Savages

7: Sharing

Merle pulled her knees up to her chest. Her brow was wrinkled low over her eyes, her gaze set on the horizon. The wind made strands of escaped hair dance around her face, and she lifted a hand to hook some out of her mouth.

She hadn't said anything. She hadn't said anything, and Judit's heart was as heavy as lead, sitting uncomfortably in the bottom of her stomach. I made a mistake. I made a mistake, and I can't un-tell her now. Haha, it was a joke! Fooled you, you nyaff! That wouldn't work... would it?

The wind picked up, and both girls lifted their hands to their faces in a practiced manoeuvre as it whipped a mini-sandstorm from the dunes.

It was pretty here. A sheltered sandy cove, undulating dunes dotted by clutches of pale grass. But the wind made the sand treacherous, blowing it painfully gritty into your eyes and mouth.

On top of this, the south-easterly aspect of the sandy bay meant the group tended to instinctively avoid it. Silly as it was—they were facing hundreds of miles of sea, after all—there was something about pointing towards Albia that made you nervous. As if someone with binoculars might see you. All that made the bay an unpopular haunt, which meant the girls were safe from being discovered while they talked.

"I suspected something," Merle said eventually, dropping her hands and shaking her head slightly as the sandstorm subsided. "You guys seemed to be getting on so well in summer, and then you... weren't. So I did wonder."

Judit just nodded, her leaden heart in her throat. She'd only told Merle about her feelings, not that anything had ever happened. That was ancient history, it just complicated things. She hadn't told anyone then, and Merle didn't need to know now.

"I get it though," Merle finally said. "I mean, I'm the same. I feel the same."

Judit looked at her, confused.

"God, not like that!" Merle screeched, pushing Judit's shoulders. "Gross, Judit! That would be totally sick. Not him. Natives don't actually think it's okay to rub with their relatives, no-matter what you might've heard." She pulled a face.

"It's funny," Merle went on, her voice dry, "back in Caledia, I literally thought not if he was the last man on Earth. And now, as far as I'm concerned, he is the last man on Earth." She lifted her right hand, fingers outspread. "The last man on Earth that's not my brother–" she dropped a finger, "my cousin–" another finger folded, "or gay." She lifted her one remaining finger into the air, then looped it down and pushed it into the sand, frowning.

It took Judit a moment to gather what Merle was saying.

"Jaddy?" Her eyes rounded in shock. "You're saying you like Jaddy?"

Merle just looked away.

"Dagging hell, Merle."

"Alright, alright. You don't have to make a meal of it. I didn't, did I?"

Judit blushed, and muttered sorry, embarrassed. Another failure, she thought. She fixed her eyes on a rustling clump of reedy grass that was growing out of the sand by her side, the stalks half palest green, half flaxen gold.

"Not that it matters," Merle said grumpily. "I was such a daghead to him back in Caledia I don't think he'll ever forgive me."

"You were quite mean," Judit conceded awkwardly. "Fat Jaddy, and all that."

"Don't remind me." Merle covered her face with her hands again, even though there was no sand in the air this time.