Somewhere New (Isle of Doughnut #1)

Chapter Eleven

CHAPTER ELEVEN

ASTER

W hen I looked out of the cabin’s windows and saw that the world was blanketed in white, I imagined potential snowball fights and building epic snowmen. I foresaw a day where I’d exhaust myself out in the cold, then come back into the cosy warmth of the cabin where I’d drink hot chocolate and watch mindless TV. I’d snuggle under blankets and warm my feet beneath one of Callum’s thighs.

Callum did not share my dreams. He crashed out of the bathroom after I interrupted his shower—treating me to a glimpse of his damp chest as he finished buttoning his shirt—and packed up supplies in a wild-eyed frenzy. He extracted a promise that I wouldn’t wander too far from the cabin and tugged me in for a hard hug before yanking open the cabin door and hurling himself into the white wilderness beyond.

I didn’t have time to marvel that this was the first time he’d initiated a hug before he disappeared, the cabin door swinging shut.

I looked down to where Albert had fastened his teeth on to the hem of my pyjama bottoms. ‘You’ll enjoy a snow day with me, right?’

I should have known that mine and Callum’s reactions to snow that settled rather than dancing annoyingly around my head or viciously pelting me would be vastly different. As a London boy, born and raised, snow held a mystical quality. Especially snow like this, which was only broken by the paths Callum and the goats carved through it. No grey slush in sight.

Callum had been muttering about the lingering cold every time he stomped into the cabin with snowflakes clinging to his mussed hair. It wasn’t my fault I was far too preoccupied with burying my face in his chest to listen to and retain what he actually said.

For Callum—and presumably the pygmy goats he cared for—snow this late in the year was bad news.

It was hard to remember that as I grabbed the pan Callum made porridge in each morning and got distracted by the flurries of snow dancing past the window. Inuits would have a good name for this kind of snow, something that meant pretty-snow-that-actually-does-what-it’s-supposed-to.

I flicked the heat on under the pan and grabbed oats from the cupboard. Callum’s porridge making looked effortless, but even though I added what I thought were good proportions of milk and water to the pile of oats in the pan and stirred furiously while the mixture bubbled, I ended up with a lumpy mess. Even the dried fruit I scattered over the top didn’t look as good as when Callum arranged it.

‘It is wrong and ungrateful to feel annoyed that Callum left before making me breakfast,’ I told Albert as I carried the unappetising bowl of greyish goop over to the sofa. ‘I am fully aware that Callum has been spoiling me, and I shouldn’t resent making my own meals.’

Asserting what I should feel didn’t make the porridge taste any better. I forced down about half, then felt justified in my pickiness when Albert turned his nose up at the leftovers. I’d seen him eat a sock, so if he didn’t want my porridge-attempt then it must be bad.

I washed the bowl and pan, determined to be a considerate roomie even if I was already counting down the minutes until Callum came home and made me something proper to eat, then bundled myself into several layers of clothing. I might have given Albert a gentle nudge on his rear to coax him out into the snow with me.

‘You know all the other goats don’t come into the cabin at all, right?’ I reminded him when he kicked my ankle. ‘They’re out in this shit right now, not making half the fuss you are.’

I assumed they weren’t making a fuss. It was always quiet up in the mountains, but with a thick blanket of snow over everything the absence of sound was unmistakable. The nearby stream choked with ice, only the pattering of fresh snow broke the silence.

Remembering my promise to Callum, I ploughed around the cabin in a circle, taking pictures on my phone of the wide expanses of whiteness from every angle while keeping the building wholly within sight.

‘Do you wanna build a snowman?’ I sang at Albert.

He shuddered, clearing the snow that had settled on his thick coat while he’d glared at me from beside the front door. I took that as, Why yes, I’d be delighted to.

Building a snowman with the help of a pygmy goat was freaking hard. The bottom of the body was fine. I rolled a compact ball of snow in my hands and it quickly grew as I pushed it in tight circles on the ground. I even managed to make a second ball to put on top.

Placing it was the tough part. It was hard to get a good grip on a big ball of snow through thick thermal gloves. Once I managed to grasp it, I struggled to lift it. Snow was unexpectedly heavy.

I eventually managed to heave the second ball of snow on top of the first. As I stood back to admire my handiwork, Albert took a running jump—which I was gutted not to catch on camera as he showed off some serious goat-ninja moves—and kicked the ball from its perch.

‘You arsehole.’

He wouldn’t stop prancing in victory for long enough to appreciate the full force of my glare.

The ball hadn’t fallen apart when Albert viciously dismembered my snowman, but the prospect of hauling it back into place wasn’t appealing. I planted my gloved hands on my hips and tilted my head to the side.

‘Maybe a snow-goat instead?’

Apparently, this was Albert’s plan from the outset and he’d been waiting for me to get with the programme. Instead of thwarting my efforts, he bleated incomprehensible encouragement and danced while I filled in the valley between the two snowballs to make a long torso. He even nudged the leg-balls into place with me. It was easier to balance the head at one end, since it was much smaller. Then Albert helped me find half-buried branches for horns.

I stepped back, fumbling my phone out of my pocket to take more pictures.

‘One more thing to do, my friend.’ Since I didn’t condone violence against animals, I couldn’t hurl snowballs at Albert. Instead, I checked he was in front of me and fell backwards into the snow.

My snow angel would have been perfect if a pygmy goat hadn’t chosen the moment I lay on the ground to attack. Instead of graceful arm and leg movements, I flailed as tiny hooves battered my legs and torso.

‘You and Bonnie would get along.’ I sat up and Albert stood passively in my lap, staring at me with his weird yellow eyes. He looked at my phone angelically when I took a selfie of the two of us, so there was no photographic evidence of his homicidal tendencies.

He was all sweetness and light when I returned to the cabin and stoked the fire. One quick shower later—where I may or may not have taken myself in hand while trying to think friendly thoughts about Callum but eventually getting sidetracked by the flash of chest hair I’d glimpsed this morning and wondering what it would feel like to press my face into golden skin overlaid with damp curls—and I was wrapped in a blanket on the sofa with a steaming hot chocolate in my hands.

I’d taken snow photos to send to Lucas and my dad, but it seemed wrong to only garner envy from my bestie and a family member when I could get it from the whole wide world. My Instagram didn’t reflect my time on Doughnut at all—I’d been too distracted by cuddling Callum and working on my project to fiddle with social media—so I made up several posts.

The first was a selfie with an overjoyed Captain Errol, plus photos of dolphins leaping and a perfect shot of the colourful terraced houses as we came into the bay. #IHaveArrived. Then a close-up of Albert’s face with his tongue peeking out. #CutestGoatEver. Then even closer close-ups of the tiny flowers I’d documented across the island. #FlowersForTheWin. And finally the best shots from my snow day. #JealousMuch.

I was shocked when a notification chimed almost immediately. I had followers—which Lucas teased were mainly middle-aged men either there for the flowers or the pictures of me cosied up in bed, since lazing around was my second favourite activity after chasing rare flora—but nothing I shared generated much interest. My posts were too sporadic to gain a loyal fanbase.

Fully expecting a message from my dad—since he could be depended on to like and comment on everything—my heart jolted when Jamie’s face appeared in my notifications.

Aster, your Insta etiquette is appalling, but it looks like you’re having a fabulous time up in the mountains xxx

My mouth fell open. So many emotions—most of them volatile and violent—rose through me as I read his comment again and again. And again and again and again.

Jamie dared criticise any aspect of my etiquette? He’d dumped me while his cum dripped down the backs of my thighs.

And he was being a sarcastic shit about me having a good time. He wasn’t the type of gay to use fabulous in anything but a disingenuous way. If Lucas thought me running off to Doughnut was a mistake, then Jamie was in wholehearted agreement with an extra heaping of Aster-shouldn’t-be-allowed-to-make-adult-decisions-unsupervised. He didn’t understand that he didn’t get a say in my life once he ended things.

‘I hate you,’ I said to his profile picture. Voicing my thoughts aloud might help me resist the temptation to send them out into the internet for anyone to peruse. I didn’t know what my middle-aged followers would think of the vitriol bubbling inside of me. ‘You were meant to be my friend and you used me. You don’t get to tell me my Insta etiquette is flawed because your life etiquette is majorly fucked.’

Throwing my phone to one side, I rage-cooked a toasted cheese sandwich then grabbed my laptop. Anger galvanised me into action and the warped logic of my brain decided the best way to show Jamie that coming here hadn’t been a huge mistake was to catch up on the paperwork I’d been putting off since my arrival. My initial impressions of each site had to be documented and compared, the placement of each examination square noted and justified.

Hours later, I sent an email to my dissertation supervisor containing huge attachments of all the work I’d done so far. I looked up from my laptop and blinked. The cosy glow from the fire and reflected light from the snow shining through the window over the sink provided scant illumination.

I hadn’t checked the exact time Callum left this morning, but he’d been gone for most of the day. The sun disappeared early this far north, but he would normally have stomped back to the cabin by now. We’d enjoy an extra-long hug before I pelted him with questions about his day while he made bread and mouth-watering meals.

Hopping between rugs to avoid flagstones that were icy cold even through my thick socks, I peered out of the window over the sink. The snow had stopped falling, but there was no sign of Callum.

Despite my failure to feed myself a decent breakfast, I hadn’t done too badly with bread and cheese at lunchtime, and the stews Callum prepared each night didn’t look too complicated. I could at least make sure Callum came home to something vaguely edible.

Bypassing bread making, since Paul Hollywood made it abundantly clear that wasn’t a task for someone with my lack of cooking prowess, I grabbed vegetables and a joint of meat from the fridge. The aromas that filled the cabin as I stirred the bubbling concoction in the pan weren’t too dissimilar to those that perfumed the air when Callum cooked.

I was proud of the meal I produced, my victory only dampened by the fact that Callum hadn’t arrived home before it was ready and it was now too dark to spot him outside.

‘You don’t need to worry,’ I reassured a snoozing Albert as I carried my lone bowl of stew over to the sofa. ‘Callum knows what he’s doing. He’s been living up in these mountains for years and he can look after himself.’

Every time the wind whistled down the chimney or a log popped in the fire, I looked over at the door just in case the sound heralded Callum’s return. I half watched the first few episodes of Sex Education , a programme that would shock Callum to his very core. Even the accumulating comments on my Instagram posts couldn’t distract me, though Lucas’s envy-filled whines did take the sting out of Jamie’s snideness.

At midnight, I accepted defeat and got ready for bed. Only, I wouldn’t sleep in the bed tonight. Maybe for the first time since I’d arrived, Callum would take his rightful place. Surely he’d be too cold and worn out to carry me through to the bedroom when he eventually came home.

I snuggled under several blankets on the sofa, so was perfectly positioned to witness Callum’s arrival several hours later.

It triggered a deluge of emotions .

Shock, since the door thumping open jolted me from a deep sleep. Joy, that he was back safe. Worry, because he’d been out for so long. Relief, as he was clearly hale and hearty, grunting as he took off his boots in the dark. And finally fondness. I’d missed him and his hugs while he’d traipsed about in the snow.

I flicked a lamp on, and all those emotions were buried under abject terror.

Callum blinked in the sudden light. His jeans were caked in mud and snow, his arms cradled to his chest. His face was drawn with exhaustion.

Oh, and he was absolutely covered in blood.

I jumped up from the sofa. ‘What the ever-loving fuck happened to you?’