CHLOE

To say the atmosphere is uncomfortable would be like saying it gets a little bit chilly at the North Pole, or that Donald Trump has some unconventional political views, or that Mount Everest is a bit of a steep hill. 

Seeing as Harry hasn't given any preference of destination yet again, and seeing as how I do not feel ready to move out of the area of my childhood just yet, I lead us a mile or so round the coast to a pretty little beach called Joss Bay, where I spent a lot of summer days before my parents died. We make the journey on foot, and in tense silence, the only sound our feet slapping the tarmac and the occasional grunt at the heat from the sun and the weight on our backs. The tents, although not particularly heavy, are cumbersome and require frequent adjustments to avoid blisters on our shoulders, and therefore the journey to Joss Bay, which should only take an hour at most on foot, takes us until lunchtime. 

The beach is busy and full of holidaymakers, and as I lead Harry slowly down the ramp and onto the soft sand, I close my eyes and imagine for a couple of seconds that I am ten years old again, and coming here for an afternoon of sandcastle building and sea swimming with my dad. There is something comforting in the familiarity of the place: the sound of the seagulls screeching overhead, the smell of chips and Mr Whippy icecream from the cafe, the crashing of the waves against the shore, the laughter of the children and their parents running up and down in the waves, and the wonderful mixed aroma of salt, sea, sand and suncream.  I haven't been back here for so long, but fundamentally nothing about the place has really changed. If I came back again in another forty years, I would bet it would still be the same, and evoke the same memories just from the sounds and the smells. 

I kick my sandals off and smile at the feel of the warm sand between my toes as I begin the awkward walk along the beach, keeping close to the cliffs but looking out across the sea into oblivion. On the horizon I can see a couple of ships, seemingly not moving but of course too far away to note their immediate speed or direction of travel. I don't even look to see if Harry is still behind me until I am far enough away from the majority of the crowds to stop and sink to the ground, digging my hands beneath the surface to where the grains are cool and damp, and then turning my palms skyward and letting thousands of years' of crushed rock and shell sift slowly through my fingers. I hear the thud of Harry's rucksack as he drops it down next to me followed by his holdall, and then a soft grunt as he lowers himself into a sitting position. He says nothing, and for once I don't care that he is a miserable bastard. I open my bag and pull out my tatty towel, stretch it out on the sand beneath me and lie down upon it, closing my eyes and hitching my hemline up a little to allow the sun to warm my legs. For all the noise he makes, it is easy to pretend I am alone on this beautiful summer's day with only my thoughts for company. Now I no longer have to concentrate on getting us here, I am able to allow to my mind wander freely, exploring the darkest corners and memories that I have until now pushed far away. Like wondering what the hell actually happened last night, where did it all come from and what the hell changed while we were sleeping to revoke this surly, bitter monster I was so sure we had left behind.

Yesterday was probably one of the most emotional days of my entire life. Never have I felt so vulnerable or exposed, allowing the biggest outpouring of grief in front of the one person from whom I would never have expected any support. But the support was there, which is why I am having such a hard time understanding how he can switch on and off in such a way. He showed me a side to him I never would have believed existed - he held me, he took care of me, he took the lead for the first time since we were thrown together, just when I needed him to step up. He thawed enough to suggest going for dinner somewhere nice, and up until I started questioning him about his girlfriend, he was actually fun to be around, and I honestly felt we were making some serious progress. And then it all went horribly wrong. He stormed out of the restaurant, flirted with the girl on reception in front of my face and all but laughed at me while he did it. Then he returned to the room, screamed at me, threatened me, and then made love to me. 

The sex itself makes me feel uncomfortable when I think about it in too much detail. I was so unsure at first and so afraid to tell him to stop, but I gave in to him yet again, proving just how weak and stupid I am. I should have voiced my fears and made him stop when I wanted him to, and then I wouldn't be feeling dirty and used, like a cheap piece of trash that he can pick up and discard at will. But in the same breath, I enjoyed it more than any other experience I have ever had with a man, and if I were in the same situation again I know I wouldn't be hesitating for a second time. I am so confused by these conflicting feelings, and given that Harry hasn't even acknowledged what happened, and is treating me like a piece of dirt he scraped off his shoe, like it was me that instigated this and put him in a position where he felt awkward and compelled to consent, I feel like my head is ready to explode. 

All afternoon we sit side by side in silence, never even looking at each other while we pick over the leftovers of the sausages I smuggled out of the hotel buffet and share the last of the water we brought with us. I turn away from him onto my side to stare along the beach as he stands up near tea time, brushes sand off his shorts and walks back up the beach towards the café, returning twenty minutes later with some more drinks and a large polystyrene tub of hot chips and vinegar and two wooden chip forks. 

I am not deliberately trying not to speak to him, or digging my in heels in some sort of silent battle of wills - who will speak first, etc. I am simply observing his barked instruction from earlier in the day not to speak to him unless I have something of value to add - or words to that effect. And right now I am content with my own company and have nothing to say to him. It is far simpler this way and quite frankly after the mental distress of the last twenty-four hours, I am glad of the break. 

The shadows are lengthening and the beach crowds have almost entirely dispersed by the time he stands up again and begins assembling the tent next to me. The wind is picking up a little and the clouds are gathering overhead, so I am glad once the tent is up so I can crawl inside for a little protection from the sand now whipping my bare legs. We are fairly sheltered where we are against the cliffs, but even on the warmest of evenings the beach can get cold once the sun has gone down and the wind gets up. I change hurriedly into a large t-shirt with my back to Harry and snuggle down into the warmth of the air mattress, pulling my unzipped sleeping bag around my legs and closing my eyes. I wouldn't normally go to sleep this early, but lack of conversation, or indeed anything else to do, leaves me with little choice. Beside me I hear him doing the same, and after a couple of minutes of rustling I hear him settle down, his breathing close behind me so I know he is facing my way. 

The wind ripples the edges of the tent and a couple of minutes later I hear the beginnings of rain hitting the outer cover. It starts as a gentle pattering, but quickly intensifies to what sounds like a torrential downpour in less than thirty seconds. I reach up to the ceiling of the tent to make sure no water is coming through, but the waterproof coating is doing its job for now and I lie back down, praying silently that our belongings stay dry. Not only will we struggle to dry everything if it all gets soaked, but it will weigh a ton and we are already pretty much at our limit with what we are physically able to carry between the two of us. Any extra weight would only slow us down and put our liberty at further risk.

The temperature has dropped considerably now, and after spending the last couple of weeks wishing for a break from the relentless heat I now give a couple of shudders as I burrow beneath my sleeping bag, contemplating zipping it up and adding a blanket and some pyjama bottoms for extra warmth. I lie on my side, listening to the sound of the rain and the wind, and the sound of Harry's breathing behind me. I can tell he isn't asleep by the shallowness of his breaths, and I find my mind wandering to the events of last night, and embarrassingly I feel a twinge of longing in the pit of my stomach. It was certainly a lot warmer in Harry's arms than it is lying on this partially deflated air mattress - I make a mental note to pump it up myself tomorrow night to its full volume. The skin on my legs breaks out in goosebumps as I shiver again, partly from the cold and partly from the memory of his fingers sliding up my thighs and dipping into my knickers -

"Chloe." 

The sound of his voice brings me sharply to my senses and I feel the heat in my own face at being interrupted while remembering his touch and how it made me feel. Obviously he doesn't know what I have just been imagining - thank God - but I feel guilty nonetheless. I stay where I am, lying on my side with my back to him, waiting for him to say what he wants. It strikes me that this is the first time he has spoken to me in hours - pretty much since we left the hotel. Yet his voice isn't sharp or abrupt like it was then - it is soft and sultry, and enough to turn that twinge of longing into a twist of desire. What the hell is wrong with me? Harry's behaviour has been nothing short of vile, yet one night in his bed and I am unable to function normally without thinking about him in a sexual way?

My heart is beating faster now as I keep perfectly still. He must know I am awake too, by the pace of my breathing. Will he say what he wants, or leave me alone as I haven't responded? What do I want him to do? The dilemma is taken away from me.

"Chloe," he murmurs again, and I roll over onto my back and turn my head towards him to see him looking at me in the dusk, the whites of his eyes bright against the black of the tent. 

I say nothing, and he says nothing, the only sound our collective breathing and the pattering of the rain. Silently, after a beat, he lifts up the edge of his own sleeping bag (which is also unzipped), inviting me to lie next to him. I hesitate, taking in his tattered old t-shirt and pair of boxers. I am terrified to be close to him, in case this is some sort of a nasty trap, but I don't think it is. I am cold, and he is cold, and I want the comfort of being safe in someone's arms, even if those arms are Harry's, who hasn't spoken more than about ten words to me since I woke up naked in his hotel bed this morning. 

I want to pull a face at him and roll over in a huff. I want to ask him what I did wrong to make him ignore me all day. I want to not want him. 

Instead, I roll onto my other side under his cover, bringing my own sleeping bag with me, and nestle into the comfort of his embrace. He is warm, so warm. His body heat envelops me, and he closes the cover over my back, trapping me against him as though I am about to fight to escape. My face is less than an inch from his, and too late I realise where this is going; I say 'too late' because I know I am not capable of fighting it because I don't want to fight it. I have already felt the hardness of his excitement through his boxers and already I am reaching forward to touch his chest as his mouth finds mine for the second first-time in less than twenty four hours. 

I am pathetic, and weak, and an emotional wreck, and I hate all these things about myself. But the part I hate most is wanting him so desperately, and letting him ease himself gently and slowly inside me as I wrap my legs around his waist, whimper softly in his ear and cling to him as he pounds out a rhythm to match the crashing of the waves against the shore.