11. Eleven

The view from the top — or almost the top — of the volcano is worth every awkward second of the journey it took to get here.

Seriously.

As Alex predicted, we’re not allowed to climb the final few feet to the summit itself; that’s reserved for the ‘proper’ climbers, who’ve booked their passes in advance, and go striding past us in their Lycra gear, carrying those long white sticks serious hikers always seem to have.

As it turns out, though, it doesn’t matter that we can’t go any further; the cable car disgorges us onto a wide viewing platform, from which a network of rocky paths wind around the volcanic cone, thick piles of snow heaped at each side, so it feels like you’re walking through some strange, otherworldly snow tunnel that smells suspiciously like rotten eggs, thanks to the sulfur in the air.

Strangely enough, although the snow is cold to the touch (As you’d expect, given that it’s, well, snow…) the air temperature is actually pretty warm, and, thanks to Alex’s sweater, I’m comfortable enough as I wander around, taking in the views, along with the occasional photo. (Which I’m assuming it’s okay to take, seeing as even JudgyPants Alex is busy snapping away too, albeit on his huge, fancy camera, rather than on a phone with a large crack on the screen, like I am…)

Other than the smattering of clouds we passed through on the way up, it’s a clear day, which means you can see for miles from up here: all the way across the ocean to Gran Canaria, which looks like a magical island, suspended between the cobalt sea and aquamarine sky.

I can’t believe I’m here. In a place where I can wear shorts in the snow, and be on the beach in an hour’s time if I want to.

Right now, home feels much more than 2,000 miles away; and that, I discover is a good thing. When I first embarked on this adventure, I thought I’d regret it. I thought I might be lonely, and homesick, and hopelessly out of my comfort zone, in a way that would make me wish I was safely back at my flat, getting ready to go to work.

But so far, none of that’s happened. I’m not lonely. I’m not homesick. And although I have been taken well and truly out of my comfort zone, it’s fair to say that nothing — not even Alexander Fox, and his spiky, ever-present attitude — has the power to make me wish I was back in the call center, with its gritty instant coffee and its miles of synthetic carpet, which fills my hair with static and gives me electric shocks when I touch my car door handle at the end of each shift. I’m starting to think I might quite like it here, out of my comfort zone, in fact.

Maybe being out of my comfort zone IS my comfort zone, then?

No, wait, that doesn’t make sense, does it?

Maybe I’m more comfortable with discomfort than I thought I was, is what I mean. Maybe all this time I’ve been thinking I was good ol’ sensible Summer, I was actually someone else? Someone fun, and adventurous, and—

CLICK!

The sound of a camera shutter going off close by interrupts my muddled chain of thought, and I turn around to see Alex standing a few feet away, camera in hand, looking like a paparazzi photographer with that huge lens pointing right at me.

“Did you just take a photo of me?” I ask, convinced I must be wrong.

“No,” he says quickly, lowering the camera. “I took a photo of the view. You just happened to be standing in front of it.”

“Let me see.”

I hold out my hand for the camera, which Alex immediately hides childishly behind his back, like a toddler who’s been caught stealing sweets.

“No.”

“Yes. Come on, Alex, I just want to see some of your photos.”

Well, one of his photos anyway.

“Nuh-uh. This is a very expensive piece of equipment, I’ll have you know. No one gets to touch it. I’ve seen that crack on your phone screen. I’m not trusting you with this.”

“Alex,” I say warningly. “If you’ve got a photo of me on there, I think I have a right to see it, don’t you?”

“Fine,” he sighs, reluctantly producing the camera again. He carries it over to where I’m standing and holds it out at arm’s length, so I can see the screen where the photos are displayed, but not touch it.

I bet his camera has a woman’s name, like it’s his girlfriend or something. I must ask him about that later…

“Oh. That’s… that’s…”

I stare at the photo on the display, suddenly lost for words.

The woman in the photo is leaning against the wall which separates the viewing platform from the sheer drop below it, gazing out at the view in front of her with a dreamy expression on her face. She is obviously me — I can tell by the borrowed, oversized sweatshirt she’s wearing, which comes almost to her knees — but she looks so unlike me that I’m tempted to question it. I don’t know how he’s done it, but Alex’s lens has somehow turned me into someone else: someone I didn’t know I was. Someone I maybe wouldn’t mind being for real.

Is that how he sees me?

Is that how everyone sees me?

“Oh, doesn’t she look beautiful?” says Rita from behind me. “Look at this photo of Summer, Gerald. Ain’t she beautiful in it? Look at her ginger hair, all shining like carrots in the sun.”

“I don’t think you’re allowed to say ‘ginger’ these days,” says Gerald, peering at the photo over my shoulder. “She does look lovely, though. You’ve captured her perfectly, young Alex.”

“No, he hasn’t,” I say defensively. “That… that looks nothing like me. I don’t know how he did it, but he’s made me look… weird.”

I actually meant to say ‘different’, but ‘weird’ was the word that came out of my mouth for some reason, and I decide to stick with it, rather than trying to explain and just making it sound even worse.

Alex glowers, his dark brows coming together in a way that makes me want to tell him that if the wind changes, his face might stay like that.

“How can it look nothing like you?” he retorts. “It is you. That’s how photos work, Summer. This is you.”

He points first at the photo, then at me, as if he’s explaining it to someone either very young or very stupid.

“Yeah, but the camera lies, doesn’t it?” I reply, doubling down on this position I’ve apparently adopted. “Everyone knows that. That’s what photographers get paid for; to make things look better than they do in real life. It’s all just smoke and mirrors, isn’t it?”

“No,” he says tightly. “No, it isn’t. Not when I’m the one taking the photos, anyway. You’re just being argumentative for the sake of it.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes. You. Are.”

“Not.”

“Are.”

“Stop it, you two,” says Rita, sounding as if she’s about to ground us both for bad behavior. “That’s enough of that now.”

“She started it,” says Alex sulkily.

“Did not.”

“Did too.”

“I’m warning you,” says Rita sternly. I make a mental note to ask her how many kids she’s got; I have a feeling there’s a few of them.

Alex’s eyes glint dangerously, as if he’s about to say something else.

“Hey, did you know it’s Alex’s birthday today?” I say brightly, before he can get a word in. “Let’s sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to him!”

The glint turns into a full-on glare. Even Rita looks slightly scared.

“Well, ain’t that lovely? Happy birthday, young lad,” says Gerald, totally failing to pick up on the general mood. “I’ll count us in. On three: one, two…”

And then the three of us stand there on the mountain top, singing a lusty (and off-key, in Gerald’s case) version of Happy Birthday, which pulls in onlookers, so that by the time we reach the end, there’s at least a dozen complete strangers, all standing singing together, to the obvious horror of the birthday boy himself, who looks like he’s about to explode.

“Three cheers!” yells Gerald, as the last note dies out. “Hip hip!”

“Hooray!” we all cheer dutifully. Now Alex looks like he’s wishing the volcano would erupt and take us all with it. He’s clearly hating every second of this. He’s obviously too polite to say anything, though, so he stands there smiling rigidly until all three of the cheers are over, then he mutters a stiff word of thanks, before turning and stalking off in the direction of the cable car, with Rita, Gerald, and I stumbling along behind him.

Alex stands at the opposite end of the cable car on the ride down, and is nowhere to be seen as we fight our way through the crowds in the car park. I’m just silently debating whether I should ask the tour guide to wait for him or just leave him here when I see him through the bus window, coming towards us at a quick jog. He climbs the bus stairs, then throws himself into the seat next to me just as we pull away.

“What happened to you?” I ask, curiously. “You were right behind us when we got off the cable car, then you disappeared.”

“Had to use the bathroom,” he replies shortly. Then he pulls out his phone and spends the journey back down the mountain, tapping away at it as usual, while determinedly ignoring all of my attempts at conversation.

“Look, I’m sorry if we annoyed you back there,” I say, as the bus finally reaches sea level again and starts winding its way through the busy streets which line the coast. “With the singing, I mean. I’m guessing you’re not much of a birthday person or a wedding person, are you?”

Or a people person, for that matter.

“It’s fine,” he says shortly. “Forget about it. That’s what I’m trying to do. And I’m not annoyed.”

“Okay, well, was it what I said about the photo, then?” I go on, feeling brave. “Because I’m sorry about that, too. I didn’t mean to imply it wasn’t a good photo, because it was. It was just strange seeing myself through someone else’s eyes, is all. I don’t know why.”

“It’s not the photo,” he says, lowering his guide book and looking at me over the top of it. “I am curious why it got you so rattled, though. It was just a photo. Was it the ‘carrots shining in the sun’ thing? Is that it?”

“I’m not rattled,” I counter. “Not really. I guess I’m just not used to seeing photos of myself, other than selfies. No one’s ever really wanted to take my photo before. I’m the Ugly Friend. No one takes photos of the Ugly Friend.”

“The Ugly Friend?”

This time he actually removes the sunglasses altogether, as if he thinks he’ll see me more clearly without them. “Who told you that?”

“No one told me it,” I reply, wishing I hadn’t started down this rather self-pitying line of conversation. The last thing I want is to give him even more ammunition to add to his ‘Summer is weird’ arsenal. “It’s just something I’ve always known.”

“You think you’re ugly?”

Alex’s expression is confused — although that might just be the effect of the bruise on his eye, which is starting to turn yellow around the edges.

“No, not exactly. I don’t think I’m ugly. But, well, I’m pale and ginger, and everyone at school called me ‘spam head’, so…”

Alex’s eyes flick instantly up to my forehead, and I move on quickly.

“Look, I’m not saying I’m ugly,” I go on. “That’s just an in-joke I have with my best mate, Chloe. She’s gorgeous, you see. I’m just average.Everyone’s a bit ugly next to Chloe.”

“Do you have a photo of her, then, this Chloe?” says Gerald, his head appearing over the top of our seats, like a Jack-in-the-Box, before vanishing again just as suddenly, as Rita pulls him sharply out of view.

“Is this the same Chloe who has the flat feet and thick glasses?” asks Alex. “That Chloe?”

“She doesn’t have flat feet now, obviously,” I reply. “Or glasses, for that matter. Not that there’s anything wrong with either of those things, obviously — she did totally rock them. But, no, she had her eyes lasered. She’s a beauty therapist now.”

“That doesn’t mean she’s beautiful,” says Alex matter-of-factly. “And even if she is, it doesn’t mean you’re ugly. Because you’re not, just FYI. You’re not even remotely ugly, Summer. You’re not even ‘just average’, either.”

My eyes widen in surprise as I try to figure out what to say to this… is it a compliment? Because I feel like it was possibly supposed to be a compliment, but he didn’t say it like it was, so now I’m confused.

“I think that might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” I manage at last, fiddling with the strap of my bag and hoping my cheeks haven’t turned as red as they feel. “No, it definitely is.”

“Not true,” he replies. “I said you were ridiculous, but brave, too. Remember? That was nice.”

“You did,” I concede, smiling. “I’m ridiculous, brave, and Not Ugly. You really know how to sweep a woman off her feet, don’t you?”

“I wish I did,” he replies, grinning ruefully. “I might have a bit more success with them if I did.”

I look up at him in surprise. Now this I definitely don’t believe. Alex may be a grumpy, complicated mess of a man, but he’s also hot. Like, really hot. Hot like a microwave burrito when you’ve nuked it for slightly too long, and now it’s going to burn your mouth when you try to eat it. Hot like the underside of my laptop when I fall asleep with it on my knee and wake up feeling like my legs are on fire. He’s hot, is what I’m trying to say. And, in my experience, hot guys don’t normally have issues with what Gerald would call “the ladies”. Not even ones like Alex, who would easily be able to get a part-time job guarding Azkaban, if he so desired.

I really want to delve deeper into this unexpected admission of his, but the bus has just come to a halt to let some people off at one of the hotels in Playa de las Americas, and as I glance out of the window, I spot someone on the street next to us who makes me forget all about Alexander Fox.

It’s Jamie Reynolds.

I know it’s been years since I last saw him in person, but I’d recognize him anywhere; and not just because of all the time I’ve spent poring over his Instagram, either.

His light brown hair is currently hidden under a baseball cap, but the face beneath it is instantly recognizable as the boy who once broke my heart. Hazel eyes that always look like there’s laughter behind them. A full-lipped mouth that’s used to smiling. A slight hint of stubble — which, okay, wasn’t there when we were 13, but which gives his face a bit of added edge.

It’s definitely him.

He’s walking along the street outside the hotel, with that long, loping step of his; hands in his pockets, headphones over his ears, probably listening to some obscure new band that I won’t have heard of, but who’ll soon become my all-time favorites, because his taste is that good.

“Jamie Reynolds!”

I didn’t realize I was going to say his name — or shriek his name, rather — out loud until everyone in our section of the bus turns to look at me in surprise.

“Are you okay, Summer, love?” comes Rita’s voice from the seat behind me. “Having a nice little daydream there, are you?”

“No… no,” I reply, standing up and grabbing my bag. “Jamie Reynolds is right there! He’s really there!”

I point in the direction of the window, but the street outside is empty but for a young woman pushing a baby in a pram, and an elderly Spanish gentleman walking a Bichon Frise.

“I think the sun must have gone to ‘er head,” I hear Rita say, but now I’m pushing my way past Alex’s knees and out into the aisle as the bus driver puts the vehicle into gear, ready to move on.

“Wait!” I call out, my voice coming out much louder than I expected. “Wait! I need to get off here.”

“Summer,” Alex says from behind me. “Do you really think this is a good idea?”

“Yes,” I throw over my shoulder as I hurry towards the bus doors. “I think it’s an excellent idea. See you all later!”

I jump out onto the hot pavement and give a cheery wave as the bus pulls away, Alex’s face just one of the many peering out at me as if I’ve lost my mind.

And who knows: maybe I have.

Jamie didn’t ever call me, after all. Not so much as a text message.

The thought makes me falter for a moment as I prepare to chase down the street after him. But then I shake my head as if to clear it, and set off determinedly in the direction I saw him walk off in.

I came here to find Jamie Reynolds, and I just have.

There’s no way I’m going to let him get away a second time.