Journey to Linger
They met at the top of Lyth Hill, just as the sky was spitting rain—Sarah’s idea, of course. She’d texted the coordinates at dawn, a pin dropped in the middle of nothing, with a note: “Bring food, I’ll bring the trauma.”
Julia biked up the bridle path, legs already sore from the climb, and found Sarah waiting at the highest point, boots caked in mud, arms stretched out as if to embrace the wind.
“Look at this,” Sarah said, voice wild with adrenaline. “It’s like fucking Scotland.”
Julia nodded, breath visible in the cold. “It’s dramatic.”
Sarah grinned and opened a thermos, pouring two cups of something steaming. “Irish coffee. Don’t tell Mum.”
They huddled in the lee of a rock, cups braced between their knees, the world below them a map in shades of olive and slate. For a while, Sarah talked about the stables—someone had been sacked for stealing, a new horse had arrived, there were plans to host a charity gymkhana. She told the stories with her usual rapid-fire relish, but every so often her eyes flickered, the mask slipping.
Julia waited.
After a silence, Sarah said, “So. Me and Miller.”
Julia kept her face blank.
“It’s fun, mostly,” Sarah said, swirling her coffee. “He’s crazy generous. Last weekend he took me to some private club in Birmingham—five star hotel, champagne, dinner, the works. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Julia said, “He’s not your usual type.”
Sarah laughed, too loud. “God, no. He’s old enough to be my uncle. But he’s got this energy, you know? Like he actually listens to me.”
“Does he?” Julia said, quietly.
Sarah shrugged. “Sometimes. When he’s not talking about his projects. Or himself.”
A gust of wind rattled the gorse bushes. Julia let it fill the silence, then said, “You don’t sound sure.”
Sarah stared at the horizon. “He gets weird. Like, sometimes he’ll text ten times if I don’t reply. Or he’ll just show up at the yard, like he owns the place. He gave me a new phone—said mine was shit, but I think he wanted to check who I was talking to.”
“That’s not normal,” Julia said, her voice flat but not unkind.
Sarah drained her cup. “I know. But it’s not like he’s scary. Just… intense. Maybe I need that, I don’t know.”
Julia wanted to say, “You don’t,” but held it in. She watched Sarah’s profile—sharp, defiant, the line of her jaw set against the wind.
Sarah bumped her shoulder. “You’re judging me.”
“I’m not,” Julia said, and it was true. She didn’t judge. She just observed.
Sarah stood, brushing crumbs from her jeans. “Look, I know you’re the clever one. But I’m not stupid. I can handle it.”
“I never said you couldn’t.”
Sarah grinned, the bravado back. “Anyway, it’s not like I’ve got a queue of better options. Besides, you know what they say: go big or go home.”
They packed up, and Sarah insisted on racing her down the hill, shrieking as the bikes skidded over shale and nearly went airborne on the last dip. At the bottom, gasping and filthy, Sarah threw her arms around Julia and said, “You’re my anchor. Don’t let me float away, okay?”
Julia hugged her back, feeling the bones in Sarah’s shoulders, the familiar tremor of adrenaline under her skin.
“Never,” Julia said.
But she knew that anchors sometimes broke, and that some people wanted to drift, even if it meant being lost.
They parted at the crossroads, Sarah waving until she was just a blur of red boots and wild hair in the distance.
Julia cycled home in the deepening gray, the taste of Irish coffee lingering on her tongue.
She wondered if she’d ever learn how to stop watching.
Or how to start saving people from themselves.