Run Away (14 page)

Kayla didn’t answer. Cassandra’s irritating ability to pinpoint the root of her problems was becoming annoying. Kayla’s eyes cast a glance at the usual features of the room: the ticking clock, the aggressive red light, and very little else. She wondered whether her psychiatrist ever actually listened to the recordings on her dictaphone.

Dr. Myers tried another strategy. “Have you considered taking up a hobby? I mean that in the least patronizing way possible. I just think it might do you some good. Finding something to occupy both your body and your mind, I mean. And that doesn’t have to be a huge life step, like choosing a degree program or finding a new job. It can be anything. Swimming, knitting, yoga . . . of course, I know that it’ll take time to process what’s happened. These things always take time, and that’s why you have me here.” A warm smile. “For as long as you need me to be. But in the meantime, this could help you begin to start your life back up.”

“I guess. Does it have to be a new hobby? I used to run a lot.”

“Used to?”

“Yeah, used to. It was once my favorite thing. But I’ve only tried once since I got back.”

“And?”

“The thing I used to love about it has become the thing I hate about it.”

“What’s that?”

“Too much time to think.”

Chapter 22

May 24, Thailand

“K
AYLA
.” S
AM S
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gently, genuinely. “It’s okay. Really. And I’m not saying that in the passive-­aggressive way you did when I messed up.” He chuckled and tucked a lock of damp hair behind her ear. She’d just showered for half an hour, scrubbing harshly at her flaming skin to wash every last trace of Oliver down the plug hole. Then, with her tail between her legs, she’d knocked on Sam’s door. Best to get this over with. Suddenly she understood why he was always so apologetic and overly kind when he’d done something wrong—­she was desperate for resolution. A metaphorical ice bucket in which to plunge her aching conscience.

Sam had answered, taken one look at her bloodshot eyes, and cuddled her into his chest. He smelled of sun cream and warm skin. His heart pounded against her ear, strong and steady, and Kayla was, in that moment, eternally grateful that he was a much better person than she was. That he could forgive imperfection. If only she could forgive herself. “It’s not okay, Sam. Nothing about last night was okay.”

“I mean, yeah. It wasn’t great to watch. I’m not sure which was worse, the ridiculously good-­looking guy with the abs or the slimy creep that is Oliver.” He felt Kayla squirm in his arms. He nudged her chin upward with his index finger, her eyelashes fluttering to disguise her watery pupils. “As long as you’re okay, though?”

Kayla pressed her forehead into Sam’s chest. “I’m an idiot.”

“No, you’re not, you’re only human—­”

“No, Sam. I am. I am.”
You have to tell him
.
Deep breath, then go
. “Wh-­When we were in Sangkhlaburi—­the night you broke your hand—­Oliver . . . he tried to rape me.” The hand that had been tenderly stroking the back of her head stopped abruptly. Sam didn’t say anything, but Kayla felt his body go rigid, his muscles tensing against her cheek. “I didn’t tell anyone because . . . well, I didn’t want to ruin the trip. Or deal with the consequences of an allegation like that. But that’s why what I did last night was so awful.”

Sam gripped her shoulders and forced her to look him in the eye. “Please tell me you’re joking. Please, Kayla.”

She pursed her lips and shook her head, staring down intently at her feet.

Sam let go of her and clenched his unbandaged fist, biting into the whitening knuckles. Through the gaps between flesh and teeth, he said, “I’m going to fucking kill him. That bastard. That vile, vile bas—­”

“Sam. Last night was . . . by choice. I took something I shouldn’t, something I swore I never would, and I actively sought him out. I kissed him first.” She felt it was in good taste to omit her reasons.

“That makes no difference. Jesus Christ, the thought of his greasy hands all over you, his disgusting lips kissing yours, that’s vomit-­inducing enough. But to think it was forced . . .” He thumped his already fractured hand against the flimsy hostel wall, wincing on impact but too pumped with fury to acknowledge the pain. He was visibly shaking, his eyes narrowed. His black eye was swelling, framed by a perfectly straight cut that traced his brow bone.

“Sam, what happened to your—­”

“Sorry, Kayla, can’t chat. I have vermin to kill.” He pushed past her, through the doorway behind her, and stormed down the corridor, flip-­flops slapping against the linoleum floor. Kayla didn’t bother shouting after him. She’d never seen that look on his face before, and had a feeling it wasn’t one she wanted to mess with.

If she didn’t detest Oliver with every fiber of her being, she might consider warning him.

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the vast majority of the ­people they’d spent the last two months with was a strange feeling. While some of them would not be missed—­Ralph’s obscene poshness and Xiang Qiang’s complete lack of personality hadn’t made them the most likable travel companions—­there were certain quirks and dramas that had provided endless entertainment, such as Francesca’s unique sense of humor (she was “grieving” on behalf of them all, wailing as she embraced Russia, Kayla, and Bling).

There was a sense of uneasiness too, on account of the terrorist attacks over the last few weeks. Officials were still insisting it was perfectly safe to travel and that they had the situation under control, but Kayla, for one, was glad not to be traveling home today. And, for some reason, even more glad that Sam wasn’t. The thought of anything bad happening to him made her shudder. She absentmindedly drew a row of crosses in the dusty sand with the edge of her flip-­flop, the dried out weeds tickling the inside of her foot. Before Gabe died, she’d always thought tragedy would never happen to her. Now that it had, she felt personally targeted—­like a threat was around every corner. Waiting for the ­people she loved.

She chanced a peek at Oliver. He was sitting in the front row of the bus, checking names off the list and ensuring everyone’s luggage was on board. Through the glaring, sun-­dappled glass windows, she couldn’t make out whether his face was beaten or if his expression showed he was hurt. She nudged Sam, who was standing next to her, trying to disguise the fact that he was breathless. “Sam? What happened? What did you do?”

He offered a strained semismile. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I have every reason to worry about it,” Kayla hissed. “Anything you did, you did because of me.”

“I said don’t worry about it, Kayla.” His voice was alarmingly neutral. He walked away toward Ralph to say goodbye—­an awkward pat on the back and “See y’later, mate” in a predictable display of testosterone.

Case closed, then
.

Several farewells, baggage checks, and tearful waves later, the remaining group was finally alone. After watching the bus drive off down the dusty Thai road, a contemplative silence ensued. The realization that being on their own for the first time was scarier than they’d expected struck them all at once. Like birds flung prematurely from their nests, they blinked rapidly and looked around as if dazed by the sudden blinding freedom.

“Right, then,” Bling said authoritatively to her four remaining comrades. Sam was staring at the ground. “Guess we better find somewhere to sleep tonight.”

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in a place Kayla had tarnished with her paintbrush of emotional destruction, the fivesome decided to move on to Phuket. The heat had engulfed their desire to sightsee and explore—­relaxation and recovery were at the top of their agenda. Russia had insisted on a trip to Phang Nga Bay, and after one quick look at the relevant
Lonely Planet
pages, the group agreed that the sheer limestone karsts jutting vertically out of the emerald-­green water were worth making a detour for. Promising to visit the bay after they’d settled in, Bling worked her magic in a run-­down estate agency in Phuket Town and found them a relatively cheap, not-­overly-­dingy villa on the outskirts to rent for a month.

The town itself was bursting with character. Sino-­Portuguese splendors and funky shops lined the heart of Phuket’s sleepy provincial capital. But despite its intrigue, Kayla was secretly pleased not to be staying in the center. She didn’t know whether she was just experiencing a paranoid come-­down, but the leers of local men sent invisible ants crawling up and down her goose-­pimpled skin. There was a vise grip on her guts, alleviated little by the pungent smell of warm fish flesh and moldy apples seeping into the air from the nearby market. She thought she might vomit.

Why won’t that man stop staring at me?
Kayla shakily smoothed down her wrinkled sundress and turned away from the fruit and vegetable stallholder who’d cocked his head and refused to break eye contact.
And why is it so bloody hot?
Her sweaty inner thighs were beginning to chafe. The rawness made every step burn. She squirmed uncomfortably, wishing their taxi would hurry up.

An hour later they’d eventually made it to Villa Phleng Chat. It was a small bungalow with little in the way of modern amenities, painted in a palette of pretty pastel shades. Its exterior was a sky blue color, with a cobalt corrugated roof, window shutters, and front door. The small patch of backyard was overflowing with tropical plants that looked like they might bite your hand off if you dared pluck the flowers from the stems. A few hundred meters away was a vast, glistening lake surrounded by rolling hills and smatterings of leafy mango trees.

The Lotus Agency, the villa specialists they’d rented the property from, had said the reason the bungalow was so cheap was because it was in an authentic residential area away from the tourist hot spots. This had sold it to the group—­the village was deserted in the middle of the day as the natives worked, and this, in turn, meant a capacious lake became their own private swimming pool.

Russia, Dave, Bling, and Sam rushed excitedly around their new home like bluebottle flies buzzing frantically in a greenhouse. But Kayla stood back. She felt faint, as if she hadn’t eaten in weeks, and was growing tired of the tickling paranoia that sat on her shoulder, breathing coolly down her neck and whispering eerie messages in her ear.
I’m watching you
.
Then, I will find you
. Even worse,
There’s nothing you can do to stop
—­

Russia grabbed Kayla by the waist. She flinched as if she’d been stung. She hadn’t even seen Russia approaching. Beads of sweat trickled down the sides of her forehead and dropped off her jawbone. Her friend looked at her quizzically, raising her eyebrows. Though their friendship had never been touchy-­feely, Russia clearly hadn’t expected her spontaneous hug to have such an ill effect on Kayla.

“We’re just going to dump our bags in our rooms then head out to explore,” she said. “I can’t wait to skinny dip in that lake! Are you coming?”

“I think I’m going to take a cold shower and lie down,” Kayla replied. Her own voice sounded miles away. “I don’t feel great.”

“Yeah, you don’t look it either.” Russia smiled and squeezed her clammy hand. Kayla shivered. “Do you want me to get you anything? We’re going to stop by a supermarket to pick up some fridge supplies. You look like you could do with some soda?”

“That’d be great, thank you.” Kayla could barely finish her sentence. It felt like too much energy—­energy she no longer had. She had a strong urge, an inescapable urge, to drop to her knees and sit on the floor in the exact spot she was standing. She mustered one last burst of animation and propelled her wobbly legs into the bathroom, locking the door behind her.

Steadying herself with both hands on each side of the small porcelain sink, Kayla retched, gagging on the musty air. She switched the shower on. Partially to allow it to run cold, and partially to disguise the sounds of her dry-­heaving into the washbasin.

Once her stomach had rid itself of every last drop of nonexistent vomit, Kayla peeled her dress off and climbed into the shower in her underwear. The water was warm—­not the icy-­cold stream her body, mind, and conscience had so intensely desired. It was a lukewarm trickle that did absolutely nothing to assuage her aching joints. She slid down and sat in the shower basin, the irregular jet of tepid water pounding her back in staccato bursts.

For the first time since Gabe’s death, Kayla allowed herself to cry.

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a chance against the pounding dance music and the group of ladyboys parading in front of Soi Bangla’s moonlit bars in feathered, sequined outfits.

“We
have
to watch the Moulin Rouge Cabaret Show later!” Bling yelled over the roaring bass line that was yet to drop. She was sucking her fluorescent straw furiously. Kayla stared at her feet.

Picking up on the stilted conversation and awkward glances between Sam and Kayla, Russia gripped Dave’s hand and said, “Sounds good to me! Dave, let’s go and play giant Connect 4. Bling, you can take on the winner.”

Bling looked reluctant to leave Sam and Kayla alone. “I’m okay, I don’t really fancy—­”

“Bling. Now.” Russia hissed, shooting her a death stare. Bling meekly followed her and Dave into the crowd, leaving Sam shuffling his feet and staring around three feet to the left of Kayla’s shoulder.

Kayla couldn’t bear awkward silence. The compulsion to fill it was often the cause of her verbal diarrhea. “I don’t usually like this kind of music, but it’s quite good to dance to, isn’t it?”

Sam nodded. “Yeah. It’s good.”

More silence. Kayla thought back to the very first night in Thailand, and how much had happened since then. They’d been so carefree, laughing and misunderstanding each other. It had been the first time she felt anything close to happy in a long time. And the night by the river . . . the contrast between that night and the present moment caused tears to prickle behind her eyes once again.

Sam’s blank expression was agonizing. Kayla felt her phone vibrate in her pocket, but didn’t have either the energy or the wish to answer it. She clicked it off and forced herself to look at the man who used to make her feel giddy with infatuation. “Listen, Sam, I—­”

She froze. Sam’s neutrality has morphed into something far worse: a blend of shock, horror, disgust. She followed his line of vision. When her eyes planted on the source of Sam’s abhorrence, the wind was knocked out of her sails in one fell swoop.

Oliver was standing at the bar. Watching.