Page 70 of Best Wrong Thing

“I wasn’t watching where I was going. I was showing off.”

I frown. “Showing off?”

“Yeah. I wanted to impress you.” He grins and wanders off with his hands clasped behind his back.

I hurry after him and twine my fingers through his. “You don’t need to impress me.”

“Really?”

“I’m already impressed.”

“Are you now?”

I pull him to a halt, stroke his hair, and peck his lips. “Why else would I keep coming back for more?”

He arches an eyebrow. “You tell me.”

My throat constricts. “I like you.”

“You might have mentioned that.”

“I like you a lot.”

His smile wobbles. “Good thing I like you a lot too, isn’t it?”

What good does reaffirming our feelings do us? It doesn’t change our situation. My dad married his mum, and even if everyone else in the universe doesn’t care about that, Dad will. He’ll judge us. He’ll hate me. It shouldn’t bother me, but it does. If I can’t get past that, Archer and I won’t ever be together. The thought leaves me with an ache in the pit of my stomach and a bitter taste in my mouth.

“We’re getting left behind.” Archer drags me after the rest of our group before they vanish out of sight.

After a few more river crossings, I’m more confident walking along fallen tree trunks with Archer’s help. Could I do it without his help? Maybe. Do I want to? No. Every time he firmly grips my hands and encourages me to make our way across each log, my heart flutters. I want to capture the feeling and bottle it. Pathetic? Probably.

By the time we reach the end of the ravine, I’m hot, sticky, and hungry. Our next stop is an eco farm, where a group of clucking chickens dart around our feet in a flurry of feathers, their tiny claws clattering and clicking over cobbled stones. A cockerel struts close by, keeping a watchful eye over the flock.

“Are they hungry?” I dance out of their way.

“They might be pleased to see us.”

“It’s like being assaulted by seagulls on Blackpool beach.”

“No way. Seagulls are mean. These guys—girls—are cute.”

I purse my lips. “I guess they are, in a noisy kind of way.”

Archer laughs. “You don’t want a pet chicken, then?”

“No. Do you?”

“Nah. Maybe a dog or a cat. One day. I’m not allowed any pets in my flat.”

“Nor am I. Did you have a pet growing up?”

“I had a rabbit. Mum turned up with it one day, much to Gran’s dismay. She ended up being the one to look after it.”

“How old were you?”

“Five.”

“Too young to look after a rabbit.”