Chapter6
Morgan
Iwas so very, extremely, tragically hungover.
Genuinely, it took me a solid minute after waking up to convince myself to open my eyes, and then another minute to determine that I was not, in fact, dead, despite the bright light attempting to blind me. This was made more difficult by the fact that I appeared to be in a granny’s house, with blue chintz wallpaper and needlepoint wall hangings galore. The curtains, which I could now see I’d not sufficiently closed, were so aggressively frilly that I thought surely they were hung ironically. Then I remembered my new friends and the embarrassing dance moves I’d done for them. Or was itwiththem? God, I hoped it was with them.
Admittedly, it probably wasn’t right to call them new friends – we’d known each other for months at this point. But we’d never spent time together like we had last night. I mean, we had actual inside jokes now! I’d screamed “Superman that ho” at the top of my lungs with Grey! Chloe had challenged me to see who could eat a full mug of ice cream faster without succumbing to brain freeze! If those weren’t friends, what were they?
But mostly what felt different was my head, in that it felt like a small gremlin was trying to chisel its way out of my skull.
So I rolled reluctantly out of bed, shoved my loose tit back into my pyjama top, and lumbered out to the kitchen. I groaned as I clocked the smart home tablet embedded in the fridge, which aggressively displayed a time of only half past six. I really should have shut those curtains better.
The sound of the kettle was both the most grating noise I’d ever heard and the most beautiful one, given the promise of cobweb-clearing caffeine. I leaned forward as it gurgled away and rested my forehead against the marble worktops, the cold stone a relief on my warm, sweat-soaked forehead.
The first thoughts of my situation, which I’d managed to keep at bay for most of yesterday, crept in as I lay bent over the worktop. My house was being sold. I was going to have to move. And I had no one to help me navigate that.
I’d made the mistake of looking up listings online the night I’d found out. Any of the flats that looked reasonable were way out of my budget, and any I could afford looked more suitable for a satanic ritual than a quiet single professional. The properties for sale looked even more laughable; I’d been frugal over the years, but my little nest egg was nowhere near enough for a deposit.
Simply put, unless I found a housemate or a suitcase full of money, I was screwed. Selling photos of my feet online had never seemed like a viable option before, but it was seeming less and less outrageous by the moment.
And then there was the fact that Lauren had tagged me in the rescue’s post introducing Pablo and Percy yesterday morning, which meant I’d spent most of the drive to the cottage mentally calculating the even worse odds of affording a place that would let me have a dog. I’d made the photo Chloe had taken of us into my phone background, so now the reminder was near-constant.
The ache in my head grew stronger as my mental and emotional agony joined the physical. As the kettle switched off, I begrudgingly left the makeshift cold compress on the worktop, poured the boiling water over my teabag and one sugar, and looked out over the grounds whilst I waited.
The river – the same one I’d walked along with Chloe just a couple of days ago – was just visible through the gate of the walled garden. Back in town it was muddy and wide, but here it looked smaller and clearer.Almost swimmable, even, I thought, remembering what Chloe had said about swimming in it as a kid.That would certainly beat a cold shower…
I scoffed. I wasn’t a swimmer – not spontaneously, anyway – and certainly not in front of people who may be new friends but had never seen my bikini line before. Plus, it wasn’t a lido. It was a river, teeming with life, some of it potentially hostile to scaredy cats like me.
But all of the reasons not to go for a dip were easily disputed. Everyone else was still in bed. The river looked placid enough. And, last I’d checked, no one had made the local news for river-dwelling wildlife encounters … right? Though maybe that kind of news wouldn’t have made my particular For You Page. Whathadmade my For Your Page were dozens of videos of people wild swimming and being seemingly fine afterwards.
Plus, it did look rather refreshing. Some might say the perfect cure for a hangover, in fact. So why the hell not?
Before I could talk myself out of it, I abandoned my brewing tea, walking back to my room at least twice as fast as I’d left it. I’d definitely over-packed for the weekend, having had no idea what was in store and not wanting to ask too many questions, lest it destroy my image as someone who was totally chill and up for anything. So not only had I packed a huge swathe of options for daywear, but I also had workout clothes, hiking boots, and – crucially – a swimsuit. Two swimsuits, actually, as I hadn’t been sure what water-based scenario I’d be likely to encounter, so I’d brought one sportier one and a bikini. I didn’t suspect I’d be doing laps in the river, and the sporty one gave me an impressive case of camel toe, so I opted for the bikini.
I reached into my bag to pull out a t-shirt to put on over it, but then I realised with horror that the only spare one I had was a black one with the words “LEAVE NO TRACE” on the front, which I’d bought from a fundraiser run by none other than Aria Markham. I didn’t fancy giving Jack’s ex-girlfriend any more airtime between us if he saw it, so I shoved the tee back into my bag and nicked a towel from the shared bathroom on my way out instead.
I slipped through the front door and trotted through the garden in bare feet, the dewy grass cool beneath my steps, the morning air already warm and humid in contrast. At the riverbank though, I lost my nerve slightly, freezing in place a few paces away.
At first I pretended to myself that I was trying to find the best way in, but once I spotted the well-trodden path between the rocks that eased into the water, I had to admit that I was just stalling. I mean, weren’t there issues with parasites in some UK rivers? Sewage, even? Sure, the water looked clear enough, but I wasn’t a scientist. I tried and failed to muster the courage and spontaneity I’d felt inside.
“Gone fishing?” I heard from behind me, and I jumped approximately a full mile into the air, trying to grab my towel and cover myself for some reason, as if I’d been out here skinny dipping. When I turned around and saw Jack standing in the grass, my face went flush.
“Just going swimming,” I said, placing my hands defiantly on my hips to try to seem totally chill and up for anything as planned.
“Looks like you’rethinkingabout swimming,” he said, closing the distance between us. “Very different.”
I shrugged. “So what if I was thinking about it?”
He smirked at first, but then he started taking off his top, and I was no longer looking at his facial expression. His torso was as tanned and toned as the rest of him, but he didn’t posture or flex like other guys might have in that situation.
“What are you doing?” I asked as he tossed the t-shirt on a rock and started untying the waist of his joggers.
“Going with you,” he said, “if that’s okay.” As his joggers came off, I saw that he was wearing swim trunks underneath. I refused to acknowledge the part of me that was mildly disappointed by the reveal.
I’d once read that women preferred dark-haired love interests in books because dark hair was associated with virility, danger, and masculinity. I couldn’t speak to Jack’s virility, though the mere thought of it made me go light-headed for a second. But in terms of danger … let’s just say I definitely felt very alert all of a sudden. And masculinity was subjective, but I was certain Jack’s abs fit my own personal definition at least.
Jack splashed into the water confidently, and I knew if I wanted to maintain my adventurous air I would have to follow him in pretty quickly. But it took me a few deep breaths to psych myself up before I found myself splashing in behind him, my feet instantly smarting against the pebbly bottom.
