Page 34 of Here for a Good Time
“Not sure,” he mutters half-distractedly. Pen in hand, he’s retracing the same line he drew yesterday. Once he’s satisfied, he gives himself a small nod, and stashes away the pen.
“It’s weird, right?”
“Maybe, but it also kind of makes sense,” he says with a shrug. “If you want to pull off a big robbery, where’s better than a remote island with a ludicrously expensive resort that only rich people can afford?”
“You think they’re just after the money?” I ask. “I dunno, it feels like a lot to be risking for money.”
He gives another shrug as he takes a bite out of his bar. “Money’s a good motivator. And like I said, if you’ve got a proper plan in place, a heist here”—he gestures at the space around us—“is a hell of a lot easier to get away with than somewhere like a bank.”
When he looks at me properly for the first time all morning, I see the dark bags under his eyes, and a speck of dirt on his chin. I reach over and wipe it away. “Dirt,” I explain.
“Thanks,” he says. “You don’t buy it?”
“Buy what?”
“That they’re here for the money?”
I tilt my head side to side. “It’s not that I don’t buy it, it’s just that it all still feels so bizarre. I kept thinking yesterday that this is the kind of thing you read about in the news, you know? Like, how is this actually happening to us?”
He gives a rueful smile. “I know what you mean.”
We’d picked a spot far enough away from the trail that no one would be able to find us. After we’ve both finished our food, Zwe points back toward the direction of the main path. “So, we have a clearly marked trail. Obviously, we’re not operating at a hundred, but still, it shouldn’t take us more than a few hours. Absolute worst-case scenario, we’ll be at the village by sunset.”
He makes it sound so simple and systematic, like it’s just a matter of going on a long hike, and by this time tomorrow, help will be here and we’ll have a plan on how we’re going to get home.
“They’re going to come looking for us,” I point out.
“I know. That’s why we’ll walk in the grass alongside the path. No sneaker prints.”
“My ankle still hurts,” I say. Instinctively, I try to turn it, but grimace with pain. We determined last night that it was thankfully not broken, but it’s definitely swollen and I slept with it elevated on my backpack. “I’m going to slow us down.”
Scooting closer to me, he gives my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “That was part of my absolute-worst-case-scenario calculation.”
“I feel disgusting.” I gesture at myself. “My body is caked in a medically unhealthy amount of debris.”
I’m wondering if I could somehow wash out the faint bloodstains at least with my hand sanitizer, but Zwe produces a neatly rolled T-shirt from his bag.
“You packed an extra shirt?” I ask, snatching it from him.
“I packed two. In casewefell into a river or—”
“Glad to see you had so much faith in my physical prowess.” I’m caught off guard when I unroll the T-shirt. It’s not justanyT-shirt; it’s my favorite one of his. The summer after my Oxford graduation, we’d splurged on a two-week holiday in London. One day, there was a freak rainstorm that left us drenched. The closest open shop was a novelty T-shirt stall in Camden Market, and the only shirt they had in his size was a plain white tee that saidBIG DICK ENERGY LEADS TO BIG DICK INJURYin bold black letters on the front.
“I love this shirt,” I say. “I want to be buried in this shirt.”
“I know,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Every time I put it in a donation bag, it somehow ends up back in my closet.”
I clutch my chest. “That’s an act of divine intervention if ever I saw one.” Grinning, I take off my top. “What?” I ask at Zwe’s reaction, which can really only be described aslingering. “You’ve seenme in a sports bra,” I say, trying to ignore the goose bumps that have popped up on the back of my neck.
He nods and swallows, although the motions are stilted, like for a moment there, his body had forgotten how to carry them out. I think I feel my cheeks blush, but that could also be the heat.Adrenaline,I remind myself. We still have adrenaline shooting through our bloodstreams.
We relieve ourselves behind some trees, and get ready to hit the road. Zwe offers to take my backpack because of my ankle, but I refuse because it’s actually not that bad once I start walking slowly.
Zwe lets me set the pace as we start off, and although I try my best to go as quickly as possible, I don’t do great. Eventually, I tell him to go ahead, and he reluctantly does so, making sure to never be more than a couple of feet in front. And although I also try my best to keep the complaining to a minimum, my fear and general stress keep mounting in the back of my mind, compounded by my frustration over my own slow pace.
“How are—” I pant between every few words. “—things with Julia?” I wanted to reconnect with my friend, and what better opportunity than right now, right?
I try to read his body language, but there’s nothing that I can discern from back here. “We don’t need to talk about Julia right now.”
