He squints back at me, flicking his head to get his floppy black hair out of his eyes. I hate how it sets the butterflies off in my stomach. “Cooling off.”
“Why?”
He gives me a bemused glance, tilting his head. He’s leaning back in the water with both arms propped to hold him up. There’s something very sexy, alluring, about it. He looks like he’s posing for an eighteenth-century portrait by an opium-addicted artist who also writes poetry about treeline backdrops and valleys of hills, mountains and untouched nature for as far as the eye can see.
“Why do you think?” he asks, with a gentle grin.
“You run at an unnaturally high temperature?”
“Fliss.”
“Yeah?”
“I woke up with a raging hard on.”
Heat rushes up to my face. I raise my hands to cover it. But that’s only going to make it more obvious. So, he does like me? Or is this just a standard morning thing? That’s pretty normal, isn’t it? Probably shouldn’t overthink it.
“Wait… Were you sat like that when that guy walked past?”
He nods. “Yeah. He didn’t blink an eye.”
“Oh god.” Now I’m laughing. This is ridiculous. James joins in too. There’s this moment where we’re both smiling at each other. Then we realise we’re both smiling at each other and get really serious, swallowing in unison and busying ourselves with other things. James plays with the water. I fiddle with my hair.
“Did you hear about the road?” he asks, hardly even looking my way.
“Yeah.”
“Shall we pack up and go?”
“Sounds like a plan.”
*
Once we’re packed up again, James has clothes on and we’re both wearing our backpacks, we make off in the direction we were advised to. James had a quick look at my injury before we set off. He changed the leaf as he has every twelve hours or so. It’s looking much better now. I wouldn’t exactly recommend leaves as suitable gauze unless you have to, but it seems to be working for me.
My shoulders are burning today. James groans as he hoists his rucksack onto his back. All his muscles are aching since his fall. In hindsight, we’re lucky it wasn’t worse. Especially since we’re both without our phones by this point. He’s still carrying more than me. I feel sort of guilty about it. I’m a committed feminist, I should be sharing the load. That’s why I calculated the ratios based on my weight, and a guessed weight for James, and decided, actually, I’m doing my fair share. But his tight facial features this morning suggest he’s possibly in more pain than he’s letting on.
The path dips into a new valley as we emerge from the forest. We stop as the vista before us opens up under the glorious sunshine, beams of light stretching lazily over the long patches of lush spring grass. Ahead of us, we can hear a low rumbling of cars. A promise of escape.
James looks back the way we came. “There’s something magical about being the only people amongst such vastness, isn’t there?”
“The magic is fading now, huh?”
He gives me a look, scrunches his forehead on a frown. “The low hum of exhausts isn’t going to kill the magic.”
Then, before I can say too much more, he takes my hand, squeezing as if to tell me this is going to be ok, then releases it again as we descend a gravelly, curving path in between ruts and swamps leading towards a car park about a mile in the distance.
*
Once we reach the main road, James confidently strides up to the edge where a black BMW is speeding towards us. The road has been carved through the Scottish Highlands in the most absurd way. Only humans could create something so unappealing to the eye, surrounded by such incredible natural beauty. It’s a long, straight Roman road. We can see it goes on for miles, which suddenly hits me in this overwhelming sense of panic. How are we even alive? How did we, two city people surrounded by unlimited food outlets, taxis and trains and concrete, make it across so much of wild Scotland like this and live to tell the tale?
The first car does not stop. In fact, it speeds up, swerving James as if they half-expect him to throw himself in front of them. I wonder how we appear to passersby. I look down at myself: the stained ripped shirt material bandaged around my calf, the sweaty black top and scuffed, dirty shorts. My trainers are already split. Clearly, budget-priced versions. I peek across at James too, stood with his hand out, thumb up. His hair is completely wild, swirling around in the wind. His t-shirt, also black, is sweaty too, trousers ripped in two places. When did that happen?
Luck is not on our side whilst we look like this. Car after car passes by, giving us strange, slightly terrified glances. James, though, is totally unfazed by the rejection. Meanwhile, I’m dissociating from him with every step backwards from the edge of the road. When there’s a gap in the cars he peers over his shoulder.
“What are you doing?” he calls.
“Dying from embarrassment.”
