Page 115 of The Unfinished Line

“Gave as good as we got, yeah?” said Sam, through the swelling of a lopsided smile.

Dillon crossed her arms.

“I once had a good mate named Hunt

Whose prowess was only a front.

She talked a big game,

To live up to her name,

But in reality was only a cunt.”

Sam’s grin widened. “Look at you—a proper poet.”

Scene 39

I hadn’t arrived at Dillon’s apartment expecting to find her and Sam resembling a pair of battered MMA fighters. Dillon had neglected to mention her own involvement in the evening, and it alarmed me when she opened the door looking like she’d been made to sit for a makeup class on special effects.

“That’s a little more than ascuffle.” I paused en route to kiss her, surveying the half dozen stitches and darkening bruise creeping across her forehead.

“It looks worse than it is,” she assured me, and when I pressed her on it, she told me she hadn’t said anything because she didn’t want to ruin my night. It upset me, her thinking I wouldn’t want to know, and I was still a little mad an hour later after we’d dropped off Sam and pulled onto the highway heading west.

But it was hard to stay mad at someone you’d been counting down the months—the weeks, the days, the hours—to see again. Someone who took care of a friend the way she’d taken care of Sam. Getting her home, setting her up on her couch, insisting she call every few hours so she knew she wasn’t dead. Someone who opened my door, carried my bags, and remained entirely unflustered by my backseat driving. Who ignored my growing agitation at the congestion crawling through the city, while all of London appeared to be leaving for the holiday on the same roadwe were on.

No. My anger was fleeting, and by the time we passed Swindon, I’d reached across the console of the Fiat 500—an amusing contrast to the last four months of luxury SUVs and limousines—and found her hand.

“I’m sorry,” she said, interlacing her fingers in mine, “I should have been more forthcoming.”

“I’m just glad neither of you were hurt worse.” I hesitated, debating my next sentence, uncertain if it was something I should admit. I knew it made me sound insecure, but decided to continue all the same. “When you didn’t answer last night, I worried you’d gotten cold feet. That the premiere might have scared you away.”

From the tensing of her fingers, I knew she understood what I was asking, without actually framing the question.

“I’m not going to do that to you, Kam.”

That, meaning what she’d done to Kelsey. The thing I’d had a lowkey anxiety about for the past few months of the rollercoaster I’d been on.

She glanced at me, giving my hand a squeeze, before turning her eyes back to the road. And with that, the topic was closed.

I must have found more relief in the simple reassurance than I’d realized, because the next thing I knew, I was waking several hours later to the sound of tires grinding across the gravel of a roadside turn-off.

I hadn’t even known how exhausted I was, both my mind and body craving rest. Rest from the endless travel, the sleepless nights, the high of endorphins I’d been surviving on, and the inevitable crash after the close of the premieres. For the next month, there was no one dictating my schedule, demanding my time and attention. I was finally in a place where I felt safe, where I felt understood, where I could just be me.

“Where are we?” I blinked sleep from my eyes and looked out the window. We were on an unpaved road parked beside a livestock fence. Grassland pastures swayed with a gentle breeze, before disappearing into a sloping coast of sand. Beyond, a silver sea rolled out toward the horizon, covered by a gossamer blanket of fog.

“Somewhere between Eglwys Nunydd and Kenfig, I should think.”

“Oh.” I had no idea what she’d said. With names like those, I imagined it was a safe bet to assume we’d crossed into Wales. “It’s so foggy.” I tried the window, but the car was off, so fumbled with the locked door instead. Flinging it open, I was met with a wintry blast of sea air, heavy on the salt. “Are we near Swansea?”

“Not too far.”

My gaze trailed down the desolate coastline until it came to a glow of lights illuminating through the mist. Miles away, a city was hidden beneath the dense cloud cover, but here on the backroad, we were entirely alone.

The sudden realization made my skin tingle.

“Care for a little hike?” she asked, her hand on the handle of the door.

It was cold, but not freezing. I doubted anything would ever feel freezing again after spending three months trudging across the ice sheets of Greenland.

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