Page 24 of A Country Kind Of Love

“Maybe that could be your new hobby?” Cleo nods towards the car.

“What? A vintage car collector?” Peyton scoffs.

“No, a mechanic.” Cleo walks away laughing.

“I’m not sure my nails and these delicate hands are cut out for wrenches and oil stains.” She catches up with her. “You on theother hand.”

“That’s stereotyping.” Cleo remarks. She shifts her focus to stare intently at a tribute to Taylor Swift.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Peyton smirks. “I just think you’d look good in a pair of coveralls.” Peyton cringes. It is the flirtiest thing she’s ever said. Why can’t the jumbled mess of words in her head not form a cringeworthy sentence of pure embarrassment? Just once.

Peyton hates flirting. It’s possible that when she was created the part of her brain that allows her to flirt didn’t form at all; it’sbelievable.

“Sorry.” She bows her head.

“What are you sorry for?” Cleo laughs. “I think I’d look good incoveralls.”

“Please don’t make this worse.” Peyton fiddles with the zipperon her bag.

“You don’t date much, do you?” Cleo says.

“Is it that obvious?”

Cleo doesn’t look at her directly. Maybe she’s embarrassed for her too. Her side profile is distracting; her lips are parted slightly, and she has a hint of a smile. The tiny blonde hairs at her temples are only visible in the occasional glimpse of sunlight, and Peyton adores them already.

Stop obsessing.

“No. I’m just playing.”

“I didn’t have you down asa Swiftie.”

“A what?” Cleo tilts her head.

“A Swiftie, that’s what Taylor Swift’s fansare called.”

“Oh, sure.” Cleo puts her hand on her hip. “I help crash Ticketmaster on release day. I just love it when she sings...” She glances at the memorabilia for a clue. “‘Love Story’.”

“Oh yeah? How does that go again?” Peyton teases.

Cleo attempts to hum the melody to the famous Taylor song, with shocking inaccuracy. As the song trails off, she wanders further down the corridor. How can the back of one person be so intriguing? Peyton takes note of the way her hair falls on her neck; it flicks ever so slightly on the ends in parts where it’s outgrown a previous style. Cleo has a small tattoo at the base of her neck; Peyton can’t make it out through her T-shirt. The tattoo on the back of her arm is visible; it looks like a name, but the writing is italic and hard to read.

The beige T-shirt she’s wearing falls leisurely across her shoulders. Her trousers fit loosely, but tighter around her bum. She’s got a good bum, Peyton observes. Cleo walks with a purpose; she’s confident.

As she’s getting carried away analysing all things Cleo, her hand reaches back to Peyton, palm spread she wigglesher fingers.

Does she want me to hold her hand?

Peyton’s unsure, but when Cleo stops she turns her head, “come on, keep up.”

Peyton extends her own hand to neatly rest in Cleo’s. The warmth radiates from one clammy palm to the other; it makes Peyton’s insides twist and turn like there’s a little person inside her body playing a game of Bop-It withher organs.

All she can think is,where to next?

5

The sky indicates pending rain in the form of storm clouds. Peyton watches them developing in the distance, rolling in with a purpose. Up to then the date was postcard perfect, but now the vast sea blue sky is starting to turn a dark and dull grey.

“If we run, we might make it back,” Peyton says. They are roughly ten minutes from her apartment.