‘You like sports?’ His eyes light up.
‘No. I’ve never exercised in my life.’
‘What about Pilates?’
‘Who?’
I should win a comedy award.
‘You’re so funny,’ Jackson says. ‘How come you’re single?’
Excellent question.
I pause to stare into the darkness. ‘Because, like a loser, I was the last to know that my ex, Dillon, was cheating with the barmaid. The whole pub knew.’
Jackson inhales sharply. ‘Harsh.’
‘They couldn’t keep their bloody eyes off each other and when I… confronted them, it wasmewho got barred for life! It was humiliating.’
Jackson is quiet for a moment. ‘If it helps, six months ago, I found out my girlfriend was cheating when I spotted her in the queue for a flight… with another man.’
It’s my turn to gasp.
‘It gets worse. I ended up having to sit next to them for the entire flight. So, in a losers contest… I win.’
I giggle as I take another drag on the spliff. ‘Yeah, not bad. I guess you’re in with a shout.’
We are distracted by the sound of another bus. This time he picks me up and carries me into the road and I wave my arms about until the minibus screeches to a stop two feet away from mowing us down. Which is hil-ar-ious. The doors open and Jackson lifts me onto the stairs. It is full of people, but I manage to secure two free seats at the back. We plop down and I drape my legs over his lap and slump into the corner.
‘Hey. No sleeping. We don’t want to miss our stop.’
My eyes spring open. ‘No. I won’t. I promise.’
My eyelids are so heavy. All that travelling today. Those drinks. That joint. This heat. The gentle rumble of the bus as we meander around Bodrum dropping people off, picking people up. The soothing hum of passengers chatting. The lulling motion as I rock back and forth on these rickety seats. Jackson gazes at me, his lids heavy with admiration for me. He must see me as a strong, independent woman of significance. He really does have kind eyes… I wonder if he fancies me. I snuggle against him, wrapping my arms around his shoulders and resting my head on his chest. I trail my fingers absentmindedly across his clavicle and down his arm. I can hear the rhythmic beat of his heart. Slow and thumping.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
I take a deep breath in and slowly exhale.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
‘SON DURAK!’ shouts the driver, half frightening me to death. My eyes snap open. Jackson jumps a mile next to me. The bus driver is looking at us. The bus is empty.
‘What happened?’ I croak.
Jackson’s eyes swivel about, assessing the situation. He checks his watch. ‘Shit. We fell asleep.’
The bus driver repeats himself, shakes his basket of tips to remind us to leave him some money for this unsolicited, two-hour, regional excursion of Turkey he’s taken us on and points to the door at the front.
‘He wants us to get off.’
‘Get off where?’ I ask as we hesitantly get up and make our way down the aisle. Jackson dips his head to look out of the window, but it is still dark.
‘No idea.’
7
We thank the driver who closes the doors and screeches away at speed, dust clouding around us. When it settles, we are standing at the edge of a dirt track. ‘There,’ I say, pointing. ‘Some lights.’
