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“Maybe twenty minutes or so before we reach flat ground.”
“Stay close to me, because we only have one torch,” Miles said. “We can hold hands, if that’ll be easier.”
As soon as Miles said it, he realized it was a pointless suggestion. Beckett would never go for it. The closest Beckett got to hand-to-hand contact was a brief handshake at job interviews.
“Okay,” Beckett said.
3
BECKETT WAS WILLING to hold hands with him?
The dark disguised Miles’s surprise, as Beckett’s large hand enveloped his and they continued down the path.
Holding Beckett’s hand made Miles feel pleasantly warm, as if he were being hugged, which, to his shock, was something he’d never done with Beckett. Miles doubted Beckett would ever hug him, but maybe one day his aversion to skin contact would lessen and they could do things like this more often. Although, holding hands wasn’t an activity that indicated friendship, at least not once the participants were over the age of six. Miles frowned. That was a pity.
Soon, they were on flat ground. Miles wondered if he should say something because holding hands wasn’t necessary anymore, but they were still sharing only one light. Better to keep close. Besides, Beckett looked lost in thought, so it’d be better not to interrupt him.
“Do you want to brush your teeth now or have a hot drink first?” Beckett asked when they arrived back at the campsite. He turned on a bright camping lantern and placed it on the table under the gazebo.
“You brought hot chocolate, right? Let’s have that. I can boil the water.”
“I’ll grab the mugs.” Beckett stepped towards the crates of food, then paused when he saw he was dragging Miles along. Slowly, he looked at where their hands were still joined and let go as if it burned. “Oops. Sorry.”
Miles smiled. “I’ve never heard you say ‘oops’ before.” Beckett closed his eyes. “It was cute.”
“Go boil the water,” Beckett ordered, turning away.
“Yes, sir,” Miles said, fighting a laugh. He grabbed the silver camping kettle and walked to the tap by the dirt road to fill it with water. It was a tap that all the nearby campers in a one-hundred meter radius shared.
When he returned, he put the kettle on the gas stove. Beckett had already fished out two mugs and was sitting in his camping chair, wearing a new hoodie.
“Oh, I should’ve given you this back,” Miles said, touching the hem of Beckett’s hoodie he was still wearing.
“Keep it for the rest of the trip.”
Miles hesitated. “Oh…okay. Thanks,” he said, sinking into his chair, feeling foolish.
Miles hated feeling foolish. He wasn’t used to it—at least, he wasn’t used to it until he turned eighteen and moved out of his home for university.
All throughout school, his parents and teachers always praised him for being mature and clever. In high school, he was the top of his year in every math and science related subject, and he even won a scholarship to university. While he never bragged about it, he secretly thought he was pretty cool.
Then he moved to the city for university, and that was a sucker punch to the ego. Not because his classes were hard—sure, they were challenging, but in a way that delighted him. No, it was the crushing realization that he didn’t know how to use a dishwasher. Or a washing machine. Or how to cook any meal aside from toast and ramen noodles. Only after he’d moved away from home did he realize just how much his parents looked after him. He was a sheltered, spoon-fed kid, and that was mortifying.
Beckett was the one who had helped him do his first load of washing. Miles still remembered the day—his skin hot with humiliation as he asked Beckett what buttons to press and how much powder and fabric softener to use. To his surprise Beckett didn’t judge him. Instead, he gave Miles instructions in a straight-forward tone and told Miles to come to him if he needed help with anything else.
It was Beckett who taught him how to do grown-up stuff. How to use the dishwasher, how to cook, how to book doctor appointments. In return, Miles studied with him. Beckett wasn’t dumb by any means—there was a reason he got into the same competitive course, the same highly ranked university—but he took longer to understand concepts and had an inefficient studying method which consisted of wasting time rewriting notes and hoping for the best. Miles insisted they have regular study sessions together, and it was in the corner of the science library where they slowly became best friends.
The water had boiled, bubbling a little over the edge. Miles removed the kettle and made them two hot chocolates. As they sipped on the drinks, Miles checked the weather on his phone. It was going to rain soon, and it’d last all through the night. He looked at the two tents.
“Your tent is bigger than mine, Beckett,” he said.
“Technically, it’s for two, but like you said, I’m a big guy.”
“You’re not that big,” Miles said.
Over the top of his mug, Beckett’s brows came together.
“I mean,” Miles explained, “you are, but two people must still be able to fit in your tent. Otherwise, why would they advertise it like that?”
