Because we did find a field to have fun in, that day. We parked in a lay-by, rushed hand in hand along a margin of ripening wheat before tumbling together between its sun-baked tunnels, the crop like hot rope against our skin. Afterward we lay flat on our backs and stared up at the sky, where raptors wheeled above our heads.
And it’s got me thinking. How everything we did together was like abittersweet prologue to all that I’m doing now. And it feels wrong, somehow, not to be sharing it with him. So I do. I keep hold of the pen, and I write Joel a postcard.
Though I’ll probably never send it, it’s a kiss blown across oceans, from my heart to his.
78.
Joel—eighteen months after
Dawn patrol. I’m a pretty decent surfer now, since I started making regular trips to Cornwall and Warren shoved me into lines of white water, told me to paddle and try not to kill anyone.
I look across. Give him the thumbs-up, a salty grin. It’s only May, so the sea’s not had a chance to warm up yet. Even through five millimeters of neoprene, the breaking waves steal my breath.
But the swells are prolific and the summer crowds haven’t peaked.
I sit up on my shortboard, watch the sets roll in. Picking my wave, I paddle, take off, charge left. Vaguely aware of Warren to my right, for a few exultant moments I no longer have to think. The water becomes thunder, deafening as a military fly-past.
I let it drown out everything. The past, the future, and everything in between.
•••
Later, we head to the pub. I get lost in the crowd, start talking to someone. End up back at her place, a small nondescript house miles away from Newquay. I have no idea if she lives here or if she’s transient like me, but the sex is good. Nothing close to the magic of being with Callie, but good enough. Just like the waves, it helps me forget.
•••
The next morning I find her in the living room. Petite and dark-haired, she’s sipping coffee in her dressing gown. She lives here, I realize. There are framed photos everywhere, fresh flowers on the coffee table, pairs of shoes in the porch.
An excruciating silence. I haven’t done this in so long.
She smiles shyly. “Coffee?”
“Actually, I’d better...” I jerk my thumb clumsily over my shoulder, like a hitchhiker.
Something breaks over her face that might be relief. “Yeah, I wanted to say. I’m not really looking for anything—”
“Me either,” I say quickly. “Sorry.”
“No! Don’t be. I’m sort of... getting over someone, so...”
“Oh, good.” My mind hiccups, then stalls. “I mean, notgood...”
She laughs nervously. I can actually see her toes curling. (Is this honestly the effect I have on women these days?) “It’s okay. I know what you meant.”
I glance at the photos on her mantelpiece. She used to have long hair. The crop must be a recent thing. “Is that your...?”
“Little boy. Yeah. He’s five now.” She wraps her hands even more tightly around her mug of coffee. Takes a protracted sip, like she’s playing for time. “It’s sort of on-off, on-off with his dad at the moment.”
“Oh. I hope I haven’t—”
“Not at all. I mean, technically it’s off, but I just can’t quite seem to... get over him, you know?”
Something contracts in my chest. “I do, actually.”
“You got kids, John?”
I half laugh, about to correct her before thinking better of it. “No.”
A silence follows. Through the dividing wall drifts the sound of a baby crying. The muffled syncopation of an argument.
