‘Jesus, Tommy!’
He appeared on the porch, wearing all black and an annoying smirk.
‘Is now a good time?’ he asked.
‘As good as any,’ I said with a resigned sigh. I bit into a fat olive and stared at him expectedly. ‘Well?’ I said with my mouth full. ‘What do you have to say for yourself?’
18
Thought of the day…
The difference between a ‘victor’ and a ‘victim’is two only letters.
You control your own narrative.
‘I suggest we go inside,’ he said.
‘Do you now?’ I popped another olive in my mouth and chewed, watching him become increasingly uncomfortable. When I swallowed, I waved a hand over the aspect. ‘No one can see us – it’s dark – so why does it matter?’
‘Someone might come along.’
‘Who, Tommy? There are only twelve people on the island, including us.’
‘A slight understatement,’ he responded. ‘Can we please go inside? Humour me?’
‘Fine.’ I stood and gathered my portable picnic dinner and led the way back into the villa.
Tommy closed the door softly behind us, then it was just me and him in an enclosed space, landing me in a predicament. THE predicament. Because soon we’d either be fighting or fucking. And as appealing as the latter might have been (if I completely disregarded our history and the current situation), it was most likely going to be the former. We had a lot of air to clear – emotional smog.
‘Now that I’m here, I’m not sure where to begin,’ he said, the hesitancy in his tone stripping away a single-cell layer of my built-up protection.
At the minibar, I kept my back to him, busying myself by cutting off a thick slab of Graviera, my new favourite cheese. I took a bite and chewed slowly.
I was stalling, of course, but his very presence had permeated my defences and now that the Instagram post was being handled, I had nowhere to hide.
Nowhere to hide.
Years since I’d seen him, living miles apart, our contact limited to text messages… all gone. Obliterated by a happenstance reunion so absurd that I barely believed it myself.
And the fortress I’d constructed around my heart… crumbling. No – not crumbling,alreadycrumbled. Dust at my feet.
My throat constricted and the cheese turned to cement, making it impossible to swallow. I reached for a bottle of water, broke the seal, and took a swig. I swallowed hard and gulped for air, my back still to Tommy.
‘Ally.’
He’d come up behind me – not touching me – still inches away, but the air sizzled between us. I gripped the edge of the minibar.
‘Don’t,’ I sighed, my ragged voice betraying what lay beneath the bravado. Because when it came to Tommy, almost everything was bravado.
After the demise of our marriage, I spentyearswrangling the twin threads of grief – sorrow and fury – diluting their power by ‘living my best life’.
And perhaps naively, I’d mastered compartmentalising, convinced that burying my feelings would inoculate me from being hurt. But it only took a handful of days to excavate them, and it was Tommy who was driving the backhoe.
‘So, you and Elsa?’ I ventured. There was the very slim chance that I’d misunderstood what he’d told me earlier, and I needed to know for sure.
Tommy moved even closer. If I leaned back, just a fraction, I’d feel his breath on my neck.
‘She’s my partner.’
