“It’s a mistake to go with her, my friend. She just doesn’t dislike you—she abhors you.”
Raff’s eyes were filled with pain. He wanted to spare me, but couldn’t. He knew I was stubborn.
“I hear you, Raff, but if I don’t go, I may not get another chance.”
He shrugged and fell silent.
We both knew it’d be years before the National Geographic Society would again sponsor another expedition into Portugal to study the ancient rock carvings.
So it was a choice—go or stay.
For me, the choice consisted of travelling with Jessica Saunders, or missing the opportunity of a lifetime.
But really, it was both—I was in love with her.
I was doomed to lose regardless and my heart would break either way.
Jessica was expressionless when she heard the news.
“So, you and Mark will form the team,” Raff said matter-of-factly.
She didn’t flinch—remained completely composed.
“Do you have any concerns?” he asked pointedly.
“No, when do we leave?”
“Tomorrow morning at eight—if that’s okay with you.”
“That’ll be fine,” she said coolly.
Raff arched an eyebrow as he turned to face me, but the die was cast, as far as I was concerned. I was eager to go.
He sensed my reaction and just shrugged. “Have a good trip,” he sighed, “and try not to get on each others’ nerves.”
And that was that.
Two days later we were in a prehistoric rock art site in the Côa Valley, Portugal, observing and documenting continuous human occupation from the end of the Paleolithic Age.
Our tents were pitched near the Côa River and to all appearances we were functioning as a team, but the reality was quite different.
In day-to-day work, we were more like toddlers engaged in parallel play—each completely ignoring the other.
The first night, we ate supper before the fire—the flames bronzing Jessica’s lovely profile.
She had honey-colored hair and huge brown eyes. When she looked at me, I turned to stone.
We were terse, trying not to step on the other’s toes and yet, at the same time, being excessively polite—possibly for the same reason.
“Do you want more coffee,” she said softly, “before I throw this out?”
Her voice was a whisper and it drove me mad with longing. Just asking a mere question was a lovely poetry that stirred my soul.
“No, thank you,” I said, staring into the depths of her brown eyes. They seemed limitless as the night sky.
I watched as she emptied the coffee pot and washed the tin cups. I was in torment. She was so lovely. I hated my fate.
One drunken remark shortly after we met doomed our budding relationship. I made the mistake of joking coarsely with her—treating her like every other woman, when clearly she was not.
I’ve played and replayed that moment—her terse questions, her flashing eyes and simmering anger.
I was a total fool and my apology the next day didn’t mend matters and may have made them worse.
Now, there was this awkward gulf between us and there was nothing I could do.
She finished her task, said good night and retired for the night—leaving me beneath a river of stars, bereft and abandoned.
I deserved my fate, but hated it.
There appeared to be no reprieve for me and I was probably condemned to suffer forever, vainly trying to expiate my sins.
