But by the time I caught up, which he’d clearly allowed me to do based on the virtually nonexistent paddling effort on his part, I was too tired to bother. We’d not only passed the spot where we’d put in, but we’d gone just as far on the other side. And kayaking, it turned out, was fuckinghard. My shoulders felt like they were on fire, and not just from the hot sun beating down overhead.
“Can we please slow down?” I called, panting.
“Sure,” he called back, sounded much less strained than I did. “I want to make it to the island before we stop, so let’s pace ourselves.”
I rolled my eyes, understanding that he expressly meant thatIshould pace myself, but it actually was much easier when I let myself slow down.
And as my breathing eased and I started to feel less like I was dying, I was able to look around me properly and see just how much there was to enjoy. Yes, there was algae, and there were mosquitos, but there were also late-blooming rhododendron hanging over the water, as Jack informed me, and we even saw a pair of river otters bathing on the bank at one point. Jack even risked pulling his phone out of the dry bag for that one, saying it was rare to spot them during the day, and I didn’t blame him; I’d never seen one in person before, and they were even cuter than I’d imagined, flicking at their faces and at each other with their little paws.
After about forty minutes of paddling, just as my shoulders felt like they might give out, we passed through some old viaduct pillars before coming up to what looked like a narrow island in the middle of the river. Jack pulled ahead and paddled straight up onto an exposed bit of riverbed connecting the island to the bank on the right, and I copied the manoeuvre. I imagined it would normally be underwater, but with the dry weather we’d had it had been left exposed, making the island more of a weirdly shaped peninsula.
Satisfied the kayaks weren’t going anywhere, Jack marched over to the island and spread out the towel he’d brought, pulling two sandwiches out of the drybag. I dropped down next to him and accepted one as he held it out, but it was much heavier than the chicken and blue cheese baguette he’d made me last time.
“What is this monstrosity?” I asked, holding it up to Jack, who had already bitten into his.
“Ifainshub,” he said, his mouth full. I must have looked as clueless as I felt, as he made a big show of chewing and swallowing before answering again. “Italian sub.”
I opened the sandwich, which seemed to be a whole charcuterie board’s worth of meat, slices of pale white cheese, shredded lettuce, tomatoes, and some green pepper-looking things. I smelled it, and a sharp vinagery scent hit my nostrils, so strong that I reeled back. I thought about clarifying all the ingredients with Jack, but he looked so enamoured with his own sandwich that I couldn’t bring myself to question it. So I opened my mouth as wide as possible to take a bite – so wide that my jaw clicked – a necessary effort given the size of the sandwich.
At first, all I tasted was the tang of the vinaigrette and the peppers, and the crunch of the lettuce, and I began to question Jack’s sanity. But on the second bite, the meat and cheese joined the party, and it was a totally different story. It was sensational.
“Well you can’t get that in a meal deal,” I said, and I looked up at Jack, realising from the way his eyes were creased with laughter that I’d spoken with my own mouth full just like he had a moment ago. I mimicked his exaggerated chew-and-swallow routine and repeated myself.
“No you cannot,” he agreed. “I haven’t had one in years.”
“Why not?” I asked. “When did you last have it?”
“I don’t know,” he said, his grin drooping, looking down at the sandwich in his hands. “When I was in New York with Aria, I guess.”
Of course.I shook my head and laughed. “Stop trying to sound casual. We both know that breakup is why you haven’t had one since then.”
“Okay, fine,” he said. “So I haven’t had my favourite sandwich in years. Are you telling me there’s nothing from your friendship with Cara you won’t be able to do or have anymore because it’s too painful?”
“Of course there is,” I said. “But that’s because I miss her, and I wish she were here. If I were over her, if I didn’t want her in my life anymore, I don’t think there would be anything, no. Not after four years.”
It was all speculation; I’d never been in a proper relationship before, and I knew having a friend move away and breaking up with a long-term partner were worlds apart. But I could see him actually thinking about this.
“Do you want her back?”
He shook his head and grimaced; it didn’t look put on. “Hell no,” he said. “I don’t even really think about her anymore.”
I nodded. “So why don’t you eat Italian subs anymore? Why don’t you date? Or travel?”
“Because those thingsdomake me think of her,” he admitted, looking away from me, “and I don’t like doing that.”
“Because you feel…” I prompted.
“I don’t know,” he groaned, crumpling his now-empty sandwich paper and dropping it on the ground between his legs. “I try not to look too closely at it.”
“Well, try now,” I insisted, half because he clearly needed this and half as payback for earlier. “Picture someone you really like asks you on a date. How does that make you feel?”
He looked back at me, and even though he was wearing his sunglasses, I felt like he was looking straight into my eyes, and my face went red in response.
“Anxious,” he said quietly.
“And what emotion makes us feel anxious?”
“Fear?”
