by Annie Dyer
“She talked about us.”
“Us as in me and you? Or you and Cat?” There was a giggle to her words but it sounded nervous.
“Me and you.” I threaded my fingers through her hair. “About where our summer romance is going.”
Anya turned her head to look at me. “I go back to London in a week and a half.”
“Does that mean we have to end it? I get that the distance is huge and problematic.”
She looked out to the sea, her eyes full of uncertainty.
“I don’t think I’m ready to let you go. The idea of you meeting someone else makes me want to demolish another building.” And potentially put my fist in that man’s face.
She settled against me. I moved so she could learn back on my chest and wrapped my arms around her. It was August, but autumn was on its way. The breeze had a nip to it that hadn’t been there a couple of weeks ago and the air in the very early mornings bit the flesh.
“I don’t know, Gabe. I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“What do you want to do?”
“Tender my resignation. Look for a new school, probably out of London. Maybe back here if a vacancy arises. I’d like to see you…”
“As a friend?”
Her laugh this time was full bodied and thick. “No. I don’t think I could just be friends with you. But I can’t make any promises.”
“I know. But are we saying that this is more than just what we’ve had this summer?” The words were on my tongue that I wanted to tell her, but now wasn’t the right time. They were for weeks to come, when she’d made choices without having to consider me. She had to do things for herself.
“We’re more than just a summer fling.”
“Good.” I moved her so we could kiss, not caring that Harry and my nephews would be shrieking with horror if they noticed.
It wasn’t a kiss that led us to the bedroom, or a secluded spot on the beach. It was soft and tender, full of promise and need. It was different to what we’d had before and more powerful than anything I’d known from a woman.
We were interrupted by a scream and then a sob that echoed like thunder through the early evening. We were apart and to our feet before the sound died, our focus on Harry who was lying on the sand clutching his arm.
Janie was looking over him, her face pale. My nephews were standing nearby, one of them crouching, trying to offer what I hoped were words to help him. She beckoned us over.
“Gabe!” Harry saw me first. “My arm hurts. My arm!” There was another yell, this one louder and more blood curdling than before.
“Harry, listen to me.” Anya sat down next to him. “I need to have a look at your arm. Can you move it?”
He tried to, but the movement resulted in another yell.
“Okay, baby. Can you sit up?”
He shook his head.
Janie was doing what she could from behind to examine his arm. I saw her shake her head. “I think we need a trip to the hospital.”
“Broken?” Anya mouthed the word so Harry didn’t understand what they thought had happened.
Janie nodded. “My two, get your things. We’re going to get some dinner and head back to the guesthouse. Anya, will you be okay to take him?”
Anya gave a brief nod of her head and looked at her nephew. “Did you see what happened?”
“He went in for a tackle and slipped. I think he fell funny on that little rock.” My eldest nephew pointed to the rocks next to him. He looked pale and shaken. “We didn’t mean him to get hurt. Will he be okay?”
Harry sobbed louder.
“He will. We’re going to take him to the hospital and get him checked out. But these things happen. Harry, it will be okay. You’re going to have to be brave, like footballers are.” She stroked his head softly. “I need a first aid kit with a sling. That paediatric first aid course might finally come in handy and we can tell Nan that I would’ve made a good nurse after all.”
By this time, a couple of islanders had come over, one with a first aid kit and Anya managed to persuade Harry to move a little so she could support his arm. There was an irregular bend which supported the theory he’d broken it, and it looked like he’d be experiencing a plaster cast at the very least.
“Are you coming to the hospital with us, Gabe?” Harry looked up at me with big eyes. “I don’t want to go with just Auntie Anya. I want someone to sit with me.”
My mouth was grit and sand, my throat tight. I looked from Anya to Janie and back to Harry. I hadn’t been in a car through choice since the crash. Nausea stung the back of my throat.
How do you tell a five-year-old that you can’t get into a moving vehicle because the last time you did your best friend died next to you? How do you tell the woman you think you’re in love with that you can’t do something as simple as support her while she takes her nephew to hospital?
“Please come with me?”
Janie stood up, looking between me and Anya. “Gabe, you look after the boys and I’ll go with Anya.”
“But I want Gabe to!”
“Sorry, buddy.” I crouched down next to him, feeling like a fucking piece of shit that should be flung out to sea. “I need to stay here. How about I take you out for tea tomorrow. Or we have a barbecue at mine with milk shakes and mac and cheese dirty burgers?”
His face lit up because when you were five it was that simple. “Really? Just me and you? No girls allowed?”
“Just Auntie Anya.”
“Because she’s your girlfriend?”
I smiled and nodded, ruffling his hair.
If she still was.
Jamie picked her boys up six hours later. They were both asleep in their beds at the guesthouse, tired out from the food and the football and the worry over their friend. I’d had a few texts from Anya and my sister, telling me that Harry had a clean break, and he’d be coming home with his arm in plaster, but it was all going to be okay. He’d seen his mum who’d fussed him even more than his baby sister and he’d eventually even given his sister a kiss which had been caught on camera.
I walked home from the guesthouse, having only seen the silhouette of Anya as she put Harry in his room. Shit was a state I’d felt for months, if not a couple of years since Ryan’s death, but the last few months I started to feel as if I deserved something more.
The tide was in so I took the path through the trees and bushes to get back to my shell of a house. Stars were shrouded by clouds and the air felt heavy, maybe the last of the summer thunderstorms was about to roll in. As I got to the barn, the rain was falling heavily on me, saturating everything it touched quickly, cooling everything, taking away the heat.
There was a car on the drive that belonged to Janie, left that evening. They’d gone to the hospital in Anya’s car as Harry’s seat was in it so it had made sense. As usual, Janie had left her car unlocked, just in case one of the boys had needed to run back to it.
I opened the drivers’ door and got in, looking at the steering wheel as if it was a foreign object, or something sent from another planet. I hit it, hard with the palms of my hands. Then again and again, smacking the leather. I heard my cry above the rain that plummeted down on the roof of the car and felt its anguish and then my face was wet.
For the first time in two years I cried. Sobbed. The tension broke.
How do you fix something that is not fixable?
How can love be sustained if it comes from grief?
Anya
I didn’t hear from Gabe for two days. I didn’t know what I wanted to hear when I spoke to him. There were no texts from him, no phone calls. No messages via anyone we both knew. Nothing.
Harry had forgotten about the barbecue in the midst of all the attention he was getting because of his arm, and that boy could milk it. His nan and dad waited on him, brought him gifts, some from his sister and made him feel like king. We were creating a monster for when my sister came home and I was glad I’d only be there for a week of the fall-out.
By the mo
rning of the third day since Harry had hurt himself, I’d had enough of the Gabe-imposed silence so I set out to find him. He’d not been on the boats, nor had he been in touch with Janie. I figured he was wrapped up in painting, although I hoped he was busy with one of the projects I knew he’d been offered on the island.
I was also half mad at him.
I got that he couldn’t get into a car. Not yet. The trauma was a graze and the scab was forever being knocked off. Expecting him to be able to get over that in the crash of a wave and take a five-year-old to hospital was unreasonable, but having him ghost everybody afterward was not acceptable.
I found him in the barn, standing in front of a massive canvas that was covered with pinks and purples, some silvers. It was nothing like his usual creations which were generally based on a scene or a person. This was something fantastical. I noticed that he’d embedded shells into the painting.
“Gabe.” He hadn’t noticed me even after I’d watched him for five minutes. “Gabe.”
He turned as if I’d only just arrived. “Shit. I didn’t know you were there.”
“Been here a bit. Saw you go to town with the purple.” The purple which was part of a mermaid’s tail. I had an inkling of who this was for.
“Sorry. Been at this for most of the past couple of days.”
“Is that your excuse for avoiding me?”
He looked at his feet and then at me. “Yep. Got it in one.”
“Gabe, you didn’t have to come with me. I get why you won’t get in a car…”
“How the fuck can I support any one if I can’t do the most basic of things? I had a five-year-old fucking begging me to go with him to the hospital because he’d broken his fucking arm and I couldn’t look after him. Or give you the support you needed? Anya, I worship the fucking ground you walk on; I see how you’ve managed to accept what’s happened and deal with your grief instead of being like this... this weird cave dwelling freak I’ve become who can’t face fucking anything apart from hiding away painting shit and avoiding living because he’s too fucking scared.
“I’m not what you need. I can’t be what you need.”
I dropped my bag on the floor, tears flooding my face before I’d even realised they’d fallen.
My temper boiled in the pit of my belly, the fire that rarely became more than a smolder grew to a burst of flame that would incinerate a forest.
“Who the fuck are you to tell me what I need? Because if you knew what I needed you’d have been at the guesthouse two days ago, or even better, you’d have come inside when we got home after Harry had his arm put in a cast and found out how we all were. Because if you did, you’d know that I didn’t need you to come with us because I’m not thick or insensitive but I needed you afterwards. Not hiding here in your cave, as you so rightly put it.” I stepped close to him and prodded his chest. “This is us. We are both broken. We were both broken like everyone is, even before we lost people who should never have been lost. But we are still here. And I want you here, Gabriel. I want you. Not to be my fucking saviour, because I can save my fucking self. I want you in my life because you make it happier.”
He silenced me with his mouth on mine. I tasted mint and paint, I felt the clash of teeth and his hands on my skin, his hard muscles under my fingers and we started to fight for a future that was too uncertain to name.
He bit my neck and squeezed my breasts through the thin fabric of my vest, uttering words about how he needed to be in me, needed to fuck me, needed to feel my tight cunt squeeze his cock and fill me up with his cum. I bit back, pushing my centre against his legs, need surging through me like I was about to short circuit and life was about to cut out.
It was the Armageddon and we were the only two left. Our last ten minutes to breathe life into something that was dying.
Gabe pushed down my shorts and I heard a rip, a tear. I didn’t care. Rough fingers pushed inside me, pumping me almost to orgasm. He wasn’t careful as he pushed me up against the barn wall, he wasn’t full of finesse or skills. He was full of need. Possession. I wrapped my legs around his waist, his jeans now pooling on the ground, his big, thick cock free.
“Fucking love you.” His words came out as he pushed inside me, filling me and stretching, starting to fuck the life back into us. “Fucking so in love with you it hurts.”
I was crying. I could feel the tears as well as the oncoming orgasm, my cunt tightening, my body going rigid. I needed the release, needed his release in me.
Fingernails dug deep into his shoulders, holding on for support and to mark him as he was marking me. His thrusts were hard and deep, pinning me against the walls. Tomorrow I would have bruises. Tomorrow I wouldn’t care.
I came silently, the feeling too much to shout details to the universe. He followed moments later, and I felt his heat shoot deep into me.
He shuddered, still holding me, both of us breathless. His lips pressed onto my neck, kissing where he’d bitten before. “I love you. As much as I can at the moment, I love you.”
I held his shoulders and forced him back so I could look at him. “I love you, Gabriel. And we’re not done, but we both need to get our shit sorted.”
“I know.”
He lifted me off his cock and I felt wetness seep out of me.
“You love me?” He looked like a little boy who didn’t quite believe he’d been chosen to captain his football team.
I nodded and laughed. “I love you.”
“Even though?”
“Even though everything.”
We sat in bed in the barn wrapped up in each other, in our own cocoon. We made love again, this time without the biting or rush. It was slow, achingly tender, painfully sweet. He told me words I’d keep hold of, use them to keep me warm on nights when the cold was biting or I felt as if only I was awake in the world.
And I told him them back.
“How’re Marcy’s letters?” His hands cupped my breasts and I knew that he’d be back inside me in another half an hour or so.
“I’m almost at the end. I found a letter yesterday from Donald too?” He’d been intrigued by the story as much as I had and I had a feeling that one of the paintings he’d been working on pictured them in some way.
“Read one to me.” He let go of me and lay on his back, exposing his sun-kissed chest and skin my hands knew better than my own.
“Hang on.” I slipped down to the ground where I’d left my bag and pulled out the journal. The makeshift light was on when I got back up to the mattress and he’d made the covers into a nest for us. I opened the wallet and found the next letter, neatly folded and stuck deep into the spine so it wouldn’t fallout. There were two letters folded together.
Dear Don,
I was surprised to get your letter and that you responded to mine. I understand that at the moment the situation is delicate and that there is a lot to sort. I’m also so incredibly upset over Julia’s death and I feel very confused right now.
You told me some things in your letter that were very honest. They were difficult to read and also gave me hope. I feel the same way you do in that the feelings I have are more than just what I should have for someone with whom I discussed the news.
I understand the position that we are in and the time that is needed to let wounds heal. If there is still the same feeling between us in six or twelve months then I would like to see where that goes.
I started to fall in love with you on the beach, I think. The barrier of you being married prevented me from falling completely and now because of circumstance, it is still there.
Let us see what happens in the future and whether our paths should cross once more.
The island feels empty without you. People are still in shock over Julia’s death and are finding it difficult to come to terms with the accident. They are upset for you and wish to pass on their condolences.
I have said nothing about my feelings towards you other than to Alice, my greatest friend who will not say anything. She has been my conf
idante since we were mere children and has not been on the island this summer. Alice is now engaged to be married with a date set for December as she wishes to have a winter wedding. It is something to look forward to.
Please write to me when you can do not be in doubt that I understand your current predicament and the difficulties you must be facing.
Love,
Marcy
Dearest Marcy
I apologise for not having replied sooner to your letter. At the moment Julia’s parents are still with me, wanting to help take care of her belongings, although her mother spends most of her time sobbing and lamenting the loss of her daughter and any future grandchildren. Although I am saturated with guilt and my own sadness I find their presence a hindrance and wish that they could leave me alone to deal with her death in my own way.
It is now more than three weeks since the funeral and nearly four since I last saw you. Out of the two it is the latter that causes me more pain, although I still feel ravaged with guilt for feeling so. I badly want to come to you, to return to the guesthouse and make right what has happened this summer, but I have no idea how the people of the village would feel. I am still unsure as to whether anyone beside Gerald had guessed about us, although Ellen knew of course. But I imagine that there were suspicions all along, and some people will have worked it all out by now.
I cannot leave yet; Julia’s parents deserve more from me. She had clearly not told them of the breakdown in our marriage and they had not guessed. Her mother apologises for the lack of children my wife gave me, and I cannot tell her that it is something we never considered much past our honeymoon. I do not want to shatter their ideal image of Julia’s life; they believe her to have been happy and fulfilled and repeatedly say how grateful they are to me for looking after her – and then I feel like the lowest of the low, unworthy of the name ‘man’. I could not save her and was instrumental in her death. And I do not know if I would have saved her. She knew, of course, she had known from the beginning. I do not know how long it would have taken her to have asked for a divorce, but I am sure it would have come. Julia would never have been second to anyone.
