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18
We head back to Broadbeach,and I tell Dylan I need to stop at the supermarket to pick up some snacks. He looks at me as if I'm speaking a foreign language.
"Snacks? You bought food yesterday. How much do you eat?"
I slap his shoulder. "Cheeky... I forgot to buy chocolate yesterday. And you drank most of my Coke."
"Right. Sorry, I'm not used to buying my own food. I'll give you some money."
"Seriously? No, I don't want your money."
Dylan pulls his wallet from his shorts pocket. "How much is chocolate or whatever? I haven't shopped recently."
"Seriously?" I repeat.
The more time passes, the greater my suspicion grows that this guy is more famous than I realise. He chews his lip, and I don’t comment. "I presume you're staying in the car. Do you want anything?"
"Not at the moment. Maybe later." He raises a suggestive eyebrow and I tut at him and open my door.
We've chosen to stop at the out of town supermarket again; a trip here will be quicker and the car park bigger for hiding the famous fugitive in. With a basket full of high fat and high sugar snacks, I pick some apples too—for balance.
Following a trip through the self-serve checkout, I stroll across the car park. Dylan is slouched in his seat, sunglasses and cap on. I dump the bags on the back seat and smirk at him.
"What's funny?" he asks.
"You. In this car. Not quite your style, is it?"
"I like being in your car, because I'm with you."
Again, Dylan’s simple words fill my stomach with a warm fuzziness, partly because I feel exactly the same. Following our weird date to Sandchurch, a tiny part of me believes there could be more to this than a holiday romance.
Holding the thought, I turn the ignition, but the car doesn't start. Several attempts later and things aren't looking good, as the grinding and spluttering from the engine indicates we won't move anywhere soon. As I repeatedly attempt to start the car, Dylan shifts in his seat, stiffening.
"What's wrong with the car?" he snaps.
"How the hell should I know? I'm not a mechanic."
An elderly couple pass the car, the man struggling with a piled trolley and Dylan slumps in his seat, holding his forehead. "Fuck."
"What?"
"We have to get out of here? There’s a lot more people around than Sandchurch."
"I'm trying!" To reinforce this, I grind the ignition again.
At a loss of what to do, I pop the bonnet and climb out. Propping it open I stare in confusion at the greasy engine. What am I looking for? There's plenty of petrol and I know how to check the oil and water but that's the limit of my expertise. Tears of frustration prick my eyes as I slam the bonnet shut again. Through the windscreen, I see Dylan sitting arms crossed tightly over his chest.
Today is another unusually hot summer's day and the sun adds to the perspiration on my forehead. I climb back in the car and Dylan looks expectantly at me.
"What? I haven't fixed anything."
"Shit!" He lowers his window. "It's fucking hot in here."
"Calm down. I'll call a roadside assistance service and they’ll take a look. Maybe it's the battery."
Dylan squeezes his eyes closed, and sucks in a breath. "No. You can't call people."
"What? Do you want to sit here all day? Or walk back to the house?"
