‘Yeah, why not?’
‘Because I could have killed you last night!’
‘But you didn’t, so I thought you might be hungry.’
Hungry is another one of his understatements. I had a cup of tea with him last night, but the last thing I ate was the service station sandwich yesterday afternoon, and I’m about to tell him I’mstarving, but the smell of the toast and coffee is making my stomach react so loudly that I don’t need to say a word, and he laughs at the gurgle it lets out.
I take the mug of frothy latte from him and sip it gratefully, and as he hands over the plate of toast, he snags a slice off the top for himself.
‘Oh my God,’ I say with a mouthful as I take a piece of toast, and I’m so hungry that I eat the whole thing in three bites. ‘Thank you so, so, so much. The competition isn’t very stiff, but you’ve just become my favourite person in the whole world.’
He laughs at that as he eats his own toast in far more civilised bites, and I’m a little bit floored by how thoughtful he is, especially considering the way we met last night.
‘Let me guess,’ I say as I take another sip and try to eat the next slice of toast normally as opposed to ripping it apart like a wild boar. ‘You’re one of those people who springs out of bed at dawn, belting out showtunes.’
‘Who, me?’ He takes a step backwards, flings his arms out and belts out a few lines of ‘Good Morning, Baltimore’ fromHairspray, which is probablythemost infuriating song to hear at this time of day.
‘Alright, alright, your revenge for last night is complete,’ I mutter, trying to ignore how his grin is making something stir in my belly that has nothing to do with hunger pangs. ‘It’s not normal to look so happy at this time of day, you know that, right?’
‘So people tell me.’ His smile gets impossibly wider. ‘What’s wrong with being a morning person, or an afternoon person, or an evening person?’
I already know that he is all three. ‘And don’t tell me, a night person too?’
‘I’m an everything person,’ he says with a cheerful shrug. ‘What do I have to be sad, grumpy, or resentful about? There are enough angry people in the world without me being one of them.’
I can’t deny that there’s something infectious about his smile and his outlook on life. ‘If I’d murdered you last night, why do I feel like your ghost would pop up and say, “Not to worry, these things happen!”?’
‘Well, as long as it wasn’t intentional.’ He does that happy shrug again. ‘Besides, I quite like being alive. Gives me an excuse to be thankful.’
I’m about to ask how his leg is, but I get stuck on that thought. When was the last time I felt thankful for anything? When did I last feel sheer, unadulterated joy? When did I last wake up and look forward to the day ahead?
While I’m lost in thought, Reece starts walking around the outside of the campervan, admiring it for the first time in daylight, but it’s more of a limp than a walk. His leg’s clearly bothering him, but he’s doing his best to pretend otherwise.
‘This really is a beautiful beast to be nearly crushed to death by.’ He runs his hand along the van’s flank like he’s patting a large animal. ‘Shame about the colour.’
‘Tell me about it,’ I mutter. Never before has anyone driven a getaway vehicle in the colour of a neon lettuce.
‘You’ve got to be incredibly confident in your transport choices to drive a highlighter pen on wheels.’ He completes his circuit and comes back to lean against the doorframe, being careful not to put too much weight on his injured leg. ‘Does it have a name?’
It’s the first time I’ve ever heard anyone refer to the campervan in a gender-neutral way. Jared namedherGenevieve, and now I wonder why. Was Genevieve the name of someone else he was cheating on me with? Or someone hewantedto cheat on me with?
‘No.’ We’re on the run. She can assume a new identity. ‘It’s like the cat inBreakfast at Tiffany’s. We are independent creatures who don’t belong to each other because neither of us belongs to anyone. What right do I have to give her a name?’
His quirked eyebrow makes me wonder if I’ve gone too far, because unlike Audrey Hepburn and her nameless cat in the film, the last thing I want to do is go against the general assumption that this is a vehicleIown. I quickly amend my previous sentence. ‘It’s just Campervan.’
‘Creative and practical, I like it.’
He’s the type of person who could find something positive to say about a broken sewage works. I study his smiling face while I finish my toast. He’s wearing plain black joggers and a navy T-shirt this morning, and I’m relieved to see nothing with cartoon pineapples on it. His light brown hair is parted at the side and swept backwards like he’s pushed it back multiple times. Even in the morning light, there’s something about his persistent good humour that doesn’t quite add up. Nobody maintains that level of exuberance without substantial effort. ‘How’s your leg?’
‘It’s fine. Just a bit… janky.’
‘I think the words you’re looking for are extremely painful, hurting, probably infected?’
‘It’s fine, Dolly. A bit stiff, a bit bruised, but there’s no long-term harm done, so don’t worry about it.’
‘You’re going to let me have a proper look at it later and re-dress the wound, yes?’
He goes to protest that he can do it himself, but I cut him off by using his apparent hatred of hospitals against him. ‘It’s me or A&E. You’re doing that thing where you’re pretending it doesn’t hurt, but I’m not buying it. You keep shifting your weight and trying not to wince. I don’t even know how you’re walking this morning.’
