…
Sometime later, I was pulled out of a deep, dreamless sleep. I opened my eyes, disoriented at first by the utter darkness, and then remembered where I was. What woke me? Then I heard a voice.
I sat up, opening the zipper enough so I could peer out. Nothing. I must have imagined it. But then I heard it again. I kicked free from the sleeping bag and held my breath, listening closely. The New York girl in me, who locked her doors every night even in the suburbs, came to attention. Was someone out there, someone not from our group? For the first time, it occurred to me how isolated we were out here.
There it was again. It was a sound of distress, the words indistinct but the tone clear. Someone needed help. Grabbing my flashlight, I left the tent—and froze. The sound was coming from Rory’s tent.
Shit. What was I supposed to do? The last words I’d said to him were petty and childish, and even if they hadn’t been, it wasn’t like we were friends. But he sounded so anguished—how could I do nothing?
I called his name, softly. There was no response. I unzipped his tent and peered in, shining the light to the side.
In the dim glow of the flashlight, I could see that he lay on his back, his sleeping bag tangled around him, his T-shirt twisted. He was clearly in the throes of a nightmare. I knelt beside him and reached out, then drew back my hand. Were you supposed to touch someone who was having a nightmare? But then he made that sound again, and I knew I had no choice.
I laid my hand on his shoulder and gently shook him. “Rory? Rory, wake up!”
His eyes remained tightly closed. “I can’t see,” he said brokenly, over and over again.
His anguish was heartbreaking. This had to be related to what had happened earlier with Tommy. I smoothed his damp, tangled hair off his face, then stroked my thumb over his cheek, leaning close to murmur in his ear.
“Shh, it’s okay. It’s only a dream. You’re safe now. Just open your eyes, and you’ll be able to see.” God, what was it that haunted him? “Rory, wake up.”
He thrashed again. I lost my balance and sprawled across him, my face just inches from his. I started to lever myself up.
And then he opened his eyes and stared at me.
“It’s okay, Rory, you were just—”
His arms closed around me, and he kissed me.
Wait, what? said my brain.
Who cares? said my body as I kissed him back. His stern mouth wasn’t so stern anymore as he kissed me desperately, his arms holding me so tightly, as if I were a lifeline pulling him out of the dark. And I kissed him just as desperately, my body coming alive for the first time in so long.
His tongue stroked mine, and I heard a whimper escape me as I shifted so that I lay fully on top of him, my legs straddling his hips. His hand slid down to my butt, bringing me closer still. I felt him hard against me, felt the answering rush of desire run through me—
—and then like a bucket of ice water dumped over my head, my brain finally kicked back in. What are you doing?
I froze. What was I doing? We didn’t like each other. Ninety percent of the words we’d exchanged had been in anger. And now I was two seconds away from tearing off my clothes and riding him like he was a Thoroughbred? Was he even awake?
I tore my mouth from his—God, even now my body protested the sudden withdrawal—and looked down at him.
His eyes were wide and glittering in the blue light cast by my flashlight, which had fallen to the ground at some point.
He ran his thumb over my swollen lower lip. “Amelia?”
Well, at least he knew who he’d been kissing. “Good, you’re awake. I, uh, have to go.”
But his other arm was still around me, lightly holding my hips to his—God—and I needed to get away before my traitorous body made me do something we’d both regret come sunrise. “Rory.”
His eyes narrowed for a moment in confusion, then widened comically. His arm immediately dropped from around me—dammit—and I clumsily rolled off him and scuttled back, breathing deeply in a vain attempt to calm my raging hormones.
He pushed himself up to sit. “Amelia, I’m sorry. God, I didn’t mean…I didn’t know—”
“It’s fine,” I interrupted, lurching to my feet. I grabbed my flashlight, aiming the beam toward the ground. “I’ll see you in the morning.” Without waiting for a response, I hurried out of his tent into the blessed chill of the night air.
When I turned back to zip up the tent, he was sitting with his knees drawn in and his head hanging low, like the weight of the world was on his shoulders.
I fled back to my own tent before I did something stupid, like go back to him and let our bodies take the comfort we both so clearly needed.
Chapter Eleven
Rory
I watched Amelia run from my tent as if she were being chased. What the hell did I just do?
I remembered the dream—of course I did. It was always the same one. I was on top of a mountain. The fog had rolled in so quickly that I’d lost my bearings. I was utterly blind, frozen because I didn’t know where the edge was. A voice came from somewhere nearby—I couldn’t tell where—telling me to stay put, that he was coming for me.
But I panicked. The mist was so thick, so pervasive, that I couldn’t breathe. I had to get out of there. And he kept telling me not to move, that he would find me, his disembodied voice calling out to me, over and over.
Always the same dream, and it always ended the same way.
Except this time, when the dream changed, when the voice calling to me changed. I knew that voice; it had been shouting at me earlier. Then it was pleading with me. A hand was on my face, and warmth surrounded me, driving away the chill.
I’d opened my eyes, and Amelia’s beautiful face was so close to mine; her body was so soft against me, like a living blanket.
I’d kissed her, my body coming awake as if from an endless sleep, feeling for the first time in so long. I’d held her close, my body burning for her, wanting more, needing more. As if I was still caught up in a dream—of a completely different kind.
But it hadn’t been a dream. I’d really been holding her, kissing her, feeling her body move against mine.
And then she ran out of the tent.
I needed to see her, to apologize.
I peered outside. Her tent was all zipped up. The last thing I wanted to do if she was asleep was wake her and make her revisit the whole thing. What I needed to say could wait till morning.
But there was no way I could stay inside that tent. Not now.
I gathered up my sleeping bag and the mat underneath and stepped outside, shivering slightly as the cool breeze touched my sweaty skin. I placed the mat on a relatively pebble-free spot, then laid the sleeping bag on top of it.
Returning to my tent, I felt around for the flask I’d set aside earlier. I ducked back outside and slid into my sleeping bag, zipping it up to my waist. I didn’t know what time it was—late enough for it to be truly dark, the sky flickering with stars.
Just a few yards away, the waves lapped softly against the shore. I opened the flask and took a sip. The whisky slid down my throat, warming my chilled body. But I didn’t feel as warm as I had when I’d kissed Amelia. Don’t go there.
I took another sip and stared at the sea. Though my earlier swim had cleared my head a little bit, it hadn’t purged the memories that haunted me. Nothing truly could, but sometimes they were a little further out of reach.
But not after today, and likely not for the rest of this week. And if Amelia hadn’t heard me, hadn’t brought me out of that nightmare, it would have been even worse.
I pictured the way she’d looked just a few hours ago, her brown eyes flashing, her face flushed, her chest heaving as she got closer and closer to me in her rage. She was so beautiful, and even though she was shouting at me—we were shouting at each other—all I could think of was how badly I’d wanted to kiss her, to see those eyes flashing with desire instead of anger, to see her cheeks flushed from passion, to se
e her chest heaving because I was taking her breath away with my kisses.
And now I had kissed her, but it hadn’t exactly gone the way I’d imagined it might. Not only that, she’d run from me.
I’d fucked everything up.
She was a hiker in my group for a week, and then she’d be on her way home. I’d just needed to get along with her. And now that would never happen.
I took another sip of whisky, then lay back, zipping the sleeping bag up to my chest. I stared at the stars and breathed in the cool sea air, longing for a few hours of dreamless sleep.
Chapter Twelve
Amelia
I tossed and turned in my sleeping bag, unable to shake the memory of Rory’s mouth pressed to mine, the taste of his tongue, the feel of his body against me.
He’d stared at me like I was his salvation—until he remembered where he was and who I was. The way he’d looked as I left the tent…
He’d been mortified—maybe even horrified.
Maybe he’d forget it all by morning. That would be ideal. I could pretend it never happened and forget about it, too.
Liar! shouted the voice inside me, like the old crone in The Princess Bride. I sighed, rolling over again. Yeah, it would be better if he didn’t remember it, or thought it was just part of his dream going from nightmare to…not a nightmare.
But that kiss, that explosion of desire I felt even in that strange moment—it was a hundred times more than I’d felt with either of my college boyfriends. If Rory had been aware that it was me he was kissing, had felt even a fraction of that passion for me, then no, I didn’t want him to forget it. Even if it made the rest of the week awkward as hell.
In the darkness of my tent, I pressed my fingers to my lips. He’d tasted like whisky and the sea.
In the darkness of my tent, I couldn’t help but wonder who he’d thought he was kissing—who he’d wished he was kissing—because he’d definitely been surprised when he realized it was me.
And in the darkness of my tent, I could admit that I was just a little jealous of whoever that was.
…
The remainder of my night was long and mostly sleepless. When I did doze off, I had a disturbing dream of Rory, lost and wandering in the dark, and though I could hear him, he could never hear me.
I had another dream, too, one in which Rory and I were entwined together in a sleeping bag. He’d known who I was this time, had murmured my name more than once—and I’d murmured his. And there hadn’t been any apologies.
I wasn’t sure which dream bothered me the most.
When the sky was gray with the approaching dawn, I gave up on trying to sleep. I got dressed and braided my hair, then grabbed my phone and stepped outside. Bearreraig Bay faced east—maybe I could get some sunrise photos.
I shivered in the cold morning, glad I’d put on my fleece. I glanced at Rory’s tent, hoping the rest of his night had been more restful than mine.
As I passed by, something moved. I did an actual double take when I realized what it was. Rory was in his sleeping bag, outside his tent. He was curled on his side, his head pillowed on his arm, apparently oblivious to the layer of silvery frost that clung to him, including his hair.
My sleep had been restless, my dreams disturbing, but how bad must his nightmare have been if sleeping in the cold air—with frost—was preferable to the warm confines of his tent?
The sleeping bag had slipped down, exposing his arm. He had to be freezing. Carefully, so as not to wake him, I tugged up the sleeping bag so it covered his shoulder.
I continued down to the shore and settled on a boulder to await the sunrise, wincing as the cold from the rock seeped through my pants. I snapped a few photos of the pink and lavender clouds that splashed across the horizon and then started recording as the sun began to emerge from the sea.
“Morning, Ree,” I said quietly, not wanting to detract from the serenity of the moment. “Just wanted to share this glorious sunrise with you. Can’t wait to see you and tell you everything. Love you.”
I ended the recording after the sun exploded from the horizon, then turned to go back to my tent. Rory stood a few feet away. He had dark circles under his eyes and strain lines around his mouth.
He looked like hell.
“Hey,” he murmured, his eyes not meeting mine. “I, uh…I’m sorry about last night.” He made a disgusted sound and scrubbed his hands through his already-crazy hair. “God, it sounds like I’m apologizing for finishing your whisky without asking, not for… How can I even apologize for what I did?”
I stared at him. What was he talking about? And then it hit me. I laid my hand on his arm. He looked at my hand and then at me, his eyes troubled.
“Rory, you didn’t do anything you need to apologize for.”
He laughed humorlessly. “Amelia, I’m one hundred percent sure you didn’t come into my tent to be kissed, much less anything else.”
My whole body grew hot as I recalled that moment, my memory of which was apparently vastly different than his.
“Look, Rory. It’s true that you kissed me as you were coming out of your nightmare, but then we both got caught up in the moment, and I…wasn’t an unwilling participant,” I said, my face flaming. “Okay? It happened, and it’s over. You don’t need to apologize.” The look in his eyes went from despondent and self-deprecating to hopeful. “You really don’t remember what happened?”
Now his face turned red. “The dream—it’s not the first time I’ve had it, and each time I wake up from it, I’m usually pretty wrecked. I…didn’t trust that what I remembered was what actually happened.”
“It was. And I think we should just forget about it, okay?”
His eyes searched mine for a moment, and then he nodded. “Okay. Then I’ll just say thank you.”
“For what?”
“For being there.” He looked away again. “It was a…rough night.”
It couldn’t be easy for him, especially as the guide for our group, to have been so vulnerable in front of a stranger.
“I’m glad I could help.” I turned toward my tent, then paused. “Rory? Wasn’t it cold, sleeping outside?”
He shrugged. “Aye, a little, but it’s always better than being inside.” He turned on his heel and made for Tommy’s tent.
It’s always better than being inside…
I watched him go, wondering just how many times he’d awakened in a panic, alone in the dark, and had chosen to sleep outside with no walls or roof to close him in.
It took almost as long to break down my tent and get it to go back into its sack than it had to fail at setting it up, but I finally got everything packed away by the time we sat down to breakfast.
“How was everyone’s night?” asked Tommy, who looked annoyingly bright-eyed and well rested. The others chimed in, while I just concentrated on my porridge. A quick glance at Rory showed that he was also focused very intently on his breakfast.
“And you, Amelia? Sleep well after the long day?” asked Tommy.
I looked up, meeting Rory’s stare across the circle. In spite of the inscrutable look on his face, I knew what he was thinking, and for a crazy moment, I almost wanted to tell the truth. Well, Tommy, since you asked, my night wasn’t too bad until your buddy woke me up with his weird nightmare and kissed me in the dark. And that part wasn’t exactly bad, either…
Rory sat up straighter, as if he was reading my mind. His eyes burned into me, pleading with me not to say anything, and at the same time it almost seemed like he was daring me to.
Tommy cocked his head, looking from me to Rory and back to me. Shit, those blue eyes were more perceptive than he let on.
“Fine. It was fine,” I said. “Looking forward to today’s walk. It’s like nine miles or so, right?”
Tommy narrowed his eyes at me, as if to say I see what you did there, but then nodded. “Aye, a lot easier than yesterday, and then you guys get to sleep in a B&B and eat real food tonight. More importantly, there will be beer…�
�
Rory finished his breakfast and got to his feet, heading for his backpack. I turned back to Tommy, who was chattering away, even as his gaze tracked his friend across the pebbled beach.
Next time, I’d need to be more careful about what I didn’t say, as well as what I did.
Wait, what? There isn’t going to be a next time! Ignoring the tingle in my lips, I crumpled my empty porridge package and stuffed it into my pack.
There was not going to be a next time.
Chapter Thirteen
Amelia
Tommy had said that today would be easier than yesterday, but you wouldn’t know it from the first few miles. We started out by climbing back up the zig-zagging path we’d descended the night before. I’d thought my legs were used to steep ascents after yesterday’s epic day, but it turned out that they weren’t.
I trudged up the path, gritting my teeth to avoid whimpering at the soreness in my thighs and calves, mentally cursing the weight of my pack, the long, restless night on a thin mat, and Rory, who’d tried to apologize again. I mean, I appreciated that he was sorry for kissing me without getting my consent, but I’d told him it was fine. The fact that he kept apologizing hammered home that I’d been into it and he hadn’t, and that just made me feel worse about the whole thing.
I really wished I could talk to Carrie about it. She always seemed to know the right thing to say.
We reached the top and stopped for a quick breather. I took a swig of water and wiped the sweat from my brow.
“The next three kilometers or so—that’s almost two miles to the Yanks—will be crossing a bog,” said Rory, addressing the group for the first time that morning. “Stay to the high ground as much as possible, but you won’t be able to completely avoid getting your feet wet. It’s a good idea to put on your gaiters to keep your boot tops and pant legs dry, and avoid using your trekking poles through here—they’ll only get stuck.”
Under a Storm-Swept Sky Page 7