Unbound: (InterMix) Read Free Page B

kettle on
     top. He gathered her mug plus another and a jar of loose tea, and tidied the small
     kitchen area as he waited for the water to steam, seeming eager to ignore Merry. When
     kettle finally whistled, he filled a perforated, hinged spoon with tea and snapped
     it closed.
    “I haven’t got any milk in,” he said.
    “That’s fine. I shouldn’t push it, anyhow.”
    “Sugar?”
    “Please. Are you
sure
I can’t lie down?”
    “I don’t think so. Not if you’re concussed.”
    “I think I’m just not supposed to fall asleep.”
    “Since neither of us seems to know for sure, let’s err on the side of caution.” His
     tone had gone a touch sharp, and he had a different accent than the ones she’d heard
     in the last village she’d passed through. Not as brogue-y as folks in Glasgow or further
     north, but harder than the gentle, civilized tones of the Edinburgh natives she’d
     encountered.
    As he stirred, his blue eyes seemed to ask the mug,
Why? Why? Why?
    Merry was chatty at the best of times, and out here, having not seen or spoken to
     anyone for four or five days, she couldn’t help herself. “This is all very strange.
     I feel drunk.”
    He nodded, not looking up.
    “I hope I haven’t wrecked your vacation.”
    “I live here.”
    Aha.
“Year-round?”
    “Yes.”
    Damn. “Just you?”
    “Just me.”
    “Have you been out here long?”
    “About two years.” Still no eye contact.
    “Did you grow up nearby?”
    “Leeds.”
    “Oh, you’re English. I was like, man, what a weird Scottish accent he’s got.”
    He raised his eyes to meet hers, and in that split second she imagined she could read
     his thoughts:
Bugger me, is she going to chatter like this all bloody day?
    She drummed her fingers around the bowl. “Sorry. You know, for intruding this way.”
    “I’m sure it wasn’t intentional.” Not the warmest reassurance, but fine. “How’s your
     stomach?”
    “Still queasy. But stabilizing, I think. Or maybe I’m just not so dizzy. So are you
     retired, or . . . ?”
    “Yes, I suppose I am.”
    From what? And how, so young? And why do you live like a hermit? What’s your deal?
     Are you a serial killer?
“Well, you’ve picked a very . . .”
Remote. Lonely. Secluded. Murder-conducive.
“A very majestic place. To retire.”
    He nodded. For a long, awkward moment they stared at each other, and Merry wondered
     which of them felt more confused by the other.
    “My name’s Merry, by the way. Spelled like Merry Christmas.” A jolly name she’d lived
     up to, in temperament and, until recently, plumpness. When her host didn’t respond,
     the silence made her antsy. “What’s your name?”
    “Rob.”
    “Nice to meet you, Rob. I mean, this isn’t so nice, how it happened. But you know.”
    Rob forced an unpracticed smile that suggested he didn’t find a single thing about
     their acquaintance in any way nice.
    She plowed on regardless, dreading silence more than she feared annoying him. “I’m
     from San Francisco, just backpacking through.”
    “On a gap year?”
    “A what?”
    “A break. From university?”
    “Oh no, I’m thirty-one. I’m just on vacation. My mom grew up in Inverness, and I’ve
     never been, so . . .” She cut herself off, knowing she’d spew on endlessly if given
     half a chance.
I just lost a hundred pounds, you see, and my mom died last year, and I have no fucking
     clue what I’m doing with my life or what I want, and I suspect this guy I’ve been
     banging ditched me for losing the weight, and I think my best friend is next.
“I don’t really know why I’m walking there, to be honest. I guess I wanted a challenge.”
    After a long pause, Rob submitted to the small talk with what looked like a considerable
     effort. “How far?”
    “Glasgow to Inverness.”
    He blinked. “That’s a ways.”
    “I was on track to do it in under three weeks, but I hadn’t planned on contracting
     whatever this is. I hope it’s just some