Page 46 of Set Fire to This Cardhouse

“Sure.” Mike unbuckles his seatbelt, a click, then nothing. The conspicuous absence of movement makes Toby slit his eyes open to find Mike watching him, expression serious.

Toby holds himself very still. “What?”

“Nothing.” In spite of that, Mike doesn’t move. “Just... thank you, I guess. For coming.”

Toby’s stomach clenches with a weird, sick tightness. He makes himself smile through it. “You’re welcome. Now go.”

With another bright look, Mike slips out of the car, the door falling shut behind him. Sleepiness gone, Toby exhales a measured breath, turns off the air-con and leaves the car. It’s warm outside, not unexpectedly, but he leans against the hood and enjoys the heat of the sun on his face, takes his time studying the surrounding houses and a nearby bar that claims to be an open-air living room: oversized couches are scattered under palm trees while one of the Marley sons provides for a generic Caribbean atmosphere.

Mike returns some minutes later with a map, two bottles of water, wine, bread, barbecue essentials, and a thick package wrapped in paper. Toby points. “Size of a crêpe, just as thin?”

“I did my best.”

“That does not inspire confidence.”

Behind the sunglasses, Mike’s grin seems even more pronounced. “Get in the car, will you?”

“Bitch, bitch, bitch.”

Yet Toby complies, settling back in the passenger seat, while Mike dumps his purchases on the backseat, then digs a blue bottle of sunscreen out of the pile and drops it in Toby’s lap. It’s... strangely thoughtful given that Toby is blessed with the kind of skin type that requires protection if he wants to bypass the lobster stage on his way to a tan.

While Mike unfolds the map on the steering wheel, Toby unscrews the bottle and squeezes some liquid into his palms. “What are we looking for?”

“A perfect postcard beach.” Mike sounds distracted, his fingers tracing a whispering path on the map. “At least it used to be, back then. Maybe it’s a holiday resort now.”

After spreading the sunscreen over his face, Toby checks the mirror to make sure there aren’t any obvious white spots, then leans in to study the map with Mike. Their hands brush as Mike moves the map closer to Toby and taps a yellow stretch.

“Or maybe not,” he says. “Not if this map is up to date.”

Toby looks for the connection between Samara Beach and the yellow stretch picked by Mike: the map shows a blue line that cuts the connecting road in two, no way around. Toby stabs at it.

“Tell me there’s a bridge.”

Mike’s grin is all anticipation, and of course. Of course.

Toby inhales and smells sunscreen and leather, smells the subtle hint of cologne he’s come to associate with Mike. He sighs. “All right, then. Hit the road, Jack.”

***

The dirt road ends right up against a steep hill.

There’s a path there still, slightly less overgrown than its surroundings, yet just as uneven. Toby wedges himself in, both hands against the dashboard as the car rattles over large stones, wheels slipping on caked mud. He’s almost zen about it, proof that his constant exposure theory has some merit—now it just needs to encompass Mike as a whole, rather than only his driving.

When they finally make it up and over, Toby has to admit that the pay-off is worth it: the endless expanse of sand that awaits them is like something straight out of a travel blog. The beach is deserted but for the two of them, the sinking sun casting a golden glow over the scene as enormous waves roll onto the shore.

Toby hops out before the car has pulled to a full halt and immediately slips off his shoes. The sand is hot under his soles, and he waits for Mike to catch up before he takes a few steps towards the ocean, then turns.

“Beaches like this” —he waves his arms in an all-encompassing gesture— “exist only in glossy brochures that travel agencies use to lure you in. And then you arrive: everything’s crowded, there’s trash lying around, and you’re asked to pay thirty bucks to rent a deck chair for the day.”

Mike gestures at the rivulet behind him that marked their final obstacle before the car made it onto smooth sand. “There’s a can rusting away in that stream. If, you know, it helps salvage your view of the world.”

“It doesn’t.” Toby shakes his head. “Seriously, how are we the only people here?”

Mike stands unmoving for a moment, just breathing as he takes it in. His chest rises on a deep inhalation. “It’s mostly locals who know it. And I guess the waves are a bit rough for some people.”

“Having to drive your car through a river might play a role too.”

“You pretend to hate it, but you really don’t.” Mike sends him a quick smile before he pulls his T-shirt over his head and leaves it in a crumpled heap on the sand along with his sunglasses. Toby follows him to the water’s edge, draws to a stop beside Mike, wet sand nice and cool under his bare feet. He glances over to appreciate the way Mike’s stomach curves down to display the cut of his hip bones, then forces his gaze away.

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