Chapter 3
Three
damn, I forgot my elephant-print trousers
Max
I’ve never felt any kind of gnawing desire to stay put. Never needed to spend my precious borrowed time on places I already
know. I don’t need it, because I have a battered rucksack and a phone to work from and a job that asks me to keep moving.
All morning, my blood has been thrumming, a clock counting down to the moment I can be somewhere different, and as we pull
into Pembroke station, it reaches a fever pitch. I pull that old rucksack off the overhead shelf, Jude and Dylan already in
the aisle up ahead, the latter’s blonde head bobbing above all the women and most of the men exiting the carriage.
Outside is our shuttle; a sleek minibus with Haven by the Sea | Hafan y M?r on the side, driven by a man who introduces himself as David, one of the co-owners of the resort.
He loads our luggage into the back of the bus with ease, despite the faint limp I’d probably miss if I weren’t so personally familiar with that kind of motion.
He’s clearly been moulded by a lifetime outdoors: chaotic mess of grey hair, faded clothes that have been patched up and re-sewn, wind-weathered skin, and lines around his eyes that either come from a lot of laughter or hours squinting in the sun.
It’s the kind of face that tells a story.
The kind of face I’m not sure I’ll ever get to have.
All I see are shadows, when I think that far ahead.
I shake the thought away. Now’s for doing what I do best–leaving those feelings in a place I’ll never return to, and heading
somewhere new. Maybe exploring someone new, if that’s on the cards.
Dylan waits patiently near the shuttle with her shiny suitcase that she refused to let me help with, tugging at slightly-too-short
sleeves that expose the friendship bracelet on her right wrist. It turns out my vague, drunken recollection of her from Ava’s
house party a year ago did not do her justice. Impossible face, ridiculous body, and a particularly guarded exterior I must’ve missed when I was inebriated,
just begging to be undone. And it just so happens that undoing, untying, and unzipping are some of my favourite pastimes.
I lift my phone to capture the momentary disarray of her fighting a losing battle against the wind to retie her ponytail,
but she freezes with her hands at the nape of her neck, halfway through twisting her hair tie, and asks, ‘Did you just take
a picture of me?’
I can’t resist the blush that tints her cheeks. But then, there are a lot of things I can’t resist when it comes to women.
It is, regrettably, my curse.
Well. One of them.
‘Yep,’ I reply. ‘Let me get another.’
She releases her hair and hides her face behind it, then says quietly, ‘There are much more interesting things to photograph.’
‘I don’t know if I agree with that.’ I slide my phone back into my pocket.
‘You don’t know me well enough to know if I’m interesting.’
And maybe that’s it. I don’t know her, and it feels like she has a front up so that people won’t know her. By default, this makes her extremely interesting to me.
I think back to that moment on the train–our hands reaching for my falling bag at the same time, her sharp intake of breath when I pressed against her.
The way she knew the bag would fall but for some reason didn’t want to tell me.
What stopped her from saying what she’s thinking?
What else might be hiding beneath the surface?
‘Y’know, Dylan, I looked you up, but you didn’t accept my follow request.’
She ties her hair back properly now that my phone’s out of my hands and chews the inside of her cheek. ‘I’m not on there much.’
I get the feeling there’s more she’s not saying. I also get the feeling that might be a permanent state of being for her.
‘Ava showed me your profile anyway,’ I say. ‘I bullied her into it.’
A tiny crease forms between her brows. ‘I can’t imagine Ava being easily bullied.’
‘She is extremely intolerant of bullshit, which makes her particularly difficult to manipulate, but I’ve got it down to an
art. I’ve had twenty-seven years to learn her weaknesses. Happy to share tips, if you need them.’
She shakes her head with a soft laugh. ‘I think that’s why I like her. She doesn’t take anyone’s rubbish.’
There’s something wistful in her expression, and then she blinks it away.
We stand outside the bus as other people get on, and I try one more time to get a reaction out of her. I know there’s got
to be a version of Dylan who has a little bite. Not just because she–supposedly–snapped at me on the train earlier, but because
my sister’s love language is borderline-rude verbal sparring, and there’s no way she’d be friends with someone who couldn’t
give back at least a fraction of it.
‘When I looked at your profile, I remember thinking how strange it was that someone so pretty posts so few photos of herself.’
She shifts on her feet. ‘Not everyone wants to share pictures of themselves every day.’
‘Did you look me up, too?’ Her hazel eyes widen and it spurs me on. ‘Do you think I’m pretty, Dylan?’
‘You think you’re pretty.’
‘That’s not what I asked.’
Her nose scrunches and she glances at Jude, who’s climbing the bus steps up ahead. ‘You should sit with Jude. You probably want to catch up.’
She moves away, and I let two people on the bus after her. By the time I step into the aisle, one of the men has claimed her
neighbouring seat and has pulled her into an intense conversation. She pretends not to see me as I head two rows down to Jude,
who’s left her bag on the seat next to her.
I move her bag to the shelf above us and she glances up from her phone and says, ‘Thanks for asking, you may sit here,’ before
going back to scrolling. When David walks down the aisle to count us and declares he won’t start driving until everyone’s
plugged in their seat belts, Jude says under her breath, ‘I feel like I’m on a school trip.’
My belt is the last to click and, satisfied, David settles in the driver’s seat before pulling out of the car park. I stretch
one leg out under the seat in front of me, the other into the aisle, dirty shoelaces trailing on the floor, and we weave through
small towns and alongside overgrown fields, and mindlessly pass a medieval castle or two in that offhand way you do when you’re
from the UK and ancient structures are as commonplace as a Tesco.
I poke at a new bruise on my wrist; its blues and greens turning one of my tattoos watercolour. I bruise much more easily
than I used to. My skin is constantly peppered with new blemishes and scratches alongside the scars and ink. But some marks
will never fade. Some burrow beneath the surface.
As we drive, David tells us about the resort, how he and his husband Patrick set out to renovate an old clifftop campsite,
and their grandchildren suggested running an influencer scheme. I do try to pay attention–he says something about a weekly beach barbecue and signing up for activities and meals in the dining hall–but
I’m too amped up. My knee bobs and my mind spins imagining everything I might see and do over the next six weeks.
Eventually, the bus turns down a narrow clifftop road and the Atlantic appears bit by bit, a steel blue carpet rolling out to welcome us, and all I know is that vertigo-inducing feeling that you’re at the edge of the world, and it makes my heart pound a little harder.
‘Croeso i Hafan y M?r, lle mae croeso i bawb,’ David says as we pull into the resort. He pulls the brake and translates, ‘Welcome to Haven by the Sea, where all are welcome.’
There’s a hum of excitement as we step off the bus. Sheep bleat, a porch swing creaks, and a breeze rustles my hair and brings
salt air to my nose. Time to jump into the unknown, once again.
David empties the bus of our luggage and I step forward to claim my rucksack. When not in various locations around the world,
it usually sits in the corner of my childhood bedroom in Kent, my interim home between work trips. I miss living with friends,
but moving back in with my parents a few years ago made sense with everything I had going on.
‘Whose bag is this?’ another guest asks, pointing at mine while I am quite literally millimetres from touching it.
‘Mine,’ I say, slinging the strap over one shoulder. ‘Hi. I’m Max.’
He gives me a two-fingered salute, shoulder-length blonde hair swinging. ‘Bertie.’
I realise it’s the man Dylan was sitting next to on the bus. His faded Brummie accent tells me he’s probably spent a lot of
time away from home, and his loose, elephant-patterned trousers–a must-have, apparently, for anyone who backpacked around
Southeast Asia on their gap year–confirms it.
‘So what kind of stuff do you make?’ I hate how inane the question is the second it leaves my mouth.
He shifts from foot to foot. He has the skittish air of someone who scurries around pretending to do parkour. ‘Van life content.
Feels so good to be out on the open road, you know?’
‘Staying in one place for six weeks must be right up your alley,’ I say flatly.
‘Exactly,’ he says, scanning the group and clearly not paying attention. As if suddenly remembering I’m there, he quickly
asks, ‘And you?’
‘Short-form vlogs, mostly.’
‘Nice, nice. Who are you here with?’
‘My friend Dylan. You?’
At this, he looks at me, though his gaze never quite settles. ‘A friend from home, Arun. But you’re the one who came with
Dylan?’
‘I am indeed.’
‘Huh. When she said she was here with a friend, I assumed she meant a girl.’
‘Here I am. Not a woman.’
He glances around and leans in to say, ‘We had the best conversation. We’re into all the same things. Could you put in a good
word for me?’
David slams the bus doors shut and calls out, ‘This way! I need one person from each party to come to the lobby to collect
keys from Patrick.’
Bertie’s still waiting for an answer, but I adjust my bag on my shoulder and say, ‘It was good to meet you.’
I weave through the crowd to find Dylan and Jude walking side by side.