much choice. In her first fifteen years she’d lived in six countries. Tough on a kid who took a long time to make friends. By the time she’d reached boarding school in Rome, then college in LA and university in Rhode Island, she’d thirsted for time alone like Charlotte had craved parties. If anyone should have been able to survive a year as a hermit...
But before the last year she’d always had a computer and, inside it, her constructed world—the virtual friends who felt closer than the people around her, the communities as tangible as concrete-and-timber villages. Even hiding behind an avatar she’d had a more defined identity online than off.
Without even her virtual world, enforced solitude had turned into less sanctuary and more punishment. Going to bed alone each night knowing you’d wake up alone, with no one to talk to tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after, virtually or in person... With nothing and no one to interrupt your thoughts they meandered to crazy places, like the swells of the Southern Ocean endlessly circling the globe without landmasses to temper them. And the currents and tides had inevitably led back to Jamie, to that night, to the week leading up to it, to harmless fantasies about where they might meet again.
Which no longer seemed harmless.
Jamie returned with a paper shopping bag, a newspaper and a polar blast. “There was a car park back there, overlooking a wood,” he said, heaving the door shut. “On a day like today I don’t think many people will be out hiking. We can park up while I sort this out.”
The “wood” turned out to be a stand of amber and gold trees in the seam of a valley, flanked by green fields. Or were they “meadows” here? In the distance a squat stone farmhouse sat on a plateau, coated with a green creeper as if trying to camouflage itself. Tiny cattle dotted the hills behind. Like in Tuscany, her brain could appreciate the beauty but not her heart.
A thought pulled at her, again. What?Is your brain trying to tell you something?Her poor brain was being tugged in all directions. Her brain, her heart, her instinct, other parts...
No,thoseparts were all being pulled in one direction.
She turned to the back seat, where Jamie was spreading a medical arsenal onto the red raincoat—sealed packets of scissors, tweezers, wipes, pills, syringes, vials...
“You got all that from the drugstore?”
“I bought some supplies through Andy as well, via an old...contact. This is not all over-the-counter stuff.”
“Is that legal?”
“Asks the woman with the stolen car and fake passport.”
“Ididn’t steal the car.”
“I don’t think you can claim I kidnapped you, if that’s your plan.”
“Technically you did kidnap me. There were witnesses.”
He laughed and went to pull off his torn sweater, having discarded his other layers. “Shite,” he said, the sweater muffling his voice. “Can you come over into the back seat with me and help get this over my head?”
Come over into the back seat with me.Under different circumstances that would be very appealing.
After awkward maneuvers the sweater came free. The scarf ripped clear of the wound with a sucking tear, and blood bubbled up in its wake. He pressed the fabric back onto it, screwing up his face.
“It’ll feel better once it’s cleaned out,” he growled. Was he trying to convince her, or himself? After a few deep inhalations, he pulled away the scarf, revealing a pulpy, bloody gash in the dip where his shoulder muscles met his arm muscles.
“Yikes,” she said.
“It’s nothing.”
His tattoo was hazed with blood. Four words in a vintage cursive font. She remembered tracing the swirling letters, his skin goose pimpling under her finger. His skin had felt taut, a little dry. She’d kissed it...
“I think you might lose a few letters from your tattoo,” she said.
“That’d be appropriate.”
“‘Je ne regrette rien,’”she read, haltingly. “‘No regrets,’ yes?”
He gave a rueful grin. “‘I have no regrets.’”
“Lucky you.”
“Wishful thinking. I should have gone with‘Karma est une salope.’”
