“I can’t worry about the intentions of everyone I know,” she said.
“Wrong,” I said. “You have to worry about their intentions. Within three minutes of meeting any man, his intentions toward you are decided, completely.”
“I don’t believe that,” she said.
Stopped at an outcropping, a mist swirled around us as if it were going to leave a genie in its wake, and when it lifted, I hugged Erin, my front to her back. I buried my head in her neck. She accepted this, and turned to face me, and then held me with a quick intensity — and let go. She knew I was weak and stupid. But when she released me, I pulled her into me again, and indicated with the tenacity of my embrace that I’d like to hold her for at least a full minute or two, binge on her now, and thus be left sated. I was overcome: I coveted her and the world in that order.
I kept a close eye on the side of her head, to see if she would turn her face toward mine. If that were to happen I would kiss her for a short time and then stop, and then laugh it off, pretend that we were just being dopes. I would kiss her long enough to satisfy my curiosity about kissing her but briefly enough that I could dismiss the kiss — ha ha what a riot, couldn’t matter less.
But it would always matter! I would always think of this time, of these hugs, of a kiss, should it come. I would catalog it and reference it frequently, and I hoped that in the short term gorging on this kind of platonic affection would prevent me from doing something more drastic later. Faced with a radiance like here, a clear air of rightness, it took so much work to avoid doing something wrong. We held each other for three minutes and then pulled away and I kissed her head while she stared into my neck.
We got back in the car.
It was 8 o’clock and underwater blue when we rolled over the bridge to the Isle of Skye. There was fog, a hazy condensation that cast everything in gray. We had a map, but it was much too vague and soon we were lost. There was a profound sort of quiet to the island, and I wanted nothing more than a small warm inn, with only one room left, no doubles, sorry — so we’d have to share a bed.
We stopped at a small bed and breakfast, with a sign saying “Mrs. MacIlvane’s”, to ask about a room. There were luminaria guiding visitors to the door, a huge and scarlet door, with a knocker in the center fashioned from antlers. A large pale woman, who looked so much like Terry Jones in drag that I almost laughed, opened the door. I wanted her to speak in a chirpy falsetto but her voice was surprisingly nuanced, smoky even.
Erin asked if she had any rooms, and I saw that the woman hadn’t noticed Erin’s missing arm. Erin had a way of standing, which she’d used — she told me later — the first time I’d met her. It was an undetectable three-quarter stance, giving people a bit more of her right shoulder than was customary.
While the woman was telling us her son was home and occupying the one available room, the man of the house, round and with a leftward brush of gray hair, came up behind her and kicked the back of her knee, throwing her balance off. She turned, slapped his shoulder and they both grinned, bashful and proud, at Erin and me.
“You’ll have a bit of trouble finding a room tonight,” the man said.
“A load of birders up this weekend,” his wife said. “Someone said there were puffins here, so they’re all in search.”
“Are you birders?” the man asked.
“Yes,” said Erin. “Completely.”
“Well, I’m sorry about the room,” the man said. Now he was starting to close the door. “We’d invite you in, but you’d be sharing our bed.”
“And we don’t do that anymore,” the woman said, out of view, laughing. And the big scarlet door closed on us.
Driving aimlessly, we speculated about their sex life. At some point I said something to Erin about her possibly wanting to have a three-way with the older couple.
“Sounds like you wanna go bump in the night with Terry Jones and her husband.”
I think that’s what I said. It was a joke, but I delivered it wrong and it sounded nasty.
Erin said, with all the cheer available in the world: “No thanks. Not this time.”
I asked her what she meant by that.
“Nothing.”
“So you’ve had a threesome!”
She was quiet.
“Erin! You dog.”
More quiet.
“Who with?”
Nothing.
“Tell me. You have to tell me.”
A sigh. “It was nothing. It was weird. Forget it. You see any more places to stay? On the map? I don’t want to have to go back to Kyleakin.”
This exchange was itself a level of intimacy we’d never had. When we’d shared stories before, it had always been voluntary — titillating but unchallenging. Now I was pushing her and I felt we were very close.
“Tell me who! Another girl, or a couple or what?”
“I don’t know. Just stop.”
“Who were they? Anyone I know? I bet it was two guys!”
We were having such a good time. At the same time, I felt like I was sticking my head ever-deeper into an oven.
“It was nothing. It was weird.”
My mouth dried and I pretended to keep smiling. Why do we pursue information that we know will never leave our heads? I was inviting a permanent, violent guest into my home. He would defecate on my bed. He would shred my clothes, light fires on the walls. I could see him walking up the driveway and I stood at the door, knowing that I’d be a fool to bring him inside. But still I opened the door.
“You know I won’t stop until you tell me,” I said, still trying to be jocular.
A fog threw itself over our car and Erin turned on the brights.
“Who was it?” I asked, knowing. Almost knowing, as my eyes adjusted to the dim light now between us.
“Where is this coming from?” she asked. “Why are you obsessing?”
She looked in the side-view mirror and then rolled down the window to readjust it. I already knew I was right.
“Tell me,” I said, hushed.
She stopped the car and turned to me. “You’re being an ass. I thought you knew.”
“Let me drive,” I said.
We both got out silently and passed in front of the car, steam rising from the hood, our faces in the headlights white and terrified.
I drove faster. She was execrable. They were villains, the three of them. Vermin in Dockers. And liars. I closed my eyes and no colors appeared.
The black road devoured our headlights. I wove left and right with the double lines; they toyed with me. I couldn’t imagine a time when I’d want to talk to her or to them again. It was almost a relief.
“Tom.”
I didn’t answer. I’ve wanted to be in a war. Or a box. Somewhere where I would always know what to do.
I didn’t want to be in Scotland. Just getting off of Skye would mean something, having that bay between us. I’d go to Muck or Eigg or Benbecula or Rhum. How was it that I’d known? Far before she’d given me a hint I knew. I decided that yes, I wished she’d lied. I didn’t like her face anymore. It had reddened and dropped — she almost had jowls, didn’t she? Who was this person? She was an animal.
Two flashes of white and a boom and something black and two eyes — we hit a living thing. Erin gasped quietly, and I immediately had the strangely satisfying thought that she was so cowed by her sins to stay silent during a car accident. She couldn’t scream.