Chapter Seven #2
A breeze whooshes by us, menthol-cold and sharp, but I feel confused.
Because I feel sad for him. Perhaps he didn’t think it through; thought his dad wouldn’t see.
Maybe he was too fixated on the story of us getting out there, all romance and fun, that he didn’t consider the real-life, true implications.
And of course he didn’t. He didn’t think of me, did he?
How The Really Late Show felt to watch, how the publicist’s words down the phone to me broke my heart, my own father getting in touch, my sister, heartbroken from losing June House so suddenly . . .
I radio again.
‘They’re probably loading the boat,’ I say. ‘Maybe we should just go .’
‘It’s crazy,’ says Milo. ‘Like you have to radio just to hear another human.’
‘Mm,’ I reply. ‘It’s a lot to digest.’
‘You said you’d never come here.’
The words land hard, like javelins in the ground at our feet.
I stare at him. ‘What do you mean?’
‘No, it’s just . . . you were working in Bermuda.’ His brown eyes crinkle at the corners, in what could be faux-concentration or anger. ‘I remember you saying you couldn’t do what Iris did. The remoteness, the cold, the no internet—’
‘Well, people can change their minds.’
‘Yeah, but from Bermuda to here, I just . . . There’s change and then there’s . . . whiplash. I just wondered why the sudden pivot.’
The gall.
What’s he even saying? That I can’t complain because I don’t keep to my word anyway? Is that what he tells himself to sleep at night? Oh, yeah, I might’ve made us public, but she’s full of shit about not liking cold places, anyway!
‘I’m not talking anymore,’ I say.
He holds his hands up, in surrender. ‘I just asked a question—’
‘This is R1,’ comes Polly’s fuzzy voice over the walkie-talkie and thank goodness. ‘Schedule slightly delayed but all team members en route to boat. ETA five minutes. Do you copy, R2?’
I bring the receiver to my mouth with relief, like it’s a glass of wine (and gosh, I wish it was), tell them we’ll be there at roughly the same time.
‘We need to go,’ I say, and I look up to meet Milo’s eyes. ‘And, for the record, I didn’t want to come here. I had to. I had no choice.’
He looks at me like I just pushed him hard in the chest. ‘You had no choice?’
‘Correct,’ I say, and my teeth are so firmly mushed together, they ache.
‘After the leak, people bombarded my university. They – crashed my website, filled my DMs, emailed the station in Bermuda, some even came to my house to take photos, which . . . I mean . . . and most people were just excited, whipped up by a weird viral moment, I suppose. But . . . Some people were awful. Like, really, really awful. And I had no one.’
Milo hasn’t blinked. ‘Allie . . .’
‘So, I needed an out. Polly needed people here for the polar winter and it felt like the only choice I had. I had Christmas here alone. The sun didn’t come up for six months. I knew nobody. But it felt safe. It is safe, to me now. That’s why I changed my mind. That’s why there was whiplash.’
His Adam’s apple bobs. His eyes glisten and his mouth opens and closes. ‘Allie, I . . . I didn’t realise that.’
‘And why would you? You’re protected from it, aren’t you? Publicists. Fans. Magazines. TV hosts . . .’
He reaches a hand up, towards me, then stops and lets it hang back at his side. He clears his throat, eyes dropping to the floor. ‘I’m . . . I’m really sorry, Allie. That must’ve been so rough. I didn’t . . . I didn’t know.’
‘What, and if you had, you wouldn’t have done it?’
He stares at me then, gently, tips his head to one side.
And something about it – something in it – makes me want to cry.
Because of his familiar kindness. Because it’s Milo.
His softening eyes, his comforting voice.
Because this really was my escape, and now the very thing I was escaping has landed here with me.
And I almost – almost – believe that he didn’t do it, looking at him.
Which is ridiculous. Totally ridiculous.
Of course he did it. And if he didn’t, then why else would the publicist have called?
Why else would he have gone on TV and laughed about me? And if he didn’t do it, then who did?
No. No. Not this again. I packed this well away, deep, deep into the attic of my mind two years ago.
I can’t start unpacking it all again, start wondering who did it, if not Milo.
Hacking. Passwords being taken. Someone stealing my phone somehow .
. . No. No. Milo did it. The simplest answer is often true.
‘I’m not doing this here,’ I tell him. ‘I just want to be clear, Milo. This is my place of work.’
‘I understand,’ he says gruffly. ‘We’ll just shoot footage as agreed, and we’ll leave.’
‘Good,’ I say.
‘Good,’ he says, eyes flashing, and for a second, they fix on mine – serious and beautiful – and something that feels like hot sunlight travels down my body.
‘Let’s go,’ I say, climbing onto the snowmobile. ‘And, um, contact lenses. Sub-zero temperatures can cause eye irritation when wearing them, so I suggest you remove them. We won’t have the means to treat irritation on Cote Rock.’
And Milo, helmet poised above his head, suddenly smiles; a slow, wordless ‘nice try’. ‘I’m not wearing contacts, Allie,’ he says. ‘But thanks.’