. . . a rule book
Am I okay? Am I actually okay? One night in the guy’s flat and I hitched myself to him for God knows how long.
I just couldn’t help it – I’d rushed into this whole trip so quickly, that I never really processed the solo nature of it all.
The thought of being alone for six months drove me to the brink of madness.
And for some reason, he went along with it too.
That part, actually, is the most dubious of all.
Even after he agreed, I wasn’t convinced we’d go through with it.
We spent our last couple of days in Brussels passing each other like ships in the night.
I thought he’d have completely forgotten by the time we had to pack.
But there he was this morning, bright and incredibly peppy, offering to pull my case to the station.
Now here I am, shoulder to shoulder on a train to Rotterdam, with a man I met three days ago. A man with incredibly questionable taste in crisps, no less. Who picks bacon rashers of all things?
‘Can you believe these were thirty-nine cents?’
He waves them excitedly under my nose once first, then again with more emphasis. So much emphasis, in fact, that the smell makes my stomach lurch in time with the train.
‘I’m a vegetarian,’ I say.
‘I’m pretty sure they’re not real meat.’
He starts frantically turning the packet in an attempt to find the ingredients. The constant movement only makes the putrid smell stronger.
‘It doesn’t matter; they’re still gross,’ I snap at him, harder than I meant to.
His eyes widen in shock at the outburst, before relaxing again. He brings the packet closer to himself, picking at them quietly as he focuses in on me with an intense, looming stare.
‘Cent for your thoughts?’ he asks.
His hazel eyes are so bright – piercing even – it’s mildly unsettling. I once again remind myself that this man is a stranger. A stranger I met mere days ago. If Sara found out, she’d travel all the way here just to kill me.
I know that this is the bed I made. I know I invited myself along, but that doesn’t make me feel any less queasy. Maybe it’s the rashers, or the kiss, or perhaps the fact that I have not been able to stop thinking about his lips on my neck since it happened.
He attempts to tie the crisp bag shut, twisting the top so aggressively that his elbow knocks cleanly into my arm.
I yelp at the impact, mostly out of sheer shock, and he drops the crisps to immediately come to my rescue.
Within seconds his hand is on the skin, softly rubbing it as he professes his apologies.
I can’t hear a word though; my mind is consumed by the feel of his fingers as they gently caress that small patch of flesh.
I go so hot I feel woozy and I snatch my arm away, quickly reaching for my laptop in an attempt to style it out.
I can’t even look his way as I open a blank document.
‘If we’re going to do this, we need to do this right,’ I say, voice shaky. ‘We need rules, boundaries, a travel plan.’
Am and Noah’s Ground Rules
‘Is this necessary?’ he asks, peering over at the screen with his eyebrows raised.
‘You saw what nearly happened the other day! We have missions to complete and we can’t do it if we keep getting distracted.’
My eyes flit to that patch of skin, now noticeably colder without Noah’s touch. He smirks instantly. He knows what he’s done and it makes me flush just thinking about it.
‘True,’ he says. ‘Six months together and you’re bound to fall in love with me.’
He’s joking, of course. It’s too bold to be honest. But I felt my gut twist at the possibility.
‘See that right there – that’s what I’m talking about,’ I tut, typing the first numbered rule.
1. No flirting with each other.
He reads the words over my shoulder.
‘Okay, fair enough.’
I continue.
2. No physical activity.
‘None? We can’t even hug?’ he asks. I roll my eyes.
2. No extreme physical activity. Hugging = yes, Kissing = no.
‘Where do we stand on hand-holding?’ he asks, mouth twisted into a smirk.
‘I need you to be serious,’ I say as he shakes his head.
‘Fine.’ He reaches over to type one for himself.
I catch a whiff of his aftershave while his neck is stretched in front of my nose. It takes everything in me not to take one long, obvious sniff.
3. Separate beds, always.
I cheer. ‘That’s the spirit!’
‘Don’t act so pleased,’ he huffs.
‘If this works out, you’ll be bunking with your new girlfriend in no time,’ I say.
He raises his packet of crisps, simulating a toast, and waits for me to return the gesture. I do so with my vaguely crumpled water bottle, meeting his soft, welcoming smile before snapping back to the list. We must keep this practical.
‘I think we should take it in turns to find accommodation. It keeps things fair and makes sure the labour doesn’t all fall to one person,’ I say.
He ponders for a moment. ‘Works for me. But you have got to lift your standards from that dump in Brussels.’
‘Noted.’
4. Take it in turns to find accommodation. Must be safe, clean and affordable.
‘I’m not made of money,’ I say as I add the last caveat.
‘Hey, neither am I. Once again, my place in Brussels was free.’ He tilts his head, thinking. ‘So, you have to go on seventy-nine more dates in the next six months. That’s what, like a date every two-ish days?’
‘Very quick maths.’ I give him a nod of approval, but he shrugs it off.
‘I’ve been thinking about it for a few days,’ he says dismissively. ‘Where do you stand on second dates? Are they allowed?’
I mull it over as I try to brush past his thoughts of me. When it came to pitching and planning my column, I never really considered that part. I think about what Analeise would say.
‘I suppose a second date is fine and narratively interesting. But it can’t go much further . . . I’ve got to keep the column fresh,’ I say.
‘Smart.’ He nods, before typing away again.
5. Amorie to go on minimum three dates a week. Second dates allowed, but nothing further unless Noah deems it ‘narratively interesting’.
‘Okay, fine, makes sense,’ I say. ‘Now one for you.’
I turn my keyboard back to me.
6. Noah cannot sleep with anyone until he can express how he feels about them to Amorie.
‘How I feel?’ He frowns. ‘That’s a bit extreme.’
‘You don’t have to tell them you love them or anything. But you’ve got to be able to at least tell me that you feel something other than lust towards them,’ I say.
‘And that something would be . . . ?’ he asks dubiously.
‘You’ll know when you feel it, trust me.’
He coos. ‘Aren’t you romantic.’ His smile makes my heart flutter.
‘Noah. Rule number one.’
‘That wasn’t flirting. Believe me, you’d know if I was flirting with you.’ He smiles deviously, his eyes boring into me as he prods for a reaction. I remain unamused as I return to the keyboard.
7. I’m serious. No flirting with each other.
He throws his head back in time with the end of my sentence, his laugh radiating an annoyingly alluring amount of joy. His arm knocks against mine as he chuckles and I feel those same sparks shoot through me again. They dart around my body rapidly, begging me to act on them.
‘I think that’s a good start.’ He turns towards his window. ‘Now do you mind if I try to fit in a quick nap before we get to Rotterdam?’
‘Of course not,’ I say, a strained smile on my face.
I feel a wave of relief as his eyes clamp shut and I relish my time alone. This can’t go on for six more minutes, let alone six more months. I read the rules on repeat until the train pulls up at Rotterdam Central.