A Beginner's Guide to the American West ✓

chapter three

t h r e e

*

After eating greasy food at a loud, rowdy bar twenty minutes from the motel, where I somehow ended up sitting with the twins and the nail biter – and learnt that Kristin and Klara are recent uni graduates from Switzerland, and the nail-biter is an Irish guy called Brannan – we get back to the motel just after nine.

"Remember, seven a.m. sharp. Right here," Sam says, pointing at the ground, before we split into our pairs. For the first time, I'm alone with Arjun. I thought we'd get to talk at supper, break the ice a bit, but so far we've said about four words to each other.

He holds up his key card. A couple of leather bracelets slip down his forearm, almost the same shade of deep brown as his skin, and I spy the outline of a matching cord around his neck. "Ready for bed?"

"You have no idea," I say with a tired laugh. I'm dead on my feet. It's been a long day, and I am more than ready to just collapse on a bed and fall asleep immediately, and pray I don't snore too loudly. I don't care if he does – it's one thing that has never bothered me, which was lucky considering George snored like a freight train – but I'd hate to think I might stop someone else from sleeping.

As we reach the steps, Arjun says, "I talk in my sleep."

"I snore," I say, not sure what else to say to that. It's like he read my mind.

"So I guess we're even then?" he asks, glancing at me over his shoulder as he leads the way to the second floor. It's only sixteen steps, but it feels like Everest after this morning. Halfway up, I'm convinced I won't make it, but I push through the pain and try not to make it too obvious.

"As long as snoring doesn't bother you," I say, the words and effort when the stairs have stolen my breath.

He waves his hand. "I'm a heavy sleeper," he says, "and I spent half my life sharing a room with my sister. I can sleep through anything." He opens the door to our room and the sight of a bed – a non-bunk bed – is almost overwhelming. It takes a lot for me not to drop my face into the pillow and lose consciousness.

Instead, I sit on the edge and Arjun kicks off his shoes and does the same, and there's a moment's awkward silence before he says, "So, March, right?"

"That's me," I say.

"I kind of zoned out a bit during the intros," he says, scratching the back of his neck, "but my powers of observation tell me you're from ... Scotland, right?"

"Originally, yeah. I moved to England when I was, like, five, though," I say. "The accent stuck."

"I can tell." He lets out a quiet laugh – awkward more than anything else, I think – and I'm hyper aware of my accent, inherited from my dad. This is a surreal situation, suddenly sharing a room with one other person, a total stranger. "I love Scotland," Arjun continues. "Only been a couple of times, though. It's a bit of a trek from Brighton."

Brighton. So that's his accent. I was close. Posh and deep, all soft consonants and long vowels. The kind of accent people are talking about when they claim to love British accents – mostly Americans in my experience, most of whom don't seem to realise that Britain is four countries and, like, four thousand accents. Some of which even I can't understand.

"I've never been," I say when it's been quiet for too long. "To Brighton, I mean." My skin is starting to itch, hot and prickly and nervous. I kind of want to have a shower before I go to sleep, but I also can't face getting up yet. "So, uh, how come you're doing this?"

He shrugs. "I figured it makes sense to get to know the guy I've got to share with for the next fortnight," he says, and then he laughs. "And ... I just realised you probably mean the trip, right?"