Not long after the twins were born, I’d sometimes find myself looking back through our photos, just to remind myself it had all really happened. After confessing this to Finn, I returned to the flat one night to find he’d blown up our best shots in black-and-white, framed them, and hung them on the walls. Our very first selfie, shot against the sunrise, the morning I left Latvia. The two of us on the boardwalk of a nature reserve in Florida, brown-skinned and beaming, thumbs up to the camera. Our last breakfast in Miami—omelets and strong coffee—the morning after we’d got engaged. Abseiling somewhere near Tunbridge Wells. Laughing with a group of friends, high up on the Downs. But in pride of place, Finn had positioned a photo that came before all of that: my diademed sandpiper-plover, nestled in the foothills of a Chilean volcano.
“I mean, how do you even dress for a wedding like this?” Finn’s saying. “Should I wear a suit, or will everyone be in pajamas or something?”
I hope he’ll wear a suit—he has one he brings out especially for weddings, gunmetal-gray. He usually pairs it with a floral shirt, sometimes shades, and he looks... Well, if there were such a thing as upstaging the groom, I’m pretty sure Finn would do it every time.
“Well, that’s kind of the beauty with events this cool. We could probably turn up in our wellies and look like we’re setting a trend.”
“Can’t believe we’re already calling Ben’s wedding an ‘event,’” Finn says.
“There’ll be people with earpieces.”
“Security checks.”
“A social media blackout.”
“I love you,” Finn says then, across the top of the twins’ heads.
I smile. “I love you too.”
“I don’t know...” He trails off, looks down.
“What?” I say, happily surprised by this sudden onrush of affection. There’s been so little time for it of late. We tend to talk in snatched half sentences now (Have you done the—, I just need to—, Should we quickly—), and though our sex life has made a tentative return, it’s an open secret between us that, given the choice, we’ll opt to shut our eyes rather than pounce on each other when we finally hit the mattress at night.
“... I don’t know what I’d do if I hadn’t met you, Cal. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me—you and the twins.”
I lean over, kiss him on the lips. It sparks something inside me, and I think perhaps tonight I might pounce on him after all.
•••
Later we undress and finish the kiss, urgent beneath the covers, our hands hot and damp in the cool of the room. Perhaps because it’s been a few weeks, or because we’re obliged to do everything at full tilt these days, it feels vital and frantic in the very best of ways. The heat and the vigor take me back to that very first night in Latvia.
Afterward I roll back toward him, about to whisper that we should really make the effort to do that more often, when the shrillness of a child crying rises from the room next door.
Finn starts laughing. “Ah, for once, kid,” he murmurs, still breathless, his skin damp with sweat, “your timing’s perfect.”
90.
Joel—six and a half years after
I’m heading to Nottingham with Doug to catch up with our cousin Luke and some of our other relatives.
I got back in touch with Luke just over two years ago. Building bridges felt good, and I wanted to do more of it. Surprisingly, for someone so inherently grumpy, my brother felt the same way.
Luke never did return to school after the dog attack. His family moved to the Midlands a year or so after it happened so he could stand half a chance of escaping the flashbacks. These days, he’s a celebrated chef, having steered two restaurants to Michelin-star status. We’ve eaten twice at his current place, had boys’ nights out together.
I haven’t yet told him about my dreams. Or, rather, one dream in particular. I’ve been getting to know him again first. Building a relationship before I bare my soul.
But I dreamed about tonight a month or so ago. (Highlights: Luke takes us to a blues bar where we’re treated like VIPs; Doug gets absolutely hammered.)
As we’re waiting for our train, my brother starts to get twitchy. He’s wearing his weekend uniform of jeans I suspect to have been ironed, and a slightly too-tight T-shirt. “Dying for a fag.”
“Tell me you’re not still smoking.”
He shrugs. “Only socially.”
“And yet you’redyingfor a fag.”
Doug huffs. “Oh, I meant to say. Dad’s worried about you.”
