CHLOE

Harry is cool towards me the next morning, and I know it is because I refused to open up to him the night before. His words aren't lost on me - I know it is hypocrytical of me to expect him to reveal the deepest, darkest memories of his past and refuse to divulge any of my own. But I also know that box must remain locked for both our sakes. Partly for reasons I know I don't yet understand, and don't want to understand. Sometimes ignorance can indeed be bliss. It is an indication of the progress of our relationship though, when his bad mood lasts only for the first hour or so of the day while we are packing up the tent and all our belongings. By the time we have made our way across the sand and back up to the road, the frostiness has thawed a little and we exchange pleasantries about the weather (warm and sunny) and our plan for the day's journey (walk, use local transport links, walk, use more local transport links, walk some more and find somewhere to camp). 

I am sad to be leaving Broadstairs but I feel stronger than when we arrived, mostly thanks to Harry's general comforting presence by my side during a poignant few days for both of us. I feel refreshed and ready to tackle this next part of our journey, and I am starting to brace myself for the conversations I know must happen in the not too distant future: about what the hell we are doing on the run, how we are going to get ourselves out of this mess, and what the future holds for each of us. This whole escapade feels like a sort of limbo; a chance for us both to figure out our lives, where we fit, what parts we play. Sort of like a state of unconsciousness; one that we will only wake from once we have both resolved our issues and worked out all the answers. And while the limbo is quietly terrifying, mentally exhausting and physically draining, being with Harry is the first real piece of happiness I have had since I lost my parents. I don't want it to end just yet, so I am fearful of pushing Harry for his own answers in case we figure it all out and our little bubble bursts. 

Today's focus is travelling north, and we spend the day on and off small, local buses and deliberately walking between stops on foot, to throw off any potential sightings. It has been several days since we did any trekking like this and by the time we reach Gravesend, just west of Dartford and a little too close to London for my liking, we are simply too exhausted to travel any further. Finding a small park not far from the bank of the River Thames, we put up the tent in the shade of some trees around six o'clock, and by six thirty I am struggling to keep my eyes open. I sleep through until seven the next morning, and then our journey begins again. It takes us five more full days of travelling in this vain (and washing in public bathrooms, which makes me want to heave) before we make it to the edge of the Peak District and where I finally feel comfortable checking in to a campsite with proper shower facilities. Keen to give our legs a well-earned rest, I pay upfront for two nights, determined to spend one full day here doing absolutely nothing.

Since all our efforts have been put into travelling, there has not been much conversation the last few days. We have trudged along mostly in comfortable silence; taking in the breathtaking scenery, talking when required but conserving much-needed energy. This has been possibly the best opportunity to see so many beautiful parts of the country that I would never otherwise have known existed. I wish I had thought at the start to make a note of our journey, so that maybe sometime in the future I can revisit some of these amazing little places when I have time to appreciate them fully. Maybe when we pass a gift shop somewhere I can buy a little notebook or something to jot it all down, although I suppose this is just another thing to carry, adding weight to the already backbreaking rucksacks we are forced to lug around containing all our wordly possessions.

I ponder all of this whilst under the showerhead in the campsite washroom, taking my time and scrubbing myself almost red raw until I feel properly clean. Thanks to the continual summer heat, neither of us have smelled particularly good during our journey here. Baby wipes and hand basins can only do so much. I have been reluctant to let Harry anywhere near me (tricky when sharing a tent), not that he has even tried. We have both been so wiped out from all the walking that neither of us has been able to do anything in the tent other than eat and sleep. My mind wanders to a country pub a stone's throw from the campsite, and then back to our first evening in Broadstairs when we went for a meal and acted like two normal people. We have survived on packet sandwiches, plenty of snacks and bottled water since leaving the South East, and I have been craving a proper hot meal ever since. 

It isn't even five o'clock by the time I return to the tent, feeling cleaner than I have in days, and excited at the thought of a cooked dinner. Harry is freshly showered, dressed, and is fiddling with his wallet when I crawl through the zip opening. He gives me a relaxed smile that tells me he must be feeling just as relieved as I am for the rest.

"I was thinking maybe we could get a hot meal tonight?" I suggest, chucking my dirty clothes in a corner next to my bag. "We passed a pub at the end of the road, if you fancy it?"

Harry's face breaks into a smile that puts the beauty of the surrounding scenery to shame. "Fucking yes, Chloe," he beams. "I was just wondering how to suggest that to you myself."

We hire a locker in the washroom to store Harry's holdall containing all the cash, and then saunter up the lane in the direction of the local pub. It is another hot afternoon, and the hedgerows are alive with bees busying themselves in and out of the flowers. The sky is brilliant blue and cloudless, and the road radiates heat beneath our feet. It feels good to be walking for pleasure rather than for purpose, and I can feel my mouth smiling involuntarily at the joy of something so simple as a meal in a country pub in such stunning surroundings. 

The building itself looks as thought it was built several hundred years ago, with weathered grey stone walls, white lattice windows, colourful window boxes and vibrant hanging baskets. A heavy oak door is propped open with a cast iron doorstop to tempt a non-existent breeze, and we wipe our feet on a thick, woven mat before entering the lounge. Inside feels cosy and welcoming, with a large fireplace at one end of the room (not lit, obviously) and a thick oak mantelpiece displaying photographs of the Peak District. The chairs and tables are made of heavy, dark mahogany and are spotlessly clean, and as we approach the bar a man with a towel slung over his left shoulder looks up to greet us. Feeling reckless, I order myself a bottle of wine and Harry requests a lager. We take our drinks through the lounge into the beer garden and settle at a small table in the corner, a stunning cerise-pink climbing rose creeping up the iron trellis attached to the wall beside us.

Harry takes a swig of his lager, closes his eyes as he swallows and lets out a contented sigh. "I've been dreaming about this moment for days."

"What, camping in the Peak District?" I tease, knowing full well what he meant.

"No, you loon," he replies, without opening his eyes, his face turned towards the sun. "A fucking beer garden. It's beautiful." 

The beer garden is fairly quiet, with only three other tables occupied and none within earshot. I sip my wine, relishing the coolness slipping down my throat and the warmth it brings to my veins. We peruse the menu and order our meals, neither of us in any hurry which makes a welcome change from the past few days. 

"I could live somewhere like this," Harry murmurs after a couple of minutes of silence. "Somewhere quiet and peaceful with no traffic noise, no stinking high rise flats, no idiots causing trouble."

"You want to be away from people causing trouble?" I repeat, a little incredulously, and he finally opens his eyes to frown at me.

"Yeah..? What's wrong with that?"

"Harry - you are the trouble."

He opens his mouth indignantly as if to protest, and then thinks better of it. "Maybe I have been, in the past," he admits eventually. "But that's not what I want to be anymore."

I sense there is more to come, but after a few more seconds of silence I smile encouragingly. "That's great. The first part of changing is wanting to change."

He smiles back, a little self-consciously, picking up a beer mat from the table and fiddling with the corners of it with his fingers. "Yeah, well, we'll see. Gotta figure out a way to get out of this mess first." 

"What did you go to prison for?" I ask softly, sensing he is receptive to questions and in a good mood thanks to the beer in his hand. I have clearly read him right, because instead of jumping down my throat like he probably would have done a couple of weeks ago, he gives a soft sigh and averts his gaze, focussing on the beer mat in his hand.

"Drug dealing, and then GBH."

My eyes widen - I can't help it. I'm not sure what I was expecting him to say, and no matter what crimes he had committed I probably would have been shocked, such is my naivete. But to hear him say the words out loud is still a little surreal, and I also know that Grievous Bodily Harm is a violent offence. I don't ask, but he voluntarily offers further insight.

"When I left home I had to do something to earn a living. I was messed up, living with all that shit going on. I'd smoked weed on and off, but then I got into harder stuff, and eventually started selling it. I was cocky, stupid, and thought I was above the law. Turns out I wasn't. I got nicked one evening at the back of the community centre selling pills to an undercover copper. I was given a twelve month sentence suspended for two years. But within two days I was back dealing again, and of course I got caught again so they put me away and I served six months."

My brain is reeling, trying to take all of this in. "Why did you go back to it again, after they caught you the first time?" I ask. "Surely you knew you would end up in prison?"

He chuckles softly, and gives me a look that could almost be described as affectionate, which gives me a weird squirmy feeling in the pit of my stomach. "You don't just stop dealing after a slap on the wrist," he smiles. "Not when you're young and arrogant, and think you know best."

I feel stupid for asking now, but I know he isn't laughing at me like he used to. He seems pleasantly amused by my lack of understanding of the criminal justice system.

"So what happened with the GBH?" I ask after a moment, and he leans back in his chair, his fingernails picking at the corner of his beer mat again, the smile fading from his face.

"I came out of prison determined to be more careful this time. I carried on dealing, but I was selective who I dealt to, and where I dealt."

"You didn't think to embark upon a different career path?" I wonder, unable to help myself, and he shakes his head, a wry smile on his face.

"It's so easy to get sucked in to the world of drugs, Chloe. You have no idea. And once you're down the rabbit hole, it's damn near impossible to claw your way back out."

A sudden thought strikes me, and he must be able to read it on my face because his own expression drops and he sits up straight at the table, putting the beer mat down and looking me directly in the eye. "I don't do it any more," he says hastily. "Not for ages. No matter what people may say." 

"But you just said - "

"I had a run in with someone. A guy I used to sell to, who grassed me up to the police for dealing the first time. He was a nasty piece of work, so I beat the shit out of him one night when he came looking for a score and I refused to give him anything. But the tosser nearly died, because he tripped and banged his fucking head. Luckily he fully recovered, but the thought of facing a murder or manslaughter charge really fucked me up. It was the wake up call I needed. So I served my time, kept my nose clean, literally, and decided I was done with drugs."

I shake my head slowly. Although I can tell he is sincere about leaving his chequered past behind him, there is still something disconcerting about the way he refers to what he did so casually. It is a stark reminder of our fundamental differences, and how we would never have given each other the time of day under normal circumstances. 

"So you're definitely done with the drugs now?" I confirm, and he looks me in the eye and nods slowly.

"I am," he replies, with the emphasis on the 'I'. "Although some people didn't like that, and wanted me to carry on."

His face has darkened now, and when I stare back hard into his eyes there is a blackness lurking that sends a shiver down my spine. 

"Who?" I ask softly, and for a second I think he is about to tell me, but then he blinks and looks away.

"No one. Doesn't matter now anyway." 

I know better than to push him, and in letting this go I also know I am gaining his trust for the future. "Well," I begin, steering the conversation back to a lighter subject, "I think you can do whatever you put your mind to. You're a strong person - probably the strongest person I know. And good for you for wanting to better yourself."

He nods slowly, and although he would never admit it, I think he is secretly pleased by my words. When our meals arrive he offers me a taste of his, and I find the bottle of white wine slipping down far too easily as we enjoy a cooked dinner in the warm summer evening air. We leave the pub at dusk, while moths dance around the outside wall lights and a lone bat flutters haphazardly in front of us across the lane. We saunter leisurely back towards the campsite, Harry's hand brushing against mine a couple of times before, emboldened by the bottle of wine I have drunk, I link my fingers with his and he puts up no resistance. My heart rate increases, and as we pass a large oak tree at the side of the road he pulls me suddenly but gently behind it. 

"What are you doing?" I giggle, feeling tipsy and giddy, and he grins stupidly at me as he stands to face me.

"I wanted to do this." 

He leans down and kisses me softly, closing his eyes as his lips touch mine and sliding his arms around my waist as mine slip around his neck. I open my mouth to let his tongue brush mine, enjoying the warmth of his body so close to me and the softness of his skin beneath my fingertips as I stroke the back of his neck. I lean back against the tree, pulling him with me, his body weight now pressing on me and bringing with it an uncontrollable desire to take this further. His fingers squeeze my waist gently, and he breaks our kiss momentarily to whisper, "I really, really want to touch you..."

I grab him by the hand and pull him along the lane, ignoring his chuckled protests, and we make our way as quietly as we can to our tent, crawling on our knees through the entrance and closing the zip behind us. Kneeling up I turn into his arms and his lips find mine again, harder this time and with more force and urgency. I run my fingers through his hair, relishing his taste and whimpering softly as his hands glide up my sides and brush my nipples through the front of my dress. 

"Is this OK?" he murmurs softly into my mouth, and I murmur my assent as I lift the hem of his tshirt and stroke his stomach, slipping my fingers over the waistband of his shorts and finding the edge of his coarse hair. Our clothes are discarded leaving us in only our underwear, desire now in control. He unclips my bra and pushes me gently onto my back, moving over me to kiss my neck, my collarbone and working his way across my flushed skin to my nipple. My back arches as his tongue flicks it gently. I am fighting to stay silent, conscious of the other tents nearby that do not want to listen to my enjoyment. My fingers dig into his scalp as his mouth covers one breast and his fingers stroke the other, the ache between my legs now almost painful. I know that when he touches me there, I will come within seconds. 

His lips leave my breast and he plants a trail of kisses slowly down my stomach, and it takes me a moment to realise where he is going, and what he is about to do. My blood runs cold and I sit up abruptly causing him to look up in alarm.

"Don't." My voice sounds weird, like it belongs to someone else.

"Don't what? Are you OK? Do you want to stop?" His face is hovering over my stomach, his brow creased in confusion.

"I want to stop."

"OK, then we stop." 

He sits up too, staring at me warily. I wasn't expecting him to comply so easily, although now that he has, I don't know why I ever thought he wouldn't.

"Chloe? What's wrong? Did I do something wrong? Was it not good?" 

I become aware I am breathing rapidly, my hand clutched to my throat, gazing into the past. Harry is not him. I need to remember that.

"No. I mean yes. It was good. Just not that. I don't want that."

"You don't want me to go down on you?"

I squeeze my eyes shut at his lack of subtlety. Sometimes I forget how blunt he can be; how easily he can talk about sex and not feel embarrassed.

"No. I don't want that."

"OK." 

I can tell he is totally confused. Now the atmosphere is weird and strained, and reminds me of how this played out last time I said no to him, and how he made me feel.

We are both still sitting up facing each other, naked from the waist up, wearing only our underwear. This is the epitome of awkward, and part of me wishes I had just loosened up and let him do what he wanted, so I wouldn't have to deal with this different form of embarrassment. 

"OK, I'm just going to lie down here," he says after a moment. "If you want to lie with me, that's cool. If you want to get dressed, that's fine too. No pressure."

He shuffles down so he is lying on his side on the air mattress, facing towards me, his head resting in the crook of his left elbow. I take a couple of deep breaths, wishing I wasn't such an emotional, inexperienced fuck up. I know he won't force me or ridicule me over my innocence, not after everything he has shared about his past. I don't know why I can't just remember that. Pulling myself together, I lie down next to him, my arms covering my bare breasts so I don't feel quite so exposed. 

"Sorry," I mutter.

"Don't be sorry. If you're not enjoying it, I don't want to do it either." 

I bite my lip, knowing this is how things should be, but wondering if he is just saying that because he knows it's the right thing, or if he actually means it.

"Why?" I ask timidly, and when he looks at me questioningly I add, "Why do you want to do stuff to me like that? And why does it matter if I like it or not?"

My cheeks are burning with humiliation at discussing this so openly, almost naked. But his face registers utter disbelief, rather than derision.

"Jesus, Chloe, what kind of fucked up question is that?" he breathes. "The question should be, why would anyone want to carry on if the other person wasn't enjoying it? Sex is a two-way thing. It's not about a single person's pleasure. I've got my hand for that." I laugh, despite the mortification of this whole conversation. "Look, I've fucked a lot of women. Like, a lot. And you know the best ones? The ones where the girl wasn't afraid to let me know how much she fucking loved it. There's nothing more sexy than a girl who enjoys what I'm doing to her."

I am still cringing, but there is something about his bluntness, and his honesty, that puts me at ease. "I'm sorry I'm not always like that," I apologise.

"What the fuck? Don't apologise for anything. It's down to me if you're not enjoying it. You just need to let me know, and I'll do something different. If you want me to, I mean. If not, then I won't."

"I do want you to. Just... not that." 

He nods slowly, reaching forward to brush a strand of my hair behind my ear. "OK. And... can I ask why you don't like that? Just out of curiosity."

I squeeze my eyes shut and press my lips together. He waits, his fingers now stroking my arm.  "I just... I feel... embarrassed. Exposed. I dunno, it's just me being stupid."

I may be stupid, but he isn't. I can tell he knows there is more than I am telling him. And I can also tell he is dying to probe further. And here is more proof that our relationship has grown, because instead of shouting at me to open up to him, he lets it go.

"You're not stupid. You don't have to do anything you don't want to do. But... if you ever change your mind and feel comfortable... I'm absolutely fucking awesome at it." I roll my eyes trying to be nonchalant, my face now on fire, and he grins cockily and leans forward to kiss me softly, in a reassuring way that tells me there is no pressure to continue where we left off. Only I happen to be topless, and his fingers stroking my skin is giving me goosebumps, which is making me want him to touch me again.

I slip my tongue into his mouth, and he responds with a gentle squeeze of my waist and a sigh of contentment. He trails his fingers up my back and I lift my arm to let him cup my breast gently in his hand, his rough skin grazing my nipple and coaxing a moan from my lips.

"Do you trust me?" he breathes, his eyes boring into mine as his fingertips gently tweak me. 

"Yes," I answer, without hesitation. He kisses me again, his hand now skimming lower, his finger hooking the waistband of my knickers and pulling them down my thighs. 

"I trust you," he whispers.

His finger slides inside me and I cling to him as he takes me to my peak, afraid to let him go in case he takes my trust and runs away with it and hurts me all over again. Because a betrayal from Harry would hurt far more than anything he could ever have done to me.