by Lucy Clarke
“No.”
He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, closing his eyes. It afforded Mia a moment to look at him. Mick had changed dramatically from the trim, suited man in her photo. The muscles in his arms had turned slack and a neat paunch strained against his shirt. Thin red skin stretched over the bridge of his nose and his eyelids looked heavy.
He exhaled a drift of smoke into the air, the cigarette returning much of his composure. “So,” he said, stretching forward to tap ash into a wooden bowl, “are you here in Maui alone, or is Katie with you?”
Her sister’s name so soon was a small surprise. “I’m with a friend.”
He nodded and she wondered whether he was disappointed or relieved.
“Where are you staying?”
“The Pineapple Hostel.”
“I know it. It’s only a few minutes from here.” Mick rested his left arm over the back of his chair. “Will you stay long or are you traveling elsewhere?”
She understood that he was gauging her intentions. Who was she with? How long would she be here? What did she want from him? “I’m traveling for a few months,” she told him. “We started in California. Thought we’d make Maui our next stop. From here we’re flying to Western Australia.” It was the most she’d said since she’d arrived and her throat felt dry and tight. She picked up her drink and let an ice cube knock against her tongue.
“We?”
“Me and Finn—my best friend.”
A long silence stretched between them. Mia focused on the contents of her glass. She had imagined that the words would come easily—there would be a flow of conversation to start filling in the years—yet now that she was here, she felt as if there was so much to say that she couldn’t decide which words should come first.
They finished their drinks. Mick stubbed out his cigarette and went to the kitchen, returning with fresh drinks and two citronella candles that he lit, their sharp lemon scent filling the air. He drank quickly, the alcohol barely touching the sides of the glass. In that she recognized their first similarity.
“I heard about your mother passing away,” he said finally.
She wondered how.
“It must have been hard for you and Katie.”
“Yes.” She couldn’t think about her mother now. This, being here, was already too much.
“How is Katie?”
“Good. We have an apartment together in London.”
“Yeah?”
“She’s working in recruitment.”
He smiled, and she took that as encouragement. “And yourself?” he asked. “What do you do?”
She shrugged. “I’ve been doing some casual work—bar jobs, waitressing, that kind of thing. I’m not sure what I want to do yet.”
“I trained as a chef before I found the music industry.”
It was the first new fact she’d learned about him. Her father had been a chef. Had he ever cooked for them? She considered whether she had any inherent culinary know-how, but couldn’t think of any.
Mick explained how his career began at a French restaurant in West London. One of the young waiters there had an incredible singing voice but lacked the confidence to do any gigs. Mick put him in touch with a fantastic guitarist he knew from college and later began making bookings for them—for a cut. Within six months, Mick had brought on a drummer and bass guitarist, and the new band was doing so well that he found the money for an album to be recorded. That was the start of his first record label.
Mick talked quickly, one sentence rolling into the next, one story unfolding into another, either to avoid the quiet awkwardness or else to delay the more serious discussion of why Mia was there. The more he spoke, the more she felt herself withdrawing, silence closing around her throat like a pair of hands. She knew she was being odd, but it was as if the subject of his desertion was too big to even broach.
“Mia?”
She glanced up, unsure how far away she’d drifted.
Mick was staring at her, looking directly into her eyes. “Are you interested in music?”
“I love it,” she said, twisting a broken strand of hair around her fingertip. “Listening, not playing.” She loved going to gigs and feeling the rhythm of the music beating deep within her chest. London had been good for that, a saving grace in the city.
“You said you’ve come from California. What did you make of it?”
Mia unwound the strand of hair from her finger and tucked her hands beneath her thighs. “The beaches were wilder than I expected. And quieter. It was beautiful.”
“Did you fly into LA?”
“San Francisco.”
“I lived in LA for seven years,” he said. “Fantastic place—so much buzz.”
So much buzz. Would she ever choose that phrase? No. Katie would have. She could see flashes of her sister in Mick—a shared confidence, an ease with words.
“I had an office overlooking the beach,” he continued. “Not a bad spot to be in after London.”
After London. After he left them. She needed to steer the conversation towards their lives there. She concentrated on recalling the details she’d written in her journal, but all the words seemed to be swimming in her head and she couldn’t grasp any of them.
Mick’s cell rang. He answered immediately. “James! Yes, yes … That’s right … Absolutely.” He checked his watch. “We’re still on.”
Mia drained her drink. She should have eaten before coming out here. Already she could feel the muscles in her face beginning to loosen. She set down the empty glass, suddenly noticing that dusk had been swallowed by night.
“Give me twenty?” Mick was saying. “Looking forward to it.”
He placed the phone back on the table. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got to meet a colleague for dinner. I’d lost track of time.”
“Oh.” He was cutting her visit short when there was still everything to say.
“It’s been nice to see you,” he told her, rising. He moved away from the table, triggering a floodlight that illuminated the deck. She blinked in the sudden brightness, disorientated for a moment.
When she looked up, Mick was already moving through the kitchen, towards the hallway. She followed, deciding there would be another chance to talk. Perhaps it was right to ease into their reunion, hold off discussing the bigger issues until next time.
On reaching the front door, Mick said, “Thank you for visiting.”
She nodded. “I’m here for two weeks.”
“You’ll love the island.”
There was no reference to seeing her again. Surely this couldn’t be his intention? “I’m free tomorrow.”
Mick didn’t look at her as he said, “Tomorrow isn’t so good. My lawyer’s here all day.”
She waited a beat, sure he would offer an alternative, but he said nothing. A click of air freshener was released on a timer somewhere. The smell of artificial pine filled the hall, catching at the back of Mia’s throat. “The day after?”
Mick rubbed his hand on the back of his neck, his composure beginning to wane. He rolled onto the balls of his feet and cast his gaze at the ceiling. “I can’t do this, Mia.”
“Do what?” she said, her fingers beginning to work the edges of her pockets.
“See you again. Be who you want me to be. It wouldn’t be fair to either of us.” He shook his head sharply. “There’s a lot you don’t understand.”
“So tell me,” she said, hearing her voice rise.
“It’s all in the past. Let’s leave it be.” He placed his hand on the door handle. “Sorry, but I need to get going.”
She stared at him for a moment, unable to believe they’d reached this point so soon. She suddenly felt light-headed, insubstantial, as if the crush of disappointment had dissolved her.
“I’m sorry that this wasn’t what you’d hoped for,” he said with feeling, and then he opened the door onto the night.
*
Stunned, Mia drifted away as her father closed the door gently behind her. She
shook her head, thinking, Was that it? Where were the similarities between them, or the connection she’d been sure she’d feel? Humiliation burnt across her cheeks: she had flown to Maui, visited her father’s house, accepted his drinks and conversation, yet all the while he had been biding his time until the moment he could ask her to leave.
She wished Katie had been with her. Katie wouldn’t have accepted Mick’s dismissal. Mia pictured her sister grilling him for answers, her fierce eloquence tying his excuses in knots. The image emboldened her momentarily and she considered turning around, going back. But deep down, she knew she didn’t have the heart for it.
Eventually the path delivered her to the beach where she’d earlier watched the lone surfer. The air smelled briny and sharp. She glimpsed the dark curves of distant waves, their arching backs licked silver by moonlight.
She threw down her bag, kicked off her flip-flops, and plunged her feet into the sea. The water felt powerful and alive at her ankles, sucking the sand from beneath her toes. She drew in a deep lungful of air and let the whoosh of waves fill her ears. Thoughts of Mick began gradually washing away, like words drawn on the shoreline.
She waded forwards and a small wave broke over her thighs, soaking the hem of her shorts. A second bowled into her, but she didn’t recoil. Cool water soaked through her shorts and into her underwear. She tasted something thrilling about being alone at the edge of the ocean and she let the moon draw her towards it. Water rose over her waist, causing her stomach to shrink away from the cold.
In a fluid motion, she bent her knees and pushed forwards, letting the sea catch her and bear her weight. She kicked away from the shore, making deep smooth strokes, her T-shirt clinging to her skin.
The sea was a balm. She dived under, dark water slipping over her head. She glided with her arms outstretched, her fingers meeting in a neat point. She broke the surface to snatch a breath, and then dived down again, deeper this time, water gushing down the neck of her T-shirt.
She stopped kicking and let her body go still. Gradually she began floating up with her back to the sky, her limbs spread like a starfish. As children, she and Katie used to do this, letting their hair fan around their faces while they listened for the songs of mermaids. She heard the fizzes and clicks of the sea, and imagined angelfish swimming beneath her, silent and curious. Heat began building in her lungs as the desire for air grew. She forced herself to remain still, feeling the dark slopes of waves lift and drop her body as if she were a piece of driftwood.
The underwater rhythm shifted and she was aware of a new sound overlaying the gentle melody. It wasn’t the draw of a wave, more like fast sloshes of water hitting a wall. She tried to concentrate on where it was coming from, when suddenly she felt pain at the back of her head. There was a rush of noise and she was yanked upwards, her head snapping back. She gasped as she broke the surface, gulping in air.
She heard a shout, and then she felt herself plunging under again, salt water filling her mouth and shooting up her nostrils. Her clothes bulged, dragging her downwards, and she flailed underwater, disorientated.
Finally she surfaced again, gasping. There was more shouting and she kicked out, thrashing her way towards the shore. As soon as her feet found the seabed, she staggered through the shallows.
A man waded after her. “You okay?”
“Get the fuck away!” she shouted, her heart racing.
He stopped. “I thought … shit, I thought you were drowning.”
“I was swimming!”
“You were in your clothes. Not moving. It looked like, like you were … ” He didn’t finish.
“You were watching me swim?”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. His eyes were wide, startled. “No. I was paddling back in. I saw a shape in the water. You were just floating there, facedown.”
Now she noticed the surfboard under his arm.
“I’m so sorry,” he said again, and she could tell by his voice that he meant it. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
She pushed her wet hair from her face and hugged her arms around her middle. “So what, you surf in the dark?”
“Sometimes.”
She was absorbed by the image of him alone in the black, hollow waves. “It must be dangerous.”
“The moon’s a good floodlight.”
She wondered what drew him into the ocean, risking his life for the thrill of a wave.
As he lifted a hand to wipe water from his eyes, she noticed the dark tattoo snaking across the underside of his forearm. “You were here earlier,” she said suddenly, remembering seeing him on the shoreline, staring out to sea with a meditative focus. “I saw you when you paddled in.”
He looked at her with his head tilted to one side. “Yes,” he said, eventually. “I remember.”
His voice was deep, gravelly. Did she hear an accent?
“You’re cold,” he said.
She hadn’t realized she was shivering.
“I’ve got a towel.” He moved past her and she found herself following. He had a bag stowed farther up the beach from which he passed her a towel. She used it to tousle her hair dry and then wrapped it around her shoulders.
The man took out a box of matches and knelt down in the sand beside a pyramid of branches and twigs.
“You built this earlier?”
He nodded. He struck a match and she caught its gunpowder scent. Cupping a hand around the flame, he lit the kindling in several places. He blew gently on the flames, which flickered and grew in response. The firelight illuminated his face; she saw the glistening water in his eyebrows and his dark, serious gaze beneath.
Once the fire took he moved back to his bag and pulled out a sweater. “Here, wear this if you like.”
She could have declined, walked away then, and returned to the hostel. She knew Finn would be waiting for her, wondering how the reunion with Mick had gone. But she wasn’t ready to leave. Not yet. “Thanks,” she said, taking the sweater. With her back to him, she peeled off her sodden T-shirt and bra and pulled it on. She tugged the sleeves down over her hands and her thumbs nestled into the holes that had been worn into them.
She sat beside the fire while he changed into dry clothes. When he returned, he handed her a bottle of beer.
“Cheers,” she said, twisting the cap free. “I’m Mia.”
He said her name aloud, once, as if that was the only way he would remember. “Noah,” he offered, hooking an elbow around his knees. He looked at her sideways. “So, you often go swimming in your clothes?”
She shrugged.
“There are strong currents around here. Someone should be watching out for you.”
“Who watches out for you?”
He smiled.
“I thought I was alone,” she told him eventually. “Me and my sister used to do it when we were younger—just float and listen to the sea.” But that had been years ago, before Katie had become afraid of the sea, before they had drifted apart. Mia missed the summer afternoons they used to spend at the beach dive-bombing from the rocks or searching the shoreline for shells. The Sea Sisters, they had been nicknamed as children. “I just had the urge to do it again.”
He looked at her for a moment, fixing his dark eyes square on hers. She wondered if he thought her foolish, but he said nothing.
They drank in silence, watching the hypnotic flit and quiver of the flames. The thick smell of woodsmoke filled the air. Occasionally, Mia glanced at him, absorbing small details: the dark hair on his legs that thinned at his ankles; a tear in the seam of his T-shirt that ran an inch along his side; the casual grip of his fingers holding the beer loosely at its neck.
“So when did you start surfing?” she asked later.
“When I was a kid. We lived near Melbourne, a couple of kilometers from the beach. I used to cycle down after school and watch all the old guys styling it up on long boards.”
“Did you teach yourself?”
“No, there was this guy, Reuben. He was ancient, but whe
never the swell pushed through, he’d be out. He wasn’t looking for the big waves or big moves, but he just had this poise on the water no one could match. I hung around on the beach whenever I could, just watching.” He took a swig of his beer. “Eventually I plucked up the nerve to ask him for a lesson—said I’d wash his ute in return. We had a deal. He’d take me surfing whenever the swell was right, and I made sure he drove the cleanest ute in Melbourne. He spread the word about my car-washing talents. Five months later, I owned my first board.”
“I like that,” she said, smiling. “You earned it.” She ran her fingers through her damp hair, loosening some of the tangles. “So what brings you to Maui? Are you traveling?”
He nodded.
“With friends?”
“My brother.”
“Really? You must get on well.”
He shrugged.
“Where’s he tonight?”
“At a bar in town.”
“Why aren’t you there?”
He thought for a moment. “I like my own space sometimes.”
She smiled, knowing exactly what he meant. She uncrossed her legs and stretched them towards the flames, warming her toes. The firelight caught the line of her shins and she could feel Noah’s gaze on them. “Where’s next on your route?” she asked.
“We’re heading back to Australia for a couple of months. After that, I don’t know. We’ll follow the swell.” He threw a stick on the fire and then asked, “How about you? Where are you from?”
“Cornwall. It’s in the southwest of England.”
“You get good Atlantic swells there. Cold, though.”
“You get used to it.”
He finished his beer and took out two more, passing one to Mia. “Where do you live now?”
“I moved to London almost a year ago. My sister and I bought a place there.” She traced the back of the beer bottle with her thumb, thinking about the apartment with its tall sash windows that only opened three inches, so she never felt as though she could get enough air.
“You didn’t enjoy it?” he asked, perhaps reading something in her expression.
“I guess I’m not a city person.”
