Wish You Weren't Here (A Romantic Comedy)

Chapter Twelve

Something you need to tell me? 😜x

On the island of Spinalonga, an hour or so later, I stare at Lauren's WhatsApp message, slightly perplexed by its contents. I rapidly fire back a response, asking her what the heck she's on about before I pocket my mobile and try to pay attention to our tour guide. It seems slightly disrespectful to the island to be distracted by my phone, given its sad history.

Spinalonga is strangely beautiful, but I really can't get past the fact that it was last used as a leper colony. I'm visiting here voluntarily (well, in an "enforced fun" sort of way, but you know what I mean); however the last actual inhabitants of the island would have effectively been trapped here, only a short distance from the rest of civilisation, until they were cured . . . Or not. The very thought makes me tear up a little.

When the guide tells us that the islanders ended up forming a very strong community despite the hardships they experienced, I feel slightly better. And even a little grateful about my own situation - sure, I'm stuck with Lewis for another week, but at least I can mostly just walk away from him whenever I feel the urge to kill him!

At the moment, I'm doing a pretty good job of avoiding him, staying on the other side of the tour group. However, I can still see him out of the corner of my eye - mainly thanks to that ridiculously loud shirt. But I'm also just hyper-aware of him for some unknown reason, my senses seeming to heighten anytime he moves into my forcefield. Nerves jangling, skin prickling. It's very unsettling.

At the moment, he is using his charms on a sweet old lady on the same tour, who seems to be trying to present him with a somewhat dog-eared paperback book. He's protesting, but she's insistent, pressing it into his hands and nodding her head. He eventually accepts the gift, and the grin he gives her in response is warm and sweet, and bears no resemblance to the smirk I'm normally privy to.

But this makes my mind suddenly flash back to Friday night, and that shy smile he gave me seconds before he told me I looked perfect. Sure, he'd basically just did the grown-up equivalent of borrowing Milos' homework and copying it . . . But the expression on his face still haunts me. My brain keeps burrowing a tunnel back to the memory, replaying it frequently as if trying to find the catch.

Maybe there was no catch? That little voice inside my head is niggling at me again. I wish I could silence it. Maybe he actually meant it?

I can't allow myself to think that.

Our eyes meet again, across a crowded tour group in a former leper colony (oh so very romantic, right?), and that makes it the second time today that he's busted me looking at him. He really is going to start getting the wrong idea at this rate. There's no triumph in his gaze this time, though. If anything, he looks a little bit . . . Sad? Then he seems to recover himself, flashes that smirk in my direction once again, and turns back to the tour guide, abruptly ending the contact.

I walk away from the others to admire the view, my heart racing. The water is such a beautiful shade of turquoise right now, and crystal clear around the edges of the island. I stare intently at it, allowing the gentle waves flood my brain, taking deep breaths to calm myself down.

I don't know what's wrong with me, but I just know it's Lewis' fault!

The next part of the boat trip involves dropping anchor in the middle of the sea, so anyone who wants to can have a cooling dip. I'm not sure I want to do that - I have no idea how deep it is at this point, and I've never really been a massive fan of swimming in open water. I also watched Adrift way too recently - you know that terrible film from the early noughties where the idiots on the boat jump off without lowering the ladder first, then can't get back on? What a mistake that was: not only was it a whole 94 minutes of my life that I wouldn't get back, but I also unlocked a whole new fear in the process!