Seventeen-year old first year college student Josie Clarke would prefer not to blush the colour crimson at every little thing, but Idiopathic Craniofacial Erythema, a chronic facial condition doesn't play fair.
In fact, it's as uncontrollable...
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Of all the things I learn during our walk back along the main road, it's that Max really wasn't lying about walking and talking. He can pretty much talk without coming up for breath.
Seriously.
He likes to chat. Really likes it. And so he carries on narrating our journey back, which he'd originally claimed would only take twenty minutes tops but has so far taken almost double that.
"Was this place ever open?" Max asks quietly as we pass by a parade of boarded up shops and restaurants. His gaze lingers on a sign touting 'The Finest American-Style Milkshakes and Floats' stuck to the inside of a white-washed window.
I continue to trail alongside him, hugging my sides with my hands so my legs - all wobbly and weary - don't buckle under the pressure of having to walk and talk and think about how completely at odds this all is with how I'd thought my afternoon would unfold.
"It was but years ago. I only visited once," I say, careful not to bump into him as we come to a sharp halt at a cross junction filled with speeding cars. "Their milkshakes weren't even that good. The food was even worse."
Max chuckles, kicking at loose chipping from the road with his trainer. "Probably the reason why they closed then, with such damning reviews like that."
We continue to walk along the main street into what feels like a never-ending furnace of heat. The smell of newly laid asphalt masks the sea salt breeze that Southbrook is known for. At least it was until the heatwave kicked in like a raging inferno. Now everything just smells like other peoples sweat and garden BBQ's.
Another downside to the longer days and blistering sunshine is that all the students from Southbrook's Sixth Form are out and about, milling by the park and its playground. A rowdy bunch turn their heads towards us, stares set into scowls. Max however keeps on walking and talking, as if completely unaware.
As he carries on lamenting the lack of things to do and the abundance of boarded up former establishments, he turns to me casually and says, "This town is dying. I can't wait to get out."
"Same," I say, in a similar tone. "But at least you don't live right near the town." I point behind us, back towards the college, the long main road and the train station, on the outskirts of the shopping precinct by the sea.
His lips curl up knowingly. "Yeah. It's pretty rough down there but then again, at least it's not dead and devoid of entertainment like up here."
I nod in agreement. It's the kind of place where nothing ever really happens. Where everyone's tucked up in bed by ten pm. Where favourite past times are washing cars and pruning hedges, or writing to the council about potholes. It's a part of Southbrook that is immune to traffic and the noise it brings.
