A Beginner's Guide to the American West ✓

chapter twenty

Arjun fans his face with the trip schedule and checks his map, the two of us pressed against the building to avoid being twatty tourists who block the pavement.

"Ok," he says at last, "I reckon the neon museum will be really cool, but definitely better at night. We could check that out later."

"Mmm."

"We could definitely head to fake Paris if you want to get a coffee in a French-style cafe," he says, though I can tell from his tone that he's not that interested, "or we could stock up on drinks and donuts from Dunkin', and head back to the pool."

"I like that. No offence to Kristin's suggestions, of course."

"Klara's," Arjun corrects. I suppress a grin and toy with whether or not to tell him. I feel like he and I are a team, and I don't want him to look like a fool just because Klara's a prankster.

"Kristin's," I counter-correct. "Kristin suggested the museum; Klara suggested the pool."

He frowns, about to shake his head. I jump in before he can say anything.

"Klara's a trickster," I say. "The whole time we were playing fuck, marry, kill, it was her. Not Kristin. Klara pretends to be Kristin. She told me yesterday."

"Shit. Have I been wrong this whole time?"

"I think she got you, hook, line and sinker," I say, attempting an apologetic grimace.

"But ... Klara's taller, right?"

I shake my head.

"Damn. God, that is really awkward. Oh, god, and I was so confident. I'm so embarrassed." He pulls a face and adjusts his glasses. "Time to drown my mortification in the hotel pool."

*

I can't think about eating yet but we split the cost of a dozen donuts from Dunkin' and a couple of their iced frappe coffees, which are half melted by the time we make it back to the hotel. Our room is a delicious respite from the heat, but we're not there long.

Just enough time to change into my trunks and pull on a t-shirt, find a towel and my earphones. Arjun grabs a book from his bag and I know from the quickest glance at the cover that he's reading The Song of Achilles. That shouldn't make my knees weak, but it does.

I first listened to that a couple of years ago. The early days of Achilles and Patroclus reminded me of the early days of George and me. At the time, I loved it. I listened to it three times that year. I still fucking adore the book, but I'm scared it's tainted for me now.

For a hotel pool, it's surprisingly quiet. Maybe everyone's sleeping off last night's hangover, or they never made it home from a bright, windowless casino. Arjun and I manage to snag a couple of loungers right by the water and he doesn't hesitate to pull off his top. I finger the hem of mine.

I'm hyper aware of how weedy I look next to him. Where he has abs and pecs, I have a flat stomach and an undefined chest; where he is toned muscle, I am sharp collarbones and visible ribs. He is tight calves; I am knobbly knees. I feel like a baby giraffe, gangly and clumsy and awkward, and I don't want to be exposed.

When Arjun sits on the edge of the pool in nothing but his trunks, I perch on the edge of my lounger. I know nobody gives a shit what I look like, that no-one here cares if I have the body of an awkward pre-teen, but it's never been easy to swallow the feeling that all eyes are on me. Even though the people dotted around the poolside are all sizes and ages, showing off skinny limbs and fat rolls, back hair and stretch marks, muscled bodies and concave chests ... I can't help my self-consciousness.