The words weren’t mine. They’d been given to me, and I couldn’t use them. Wasted words for someone who just didn’t understand how to deal with the fact he hadn’t died.
“Gabe!”
She interrupted whatever Catrin was saying to shout my name, looking surprised that she’d been impulsive.
I felt my grin. It pulled at the sides of my mouth and I knew that around my eyes was crinkling. She looked pretty, her skin pinked from the sun and her hair loose about her shoulders. I didn’t think I could ever want to take my eyes away from her.
Catrin and Polly were silent, watching us and I felt their eyes on my skin, two assessors from some strict company.
“Have you brought marshmallows?”
Anya rolled her eyes. “Of course. We can’t have a beach barbecue without cindering sugary goodness.”
I could see Catrin’s eyes widen, her mouth shaping into a look of surprise. Figuring I was safe from being maimed by protective girl friends, I headed towards Anya, stopping about three feet away. Any closer, and I’d be holding her like I’d done earlier.
And I knew I was still grinning like an idiot.
“No one mentioned burning them. You have to watch carefully for their response to the heat, make sure they’re not getting burned by the flames too quickly. Maybe pull back some, just to get them ripe enough, so that when you do put them in your mouth they ooze all over your tongue.” Even though I kept my voice low, I knew Catrin and Polly were listening and their laughter told me they understood exactly what I meant.
“Are you still talking about marshmallows?” Anya’s face wasn’t just pink with the sun now.
I laughed and stood up straighter. “Marshmallows. That’s it. Just marshmallows. Can I get you ladies drinks?” It was a sentence I hadn’t said since before the accident. My fucks and blow jobs had been the result of quiet interactions where the woman would eye me across the bar or on the beach and head my way when she could. I hadn’t always said yes, but everyone had a certain beauty and fucking my way into oblivion had been a release, some days the only one.
Not in twenty-five months had I made any sort of move towards a woman. And I wasn’t sure that offering to get drinks – that were free – would be classed as such.
“What’s the punch?” Catrin was the first to respond. As usual. Cat was always there. I saw Anders walking to her, taller, broader and quieter. The opposite to her.
“I believe it’s meant to be a Caribbean concoction.”
Catrin nodded. “Which means someone’s been cooking up homemade rum. And someone’s got coconut milk on offer.”
Polly nodded. “That’d be Francis then. Better make sure there are a couple of bins around for when people start to vomit.”
Anya’s laugh was softer and she shook her head. “I’ll tell them to add more pineapple juice to it. Tone it down. We don’t need everyone on the island hungover tomorrow.”
Catrin tapped her shoulder. “Live a little. You’re not in charge now. Let your hair down. And I don’t mean literally.”
“I know. I’ll have a beer though.” Her eyes locked on mine as she spoke, questioning, unsure.
“Punch for me and the second bestie.” Catrin dug Polly in the ribs. “And Anders will have a beer.” Anders was now standing behind her, eyeing her as if he was well aware of what he’d be taking home later.
“And next week we’re back on a boat, so make the most of it.” His accent was becoming less strong.
She shrugged and looked up and behind her. “Go give Gabe a lift with the drinks. I need to talk to my girls.”
He shook his head and looked at me. “Which translates as she’s going to talk about you and doesn’t want me here.”
“I’ll help. You keep an eye on the mini-missile.” Anya took four steps towards me. “I have no plans to spend any cosy girl time tonight. Too much like a fucking inquisition.” Her glare at Catrin contained shards of sharp metal.
I couldn’t help it. Later on, when I was alone on my mattress at the top of my barn, my fucking barn, I’d crucify myself, because I shouldn’t. I put my arms around her narrow, too thin shoulders, her heat transferring straight into my bones.
Something in my chest sang.
I doused it in forced memories from that night, picturing the car afterwards, the mangled mess and my friend’s corpse. This woman wasn’t my salvation. Only I could be that.
She didn’t push me away, instead she moved closer, talking about how she’d forgotten about how irritating Catrin could be and how it was the perfect night for everyone to be on the beach.
And then as we queued for beers and punch, we talked about everything that didn’t matter. The beach, the island, the new café in Beaumaris, the dilapidated pub and what I’d do to renovate it. She told me about Baron Hill, the abandoned mansion on the island and how it had almost been made into apartments. And I told her about being on a boat before dawn and how the clouds puffed up over the reddened sky.
