In Eat, Pray, Love, Julia Robert’s character comes across the phrase “dolce far neinte”, which (when roughly translated) means something along the lines of “the sweetness of doing nothing”. I suppose this is what I look forward to the most when going on holiday, because I never actually get up to anything interesting.

I love travelling, but as you know, my folks scoff at travelling abroad for fun. When we do travel, it’s usually somewhere close by like Lilongwe, and it’s to see family. Although once in a while, we go to a cottage (owned by mum’s office) by the lake, these trips carry the sense of being clipped rather short for they tend to fall on regular weekends. Come Monday, mum and dad will be back in the office.

And so far, I haven’t made any decisions or done anything else of interest except go to lunch with Noor, Mariah and Janna. My days fall into a sort of routine. I wake up around 8 o’clock, to the sound of the gate clambering shut after dad on his way to work. I take a shower and get dressed; spending an hour on this because I’m watching YouTube videos or scrolling down Facebook whilst simultaneously putting on makeup. I have breakfast, watch a little TV and wonder what I’m doing with my life.

Some days I’ll read a book, or knit (yes really). Every other day or so, my best friend Lisa would call, and we’d talk for several minutes about nothing.

We had a strange history; I knew her all through high school, but had never gotten further than one those “Hi how are you” conversations. Fast-forward to University and we ended up being roommates at an off-campus students’ hostel. I had been worried about how we’d fare when we found out we were going to be roommates. I worried so much that I finally went and Googled some conversation starters in the event that I ever needed anything to talk about with her.

They never did come in handy, from the first night, it was like we were meant to be best friends all along, but hadn’t realised till then.

She was one of those people who is pretty in a plain sort of way. You can’t exactly say what it is about them or point out the features that make them quite so attractive. I suppose it’s the sum of the parts that results in a beautiful whole. She had almond shaped eyes, an average sized nose and full lips. Her skin was the same in-between shade as mine and she was plump and shapely in a sort of sensual way. If you’ve ever heard that “curves in all the right places” phrase, then you know what I mean.

Again, we were very different people. I always had a few close friends and as you know, wasn’t the partying type.

She was a social butterfly, and I suppose it was a curse in life to always attract these sorts of best friends because so was my other best friend Salome.

Anyway, as different as we were, we bonded over the fact that we tended to a react in the same way to all the same things, and our mums were cut from the same cloth.

Salome and I had a different sort of friendship. We looked rather different – for she was tall and small-breasted like Noor (although not quite as waspish) with dark skin like smooth chocolate and high cheekbones – but there was a certain softness about her that was quite nurturing. This was despite the fact that she was younger than me; and as a result, I often referred to her as my “older but younger sister”. She was also one of my Drama/English class friends in high school.

Salome was one of those best-friends you didn’t need to talk to or see every day, but when you did meet up or talk, you didn’t feel like any time had gone by. It’s not exactly like that phrase “absence makes the heart grow fonder”, but in a way it was.

Anyway, whenever Salome was in Malawi (she was studying in Cape Town, which was quite frankly heart-breaking to me because it was my absolute favourite place in the world ever) and happened to be home (and not out on the town as she almost always was) I’d walk to her house and see her.

She lived some fifteen minutes away, and since it’d always be some three- or four-months in-between walks over to her house, I’d forget how far away she really did live and underestimate the distance.

Okay, fifteen minutes is not that far away, but a lot of the walk was uphill and I never said I frequently take long walks for my health. If you want advice on how to do nothing but sit on your ass farting around all day (not literally – well, okay, sometimes not literally) then come to me. But if you want to go on walks, then look elsewhere.

So anyway, the night before, Salome had said she’d be home all day and we could probably see each other. This was all well and good, but Salome had a history of flaking on me at the last minute. Knowing this, I thought I’d go by just after I’d had breakfast and catch her before she could go off on some adventure or the other.

(It occurs to me now that perhaps Salome doesn’t like me and I should get a clue and stop bothering her. Perhaps I should say “catch her before she could escape my clutches”.)

Confident in my decision, I tell Merita (the younger and more serious of our maids; the other one, Luntha, is away for the week) that I’ll be back later. She says okay (well, in Chichewa) and gives me one of those trying-not-to-look-surprised sorts of smiles; I guess because I’m actually going somewhere, and on foot at that.

So, I start off. Listening to a playlist of songs from musicals (please don’t judge me) and giving myself a pep-talk along the way.

“One foot in front of the other,” I mutter, keeping my head down. This being a residential area, there isn’t really anybody around, but I’m worried people will think me a nutter if they see me talking to myself in broad daylight. The next thing Mum and dad will be hearing is that I’m walking around talking to myself. With the Malawian penchant for hyperbole, I’ll most likely be reported as singing and dancing to myself in the middle of a public road; attired only in bin bags.

I pass an old man in a tattered t-shirt that used to be black and some cut-off shorts raking at the grass in front of a large wrought-iron pair of gates leading off into a long driveway. He smiles and says good-morning, and I wish him one too, self-consciously touching the stud in my nose at his look of apparent interest.

Then I remember that people always look at me like that because of my weight and carry on. Rarely do they notice anything else first. This is despite the wilder and wilder colours I’m putting in my hair. Now, my braids are black at the roots with a sort of ombré effect, washing out into a steely grey and then a stark-white. I sigh.

I’m not even that fat. In America, they say there’s an “obesity epidemic”. I guess I’d fit in more there.

It’s still cool because it’s early, but it’s also that ugly period of time between the cold season and the dry, inescapable summer scorchers. The trees are mostly bare the clear dome of the blue skies promises a hot, dusty day.

I starting on the uphill part of my trek to Salome’s, (and feeling the stiff denim of my jeans protest to my bending my legs any more than I already was) I remember the times in primary school when we all used to run cross-country every Thursday morning in the winter term.

I’m sure you’re simply gob-smacked to learn that I dreaded these mornings like no others.

In class, I was one of the smart kids. On the field, I was always the last.

Always.

And our Physical Education teacher, a hard woman with a face so severe it looked to be cut from stone, never let me forget this. I suppose it looked like I was sipping some vino by the French Riviera to her, because watching me come in last, she’d bellow, “LIFT those legs Grace!”

This was before I was properly fat, I was just a plump little child of seven back then.

There used to be an uphill bit to the cross-country run and I’d walk it with one of the teachers – whoever was given the cumbersome task of walking with the slow kids. I remember my favourite times we when it was Mrs. Allister walking with me. We’d talk about books and what I wanted to do when I grew up. Her husband was a doctor at one of the two big hospitals in Blantyre, and back then, I thought I’d be one too, so hearing her talk about this pleased me no end.

Starting to get breathless now, I remember Mrs. Allister telling me how to catch my breath.

“Breathe in… two, three – out! Two, three. In, two, three – out! two, three.” She’d count.

I do it now, and soon enough, I’m feeling better, and can see the red gate of Salome’s house, sandwiched between gentle road turning to the left and a house with a green gate.

Outside, I knock gently on one of the metal bars with a rock. One side of the gates swings open almost immediately, and a man in a blue shapeless shirt, gum-boots and old jeans rolled up to his knees gives me a tired look.

After saying good-morning to him, I ask him, if Salome is there. He goes off to check. I stand there awkwardly while he’s gone. If this had been her old garden boy, he would’ve let me in because he knew me.

Her tired-looking new garden boy returns and says Salome’s not home. Thanking him sweetly, I turn and start back home, growing angrier with every step.

I try her cell phone three times, but she doesn’t answer. I suppose she’ll let me know in a few hours what happened this time.

It’s easier going back home since now I’m going downhill, but I just feel angrier every time I hear my flip-flops slap against the tarmac. I don’t even look up when I’m passing that amused garden-boy, although I do notice he’s still raking the same patch of ground.

You know that ironic sense of humour the universe has; where you’re already angry but decides to throw a few more spanners in the works?

When I get home and ring the bell, I remember that it needed a change of batteries and Dad hadn’t gotten around to it. So I pull out my phone to tell Michael and realise that he left for a class about thirty minutes before my dad did. That’s why I walked to Salome’s – he had the car.

The Garden boy isn’t around either; he went to his cousin’s funeral. Compared to the dainty “ping ping ping” sound I made knocking at Salome’s gate, this time I bash so loudly at the bars of our house that I’m positive the rock I’m holding leaves a dent.

It could be the distance the house is from the gate, or that Merita is taking a mid-morning shower at the servants-quarters. Either way, I wait for a good twenty minutes with no result, and knock again. Still nothing.

Too late and rather annoyingly, I remember mum telling me to get Merita’s number in case of emergencies, and how I’d nodded distractedly at back at her. I never got around to it. It occurs to me that I might call mum and ask her to call Merita to let me in; but then I remember Merita’s phone fell into the sink as she was washing dishes. It was the night before I got home actually, and the phone hadn’t worked since.

So that’s how I end up sitting on the white cement block on the left side of our driveway. It looks like I’ll be here till lunchtime waiting on my dad.

I start giving myself a pep-talk. There’s not that many hours between now and lunchtime; and I have my compact with me in the event of a shiny face (which is a given to be honest). I even have a few sweets scattered about the bottom of my satchel. And I have my phone.

After about thirty minutes, the gate next door opens. A cherry-red Hyundai salon car emerges. It all comes back to me then; the fact that we have new neighbours and Sven and all that. I had forgotten and, in some capacity, had expected him to make an appearance at the end of the book; like Boo Radley in To Kill a Mockingbird. Only in my version, he’d say speak in the manner of Yoda and say something wise like “love yourself you must learn to.” Or in the (somewhat paraphrased) words of Pat Benatar, “A battlefield, love is.”

I don’t get that good a look at Sven, although it’s closer than the last time. I do sit up to see him better, but the car is already turning away from me.

Thirty uneventful minutes pass, where I eat one of the sweets and powder my face rather boredly. My ponytail feels too tight, so I take my braids down and let them hang loose to sway with the occasional gust of dry wind.

Two cars drive past, but no one takes any interest in me. I see a red car approaching, and then indicating towards the neighbour’s house.

This time I study his face and, in making quite a point to do so, I suppose Sven feels my eyes boring into him, because as he turns towards the gate and hoots, he turns to look at me.

The best way to describe him would be to say he looks like Tormund from Game of Thrones, but better. A lot better. That’s saying something; because I already find something quite sexy and sort of… fuckable about Tormund (it’s the feral, manly aspect of his character I suppose).

We look at each other for a long minute. I take in grey and blue flannel shirt, and his hair and the colour of his eyes (a dark grey, but friendly). I don’t know what he sees, but with a start I suddenly become aware of myself and give one of those half-smiles that gives the recipient the choice of returning it or not.

He just blinks at me and then turns to the opening gate. Just as I conclude that he’s unfriendly, he gives me a wave and half-smile, rolling smoothly into the driveway.

I have to say, I’m rather unpleasantly surprised at him seeing me up close sitting on the concrete block like some waif. Then, thinking back to the last time I saw him, I feel better, because I’m not dressed in a t-shirt, old tracksuit pants and goddamn crocs in desperate need of a wash like I was then.

My parents had gone by the next weekend after he’d moved in, to say hello, but rather vaguely, they’d simply commented that he was a friendly enough and wasn’t married. Well, mum did add that he needed to shave his beard because he couldn’t be a teacher with one like that, but then again, she’d always liked clean-shaven people. And at this is beside the point. I’m curious at what the impression he’s formed of me is. Did I strike him as one of the international students?

I don’t wait long to find out either, because – like he cottoned on to my thoughts – he comes strolling out after about five minutes, walking towards me.

“Hello,” he says.

“Hello,” I watch him close the few metres between us, in his khaki-coloured fitted trousers and black flip-flops; debating whether to stay seated or not.

“Don’t you live here?” he asks, stopping in front of me. He doesn’t sound in the least like Yoda. Actually, it’s an international school accent with spots of an English accent.

“Yes,” I say carefully. Seeing the friendliness in his eyes, I add “I’m sort of locked out,” with a forgetful-me sort of laugh.

“Ah,” he nods, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “I saw you sitting out here before and got a bit curious after I came back and you were still here.”

“Well, now you know I’m not sitting here for kicks.”

This elicits a smile from him.

“You’re…” He thinks for a moment and then it comes to him. “You’re Grace then?”

I nod. “My parents talk a lot, don’t they?”

Now he laughs. “No, no,” he says, unconvincingly.

I give a short laugh too. “Believe me, it’s okay,”

He looks around, and then up at the sky, touching his beard. It’s not at all the jungle mum made it out to be, but is in that stage between long stubble and a full beard. Up close, I realise he’s not that much older than I am, maybe ten years or so?

It’s funny because that question mark is there like you can see him too.

Anyway.

“Are you going to be okay out here Grace?” he asks. “It’s pretty hot already.”

“I don’t have much of a choice until someone gets home, I think.”

“You could come and have a glass of water.”

Two things occur to me at his offer. Firstly, I don’t know this man from Adam; if Adam is a rapist murderer. Secondly, Mum has managed to convince me that I’m a huge bother to other people. It is my job to make sure people feels the effects of this encumbrance I pose as little as possible. This involves turning down offers for any favours people want to do me. For instance, someone I know, maybe mum herself, offers me a lift. I should say no. They will insist. I’ll insist. And so, we’ll go one until they give up and drive away.

(Well, perhaps it’s not quite so bad, but I did say Malawians have a penchant for hyperbole.)

So, as I was saying, the “No” was already poised on my lips.

But then I think, ‘the man is a teacher. He’s trusted around children, isn’t he?’ I glance back at the house, as if it’ll tell me what to do. A soft breeze blows through, and it sort of “shrugs” back at me.

Thinking, ‘live a little’, I find myself nodding. “Okay,” I say, standing and dusting the seat of my jeans. “Just promise you won’t rape and murder me.”

“I promise,” he chuckles.

We walk slowly towards his house, and I picture the relief my parents will feel when they never have to deal with me bothering them again. Then, I picture the police finding my dismembered body in a ditch somewhere and hunting for the killer CSI style. Only in reality they’d sort of shrug and be like “LOL Whaddaya gonna do?” because Malawian criminal Investigations are centuries behind.

(JK, it’s really not that bad.)

Just as he pushes the gate open and steps aside for me to walk in, I say, “I forgot to ask what I should call you,”

“Oh,” he scoffs, “My memory is getting pretty rusty.”

(Wouldn’t it be something if it actually is Sven?)

“Aidan Knox.”

“Oh, Mr. Knox,” I echo thoughtfully. Without quite meaning to I add, “I never would’ve guessed.”

“Just Aidan please,” he corrects, with a smile. “I’m not that much older than you.”

I raise an eyebrow, but he doesn’t see since I purposefully direct this look at the ground. Unlike the house, the browned concrete driveway does not shrug companionably back at me.

“What do you mean you never would’ve guessed?”

“Mm?” I look back up at him, but before he can repeat himself, brush off the question. The whole “Sven” thing can wait; I’d rather not be thought a weirdo just yet. “Oh, nothing.” I say airily.

“I don’t look like an Aidan?” he guesses.

“No, more like…” I glance at him, and he’s looking expectantly at me, his lips curved in an amused smile under his beard. “Like a Sven,” I admit, honestly.

“Sven?” he repeats.

“Yes,”

I look at the house again, trying to see if it matches the one in my memories of Gertrude and Martha. I realise that I don’t actually remember them; but have an abstract sort of memory left of the role they played in my early childhood. Like a fingerprint on a glass window.

The house, shaped like a T with a short stem, is a little smaller than ours. The grass does need to be watered quite a bit, but altogether, I don’t really form and opinion of it.

“Like a Finnish guy or something?” Aidan asks.

“Danish.”

“Settled on that have you?” he asks. I give an easy shrug. “You certainly thought a lot about it.”

I laugh, not because it’s funny, but because I’m a little embarrassed.

He leads me past car the garage, (which is really just a corrugated roof attached to the far-left side of the house) and towards the front entrance. The wide black door is framed by a small khonde with square terracotta tiles and a ceiling of wooden beams that remind me of the lake.

This cottage sort of vibe is what I like about old houses in Malawi; and Aidan’s doesn’t disappoint, although it does seem that whoever built the house had a predilection for terracotta floors. However, unlike the ones outside, these are glazed.

A short corridor leads off from the door; and halfway through to the left is a plainly tiled half-bathroom partially obscured by the door, which is ajar. Opposite this is a small cubby, just big enough for the end table that squats unimposingly in it.

The corridor opens out into the centre of the house, containing the dining and living room; flanked by large windows on both sides. There’s a round table with a glass top and four chairs lounging around it in the dining room. The grey carpeted living room is just a few steps below this, to the right of the house. Due to its level, it has the feel of a sort of den, if you know what I mean. The rest of the house seems to cradle it; affording it the same amount of privacy as it would have if it were enclosed by four walls and a door.

Walking past the stairs leading down into the living room section, I see a TV stand and a medium sized flat screen TV, facing an audience of a plain square coffee table and a deep green sofa set. This consists of one long L-shaped sofa with two matching armchairs at either end, as well as a lonely looking round foot-rest crouching by the table.

Dotted around us are boxes of things yet to be unpacked, giving the naturally cosy atmosphere a bit of a higgledy-piggeldy feel.

“Sorry about the mess,” he says, once again tuning into my thoughts.

“Oh, it’s fine.” I respond, although it’s probably unconvincing.

The back of the room is mostly windows and a set of double-doors with cloudy glass panes. However, I am led off from the dining room into the Kitchen, a long but admittedly small room, looking a bit depressingly into the garage.

“What would you like to drink?” Aidan asks.

He opens the white side-by-side refrigerator resting against the long back wall. Next to it is an old dishwasher that probably came with the house, and a top loading washing machine.

“Water?” he suggests. I see him grab a Smirnoff vodka cooler for himself and smile.

“You could give me one of those,” I counter. He looks doubtful so I add, “I know, I have a young face.”

With a sheepish smile, he reaches for another, and I twist the bottle open using the hem of my shirt for better grip.

It’s not even lunch time yet so I know it’s too early to be drinking, but with the weather, this can be forgiven. I take a grateful sip of the Smirnoff.

Growing up, my father wasn’t a heavy drinker; but there were occasions where he had a few too many drinks. I don’t suppose I understood it past him becoming a bundle of laughs when I was still in single digits; even driving home used to be fun because he’d be going a little too fast and teasing mum when she told him to slow down. When I entered my teens it no longer seemed funny. I began to pity him, and mum by then had started to take the keys from him when it came time to drive home. Now he enjoyed a daily glass of wine, and there were no more of these occasions, but this was another hangover from my past, for I had never been drunk myself. I didn’t want people to ever pity me out of the lack of control I had over myself.

In short, it only ever took me a little sip to get me going. I feel it now, that warm feeling alcohol gives you, spreading to the very tips of my toes. I still feel a little guarded, but I know that soon I’ll be talking openly, and that’s good enough.

“How did you end up locked out?” Aidan asks, watching me. I give what I hope to be a mysterious smile. “If it’s a long story, we’ve got time,” he adds.

I laugh a little sheepishly. “I was going to see someone. I suppose they forgot. And I forgot I’d have no way into the house.”

“Boyfriend?”

This question piques my interest. I give him a long look, drawing it out with another mysterious, slow smile. I picture myself giving him a coquettish one instead, and then flirting with him and having the sex of my life. But at the back of my mind nags the memory of my sort-of-boyfriend. And I don’t understand why this Sven-looking man would be interested in me anyway.

Turning away, I say, “No, just my best friend Salome.”

He nods. “Do you want to go sit down somewhere?”

“Let’s.” I consent.

He nods at the door and I lead the way out of the kitchen. As I’m passing by the dining room table, I notice a box of books on the floor and stop short at the blue-green book at the top of the pile. Quite literally, it’s staring at me, because there’s a pair of familiar eyes with thick eyelashes painted on the front.

“Is that The Great Gatsby?!” I exclaim, walking over. There’s a stack of carved wooden coasters on the table, so I grab one with an elephant on it and slide it under my bottle. I only realise after I do this how at home, I’m making myself, and feel a little embarrassed.

Aidan doesn’t seem to notice, but comes over to me and slides another coaster under his bottle too.

“You’ve read it?” he asks.

“Well, yes, but only ever electronic copies,” I bite my lip. It’s only my favourite book ever.

He fishes the book out of the carton. “You can read it again.”

“Oh, but I’ve already read it so many times,”

“You can read it again,” he says, offering it to me. Sensing my hesitation, he prods, “There’s nothing like reading an actual book.”

I take it and flip through the pages quickly with the nail of my thumb.

“Thanks.” I say.

“What else have you read?” he asks. I look up at him.

“Oh… too many to list,”

“Well do you have any other favourites?”

“Do you have the rest of your life?” I respond.

Laughing he comments, “You’re funny.”

I look back at the book in my hands, feeling my smile twitch. He’d grow tired of that.

Perhaps this is another thought of mine that he intercepts, because he touches my elbow gently. “Are you okay?” he asks.

I nod and look back at him. “Yeah, just fine.”

“Do you want to sit outside?”

“Let’s go sit outside.”

I set the book down gently on the table, grab my drink and follow him out, wondering what mum would say if she knew where I was. Something tells me that if asked, I’ll have spent the day with Salome as reported.

The back khonde has a large white porch swing on it, and it is on this that we sit. It’s old, but sturdy and we discreetly leave the two seats between us; both settling at opposite ends.

An identical swing stares at us from its place across the garden, at the foot of the pond. He asks again about my favourite books, so we talk about this for a few minutes, and he tells me about his.

You can always tell a lot about a person by the type of books he reads, and listening to Aidan talk, I’m pleasantly surprised to find that we like a lot of the same books, particularly a shared love for the authors Dan Brown and F. Scott Fitzgerald. This isn’t that unusual I suppose, but he vows to get me started on Stephen King too.

“Doesn’t he sort of… churn out books like a machine?” I inquire. “I’ve always felt maybe he was one of those writers who had a bestseller and then they just start churning out books with the same sort of basic storyline and fundamental characters with a few traits swapped around.”

“No, no,” he says. “Not at all. They’re all pretty well written. I’ll lend you 11/22/63 and you can decide for yourself.” He smiles. This time I catch it – the movement of his lips as they curve into this grin. Deep down, something in the pit of my stomach goes squish. This is my first “get it together” moment with him.

(A get it together moment is when you find yourself noticing how attractive someone is and then you feel like maybe you might like them. But you tell yourself to get it together because you know liking them would be a soul crushing mistake. We’ve all had them I think.)

“So, you’ll be at the high school teaching English?” I guess, trying to remind myself that he’s quite a bit older than me, a teacher and therefore a person who is successfully adulting, (unlike yours truly).

“Yeah, I guess they needed some fresh new blood in the English department.”

“Mm,” I acknowledge. For an English teacher, he seems pretty… open minded in terms of what he reads. I feel English teachers always read serious books. “Have you been in yet to meet everyone?”

“Yeah, they seem nice enough. The head of department kind of scares me.”

“Is it still Mrs. Payne?”

“Yeah…” he turns to me. “I forgot, your parents said you went there.”

To this I respond with a vague “Yeah. Well.”

“Well?”

I look up. “Oh, I think you’ll like it a lot. It’s pretty fun!”

A silence falls over us for the next couple of minutes.

“Are you sure I’m not bothering you?” I start. “I could probably leave after I finish this.”

“Nah.” He sighs and looks around at the garden. “I’ve been meaning to get out and make some friends.”

“Didn’t you say you met the High-school staff? They all sort of stick together.”

“Yeah, but a lot of them are away for the school holidays.” He glances at me, his eyes bright with some amusement unbeknownst to me. “You could show me the cool spots, couldn’t you? –Being a college kid and all,”

I snort and look into my bottle. “Not me,” I say. “I’m the wrong person to ask… although you could try Dougal’s.”

“Not much of a partier?”

“No, or a drinker at that.” For effect, I sip at my drink and change the subject. “So, you’re here in Malawi, all alone in this big old house… don’t you miss home?”

“Not really,” he admits. “I’ve always moved around a lot. Malawi seemed the next most likely destination. I’ll probably while away the free time driving around, going camping and seeing the country.”

“Mm,”

“You can come with me.”

Again, I raise my eyebrows at the ground. “Not much of a camper,” I respond, with a laugh.

“I’ll get you to like it.”

I don’t say anything here; just give him a small smile. It feels like a conversation with an adult where you know they’re having a right old laugh on the inside at your expense. Recalling his comment about how he said I’m funny, I’m convinced that this is the case; that I’m funny like one of those toddlers who say adorably funny things and doesn’t even know it. This annoys me a little.

“Can I go take a look at the pond?” I ask, looking up out the pond. He nods, and finishing my drink I stand to go over to the pond. When I get there, I’m surprised to see the tiny silver fishes swimming happily about.

“I remember when they dug it,” I say, when he joins me. “We thought it was a small swimming pool. It was weird because we didn’t think the couple who lived here should have had one considering they didn’t have kids.”

He laughs again, and I smile at the memory.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and feeling his eyes on me as I retrieve it from my pocket, I squirm inwardly.

It’s a text from Salome. I’ll spare you the details but basically, she went out the night before and had only just woken up at a friend’s house. As I exit to the homes screen, I notice the time; 12:30 on the dot.

“I should go,” I say. He starts to protest, probably thinking that I’m still under the assumption I’m bothering him. “My dad’s probably home,” I explain. “I hadn’t realised it was lunchtime yet.”

“You could still stay if you wanted to though,” he insists.

“No, I’ll get out of your hair.”

We walk back to the house and he finds 11/22/63 and hands it to me, along with the Great Gatsby. His skin brushes mine and I try not to notice it but I do.

“Come back as soon as you finish this and tell me what you think,” he says.

“I will.” I promise.