Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
Harry
It’s another day waking up in Toby’s arms.
We alternate the role of big spoon, depending on who’s keeping watch at night.
I can’t deny that I relish the feeling of Toby in my arms. But equally, I enjoy having his arms around me too. It’s part of me I’ve suppressed for so long, and it seems utterly absurd that the person with whom I’m experiencing this revelation is none other than Toby Webley.
I stretch and extricate myself from his grasp. Toby stirs and then resettles into the nest of pine needles and our coats, his mouth pulled into the little smile he always seems to start the day with.
And I find myself powerless to prevent my own grin from stealing onto my face as I gaze down at him.
Yesterday was…fun. There is no other word that quite captures the essence of the day.
Toby instructing me in the art of whistling, fishing in the sun, and then what came afterward.
Our buoyant mood had persisted into the evening when we’d reclined around the crackling campfire, our stomachs full of fish, our conversation veering from speculating about what was happening back in London to debating the intricacies of defense spending reform.
The chill of the morning air prompts me to move briskly to gather wood to make a fire, my breath frosting the air.
The biting cold serves as a stark reminder that each morning brings a slightly more frigid temperature and a marginally shorter day. Fear gnaws at my stomach.
What was it Toby said yesterday? Live for the moment. I resolutely banish all thoughts of how woefully unprepared we are for the weather to get colder and instead focus on inhaling the crisp, untainted air and arranging the sticks and logs into neat, even piles.
“Why are you starting the fire?” Toby inquires, propping himself up on one elbow and fixing me with a curious gaze.
“I thought if we got the fire going first, then allow it to die down, we could attempt cooking the fish over the embers, which might yield a more consistent cooking result.”
“Are you trying to impress me with your fish-cooking prowess?” Toby asks as he yawns and stretches. He lumbers to his feet, donning his jacket, then approaches me with my own coat, which I accept and put on with gratitude.
Then we both start collecting wood.
According to my watch, today is Wednesday.
I’m supposed to be in Parliament today for Prime Minister’s Questions, aiming sharp jibes at the prime minister, hopefully conjuring up effective soundbites to help convince voters about the ineffectiveness of the Labour government and how my party would do a far superior job of running the country.
Instead, I find myself here, building a fire alongside one of my political adversaries.
I crouch and begin to arrange the paracord and pine needles. Toby kneels beside me and starts breaking a longer branch into smaller twig-sized pieces.
“It’s simple out here, isn’t it?” Toby muses, breaking the silence between us.
I glance up at him. “What do you mean by ‘simple,’ exactly?”
“Well, there’s only two of us, so it’s easy to divide the resources between us evenly. Both of us do our fair share of the work, both of us contribute towards the end goal of staying alive.”
“Are you saying we’re operating some sort of communist commune?” I say skeptically as I strike the rod. The paracord catches fire on the first attempt.
Toby throws me a cheeky grin. “I can imagine your Tory blood is freezing at the idea.”
“I’d say it’s more likely curdling,” I reply.
Toby huffs a laugh. He bends to blow gently on the paracord and then carefully adds pine needles to the tiny flame.
“Why did you venture into politics?” I ask.
Toby shrugs, “It’s not that sophisticated. My father passed away when I was young, and I grew up with a single mother who struggled to make ends meet. I spent my twenties as an analyst helping to make rich people richer, and I started to feel…I don’t know, unfulfilled.
“Then, I helped Oliver with his first campaign, and I saw how politics provide an opportunity to change things for the better.”
“What happened to your father?” I ask as I add more pine needles to the fire.
“He died in a car accident.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
Toby shrugs again, leaning forward to add the first twig. “It is what it is. My mother tried her hardest to ensure I never went without, but it was difficult. That’s what I’m trying to achieve in politics—to make it easier for people like her.”
“I had a quite different upbringing compared to yours,” I comment.
Toby stares at the fire, his mouth firming into a line. “I imagine you did,” he says finally.
There are so many contrasts between Toby and me, not least the difference in the economic circumstances into which we were born and raised. I don’t know if there is anything I can say at this moment to bridge that gap.
We continue to add more twigs to our growing fire.
Toby is the one to break the silence. “It’s not as if you had it easy with what happened to you at boarding school. I don’t think either of us had particularly pleasant childhoods.”
He glances at me, and I’m struck by the depth in his hazel eyes.
“I can understand why your upbringing has made you so passionate about the causes you believe in,” I say.
He’s silent for a few moments, his brow furrowed in contemplation before he replies, “Democracy has its flaws, but there isn’t a better alternative.
As Holocaust survivor Elie Wiesel once said, ‘There may be times when we are powerless to prevent injustice, but there must never be a time when we fail to protest.’”
His face is flushed, and I’m not entirely certain it’s solely due to the heat emanating from the growing fire.
“That’s a poignant quote,” I say. “I’m personally partial to the words of Martin Luther King Junior, ‘Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter.’”
His lips quirk. “You need to remember that next time I’m arguing with you. I’m simply protesting about things that matter.”
“I shall keep that in mind.”
Toby seems disconcerted by the fact we’ve managed to engage in a conversation about politics without it devolving into an argument.
He places another sizable piece of wood on the fire.
“The fire’s big enough now that it will last awhile. I think it’s time to go fishing.”
“Yes. I concur.”
“Can you teach me how to fish?” Toby asks as he watches me gather the equipment.
“Of course I can,” I say.
“It’s the old parable, isn’t it? Give a man a fish and you feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish and you feed him for a lifetime,” Toby says.
I’m certain I could find a way to use his words to critique Labour’s social welfare policy. But suddenly, I don’t want to argue with Toby now.
I don’t wish to disrupt the tranquil mood of this sunny morning.
Instead, we rummage for some grubs to use as bait, and I guide Toby through casting the line and dangling it at the right angle.
There’s a school of perch swimming lazily around.
“Come on, little fishies,” Toby croons.
“Patience is key when fishing,” I instruct Toby. “The fish can sense unnatural movements and vibrations, so you have to be very still.”
“Patience is a fishing rod,” Toby says.
I furrow my brow. “What?”
“Nothing,” Toby says quickly.
I arch an eyebrow at him. “I thought we weren’t keeping things from each other now.”
He looks at me, abashed.
“It’s seriously nothing,” Toby says finally, biting his lip and looking down where his line trails into the water. “It’s just something my mum and I used to do, twisting common sayings. It’s just a silly thing.”
“Don’t count your fish before they’re fried?” I suggest.
Toby startles for a second before a smirk comes over his face.
“All good fish come to those who bait, and wait,” I continue.
“I should have known you’d be gifted at coming up with nonsensical things,” he says.
I laugh, and Toby grins, his eyes sparkling.
Suddenly, his line twitches. “Shit,” he says.
He begins winding it in, his movements jerky. I quickly reach over to help guide his hands.
“Easy now, don’t yank too hard, or you’ll snap the line. Just a smooth, steady pulling motion,” I murmur close to his ear.
Toby takes a breath and follows my lead, winding smoothly until, finally, a decent-sized perch breaks the surface.
I reach down to grab the nylon closer to the hook so I can scoop the fish onto the bank.
Toby’s face lights up in delight as he takes in the large perch. And my breath leaves me.
Toby’s smiling his special Toby smile—the wide-open one that brings out his dimples.
I’m aware it’s not aimed at me. It’s because he’s caught a fish. But I can’t resist. I swoop in to kiss him.
He kisses me back, but for the first time, it’s not a kiss that’s designed to escalate things. It’s just a simple, straightforward kiss between two people who enjoy kissing each other.
After he pulls back, Toby laughs. “Is that my reward for catching a fish?”
I have to clear my throat, my voice slightly unsteady as I reply, “Yes, that is your reward.”
Toby glances down at the fish, a smile still lingering. “All right. Now you better teach me how to fillet this thing.”
Toby’s so triumphant about catching his first fish he doesn’t seem concerned that we’ve just kissed for the first time not due to the necessity of having sex.
But I’m definitely concerned.
Because this thing with Toby is transforming every day. I’ll feel like I’ve just gotten a handle on it, and then the parameters change again.
And my biggest concern is the final destination at which we will end up.