“Ugh, maybe. One day.” I take a large swig of wine. “But not yet. First, I mourn, I grieve, I hurt.”
“Sounds absolutely delightful.” Jake groans.
I look at the kitchen shelves above my head and find the framed photo of Jake and me as children together, playing on the swings in the back garden of our childhood home. “We have to mourn our losses, Jakey, we both know that,” I say softly.
“I know,” he says, and then he coughs. I am not at all surprised when he then quickly makes light of what I just said. “No pain, no gain, eh?”
“I think it’s more a case of no pain, no love. And no love, no life. We’re not here to feel good all the time. We’re here to love one another, and as so many have concluded, grief is love. They are two sides of the same coin.”
“It’s almost like you know what you’re talking about,” Jake says, and it makes me smile until he continues. “You should write a book about these things.”
“That’s a conversation for another day,” I say quickly, not feeling brave enough to even think about work. I realise then that I’ve finally stopped crying. I jokingly toast myself in the reflection of the oven door.Here’s to wine and my brother!
“So, back to dating apps,” Jake says. “I’ll send you that photo I took of you in Lisbon. Your tits look fantastic in that top.”
“No, Jake, not yet.” I chuckle with him. “Although please do send over that photo, my ego could do with a little boost right now. But seriously, I think first I need to do some therapy, some crying, lots of reading, exercising, writing, and probably a lot more crying and then maybe I’ll try to think about dating again.”
“Well, could you keep a week free in that depressingly busy crying schedule so you can come to Greece next summer?”
I blink as his words land. “What!? You got the job?”
“I got the job!” he squeals.
And just like that, while I still feel my pain, my grief and my uncertainty, I also feel excitement and delight for my brother who has worked so hard for this opportunity. It’s another helpful reminder that it’s possible to feel good and bad things in the very same moment. It’s possible for our heavy, breaking hearts to be buoyed and bolstered by the happiness of others.
“Oh, Jake! I’m so proud of you!”
“So, you’ll come?”
“Sunshine, sand, sea and sexy Greek men? You try and stop me, baby brother!” I say, and I hope by then I’ll have some of the mess that is my life tidied up.
Chapter Two
Marty
Six Months (182 Sunsets) Ago
Idon’t know how late it is, but I know it’s time for a drink.
I lift my hand and feel the sand sticking to the side of my face. Rough grains line my tongue too and I try to wipe it all off on my sleeve but there’s just more sand there.Fuck.Napping on the beach used to be my favourite way to pass the time before a shift or a meet up with new friends. Now there isn’t a job to go to, nor are there many friends, old or new. And these days it’s the only way I get any kind of sleep. Sleep, I find my body needs more and more.
Pushing up to sit, I brush off as much of the sand as I can and try to spit out what’s left in my mouth. A quick look around helps me get my bearings. I’m at the most northern end of San Antonio beach, one hundred or so metres away from the hotel where I worked until they found me passed out in the storeroom mid-shift. Was that today? Yesterday? Or the day before? I have no clue and no interest in finding out.
I can tell it’s evening because of the sun’s position in the sky; dangerously close to sunset. Sometimes I feel brave enough to sit and watch it go down, but I already know today isn’t one of those days, so I look away. It’s become easier and easier to turn my back on the sunset, but it still hurts like hell.
As I push my body up to stand, the pain in my head intensifies and my mouth still feels dry. A nice cold beer will sort me out. I do a quick check of my pockets and I am relieved my phone, wallet and passport are all there. I haven’t always been so lucky.
There are two messages on my phone. Both are from Maeve.
“Yes, Maeve! You fucken legend!” I shout, trying to drown out the guilt I simultaneously feel. Knowing I have cash motivates me to start walking down the beach towards El Ocaso, one of the all-year beach clubs still open. I haven’t been there in weeks but at this time of year, down season, I know I’ll see a few familiar faces of other workers, even if they’re not friendly ones. I’ll likely find someone to drink with and if not, I’ll drink alone. I’m not proud.
Stumbling across the beach to where a small crowd is gathered around the tables facing the water, I straighten up as much as possible and do a quick scan of faces. I don’t recognise anyone. So far so good. There’s nobody here who wants to kill me. Nobody here I owe money to. Nobody here I fucked then ghosted. Nobody here I pissed off in any other number of ways. Today really is my lucky day.
I’m also relieved when there’s some generic house music playing rather than familiar melodies or lyrics that make me think of somewhere or someone I don’t want to think about. For a long time, any song could be twisted to be about us, about places we had been. I knew so many things in my future would be ruined by what happened – sunsets, board games, beautiful bright eyes framed in kohl eyeliner – but crappy pop songs I don’t even like? How did listening to bands I had only lukewarm feelings for suddenly make me feel like I could crumble into a million pieces? But no danger of that in this bar. This rhythmic thumping and unrecognisable, unimaginative tune is safe, and maybe after a beer, I could even nod my head to it.
