‘Thank you, Josh,’ I said, reaching out to take the crutch from him. ‘That was really thoughtful of you.’ He flushed uncomfortably at my words, which confused the hell out of me. It was as though we’d forgotten how to be nice to each other ... but that could have been as much my fault as it was his.
I positioned the head of the crutch under my armpit and took a tentative step. Like a nervous parent watching a toddler, Josh had his arms outstretched, waiting for me to topple. It strengthened my resolve to remain upright, which surprisingly I did.
Looking over at Josh, I realised something was starting to happen here in the forest. I wanted to blame it on the painkillers, but what I was experiencing hadn’t been mentioned in the long list of possible side effects. It was a long time since I’d fallen for Josh Metcalf, and if there was one thing I knew with absolute certainty, neither of us wanted that to happen again.
It’s Stockholm syndrome, I told myself stubbornly.It’s that weird phenomenon when hostages start warming towards their captors.Except I wasn’t Josh’s prisoner here in the forest, and nor was I his guest ... I was something else, which had no name. And whatever it was, it was conjuring up random memories from the past that I hadn’t thought about in years. And some of them felt good to revisit ...
‘We could so easily have screwed this up, couldn’t we?’
I stiffened, and wondered if he could feel it beneath my charity shop coat. It might have been a year since I left university, but I still shopped like a student.
Josh’s arm tightened around my shoulders, pulling me closer to his side, offering a welcome barrier against the sharp autumn breeze.
‘Screwed what up, precisely?’ I asked.
He dragged me to one side of the pathway, as a cyclist whizzed past, almost mowing me down. Josh muttered a phrase I’d never heard before.
‘Are you swearing in Chinese again?’
His crooked grin still did stupid things to my pulse.
‘Maybe.’
His vocabulary had certainly expanded in new and interesting ways over the last two years. I’m not sure if he knew how to hold a conversation in the native language of any of the countries he’d visited, but he could swear like a marine in many different tongues.
‘You never answered my question,’ I said, falling back into step beside him. We were in perfect sync, as though we were hardwired for compatibility. ‘What is it that we could have ... messed up?’ He smiled at the way I’d sanitised his comment.
‘Us. You and me. Our friendship. If we’d chosen to go down the path we nearly followed on the night of that party two years ago, I don’t think we’d be able to do this now – hang out together the way we do whenever I come back home.’
I kicked at a pile of leaves, taking my frustration out on them and hoping he didn’t notice.
‘I’d miss this,’ he continued, reaching for my hand and squeezing my fingers warmly. ‘This is so much better than having sex.’
I looked up at that. I had to.
‘If you truly believe that, then I think you’re doing it wrong.’
His laughter drew the attention of several passers-by.
‘What I mean is that I’d rather be with you like this, having fun and hanging out together, than sleep with you.’
‘Sorry? Is that meant to be a compliment or an insult? I can’t tell.’
‘It’s a compliment, of course.’
‘I think you should stop talking now,’ I said, ‘before the hole you’re digging becomes so deep you’ll never be able to climb out of it.’
We walked on in silence, broken only by his occasional quiet chuckle as he rewound our conversation in his head. I’d probably be doing that too, but I’d wait until the middle of the night before forensically dissecting his words. Perhaps one day, when I’d heard enough comments like these, I’d stop waiting for Josh to have a miraculous epiphany and realise the person he was meant to be with had been standing right there in front of him all along.
He genuinely believed our decision to whitewash the memory of the night of the party and concentrate on just being friends was a mutual one. It wasn’t. And each time he came back to the UK and turned up on my doorstep, I came a little closer to letting him know that it wasn’t what I wanted. But at the last minute I always chickened out.
‘One of these days I bet I’ll turn up and find you’re married with a kid,’ he’d teased on his last visit, as he hauled the sleeping bag he always brought with him out of his rucksack. ‘I still don’t understand how you’re always single.’
‘Maybe I’m just waiting for Mr Right,’ I’d said, looking at him long and hard, willing him to read my mind.
He didn’t pick up on my silent message. Perhaps that was for the best.
‘Are the guys in this city all blind or just stupid? You’re gorgeous, funny, kind and super smart. You’re a catch. These blokes are all idiots.’
