I wouldn’t have Calen’s class this year. They were moving up a year group and I was moving up two, to year three, a year group I adored and had taught before. The fear of seeing little faces I’d associate with a boy who would never grow up wasn’t there and although moments existed where I would be overwhelmed with guilt and grief, I could see light filtering through them.
Every summer I left my family to go back to work. Every summer I had felt sadness at leaving them, mixed in with a healthy dose of relief. This year that relief was negligible.
Kim had come home with the baby; Harry had adjusted to being a big brother to the extent he had warned Gabe’s nephews away from her; the guesthouse was booked up from September through till the end of November with guests seeking off-season rates and visiting friends and family who made the island their home.
Life was good. It was strawberries and honey and sweet wine.
And I had to say goodbye to Gabe.
Our last week together tasted of freshly harvested apples and mead. We drank each other up as if we had just crossed the desert and were dehydrated, all the while knowing that we were going to be hours apart and unable to touch for the next couple of months. I couldn’t get away for a weekend. I needed to sort out my class and go back to the grind of work and nurturing the friendships I had in London. And look for another job.
He needed to decide what he was going to be and although we never spoke about the night when he wouldn’t get into the car with Harry, it hung over us like a sea fret, one that hadn’t cleared for days.
There was nothing for us to say about it. I was leaving. I couldn’t stay any longer no matter what I was going to do. My school had supported me; I owed them and the children to make sure they had a successful start to the school year at the very least. There was no discussion to be had around it.
And there was also Gabe’s need to release his dependence on hiding in his cave. We didn’t talk about it: the guilt he carried, the fear he had. Because talking would only reinforce what we already knew.
Time apart was not the choice I would’ve made, but it was the only one we had. None of that made walking through the door into my London flat any easier.
The air was stale and I felt the haunting of sleepless nights and nightmares. After the vaulted skies of home, this felt claustrophobic and crammed, lacking the space around and above me. I slumped down on my sofa, knowing that I wasn’t going to be unpacking for a few days. My phone was in my hand and I started to scroll through the photos I’d taken the last few weeks: Kim with the baby, Harry with his cast, Nan yelling at someone – possibly me for taking the photo. Then there were photos of Gabe, his paintings, him on his mattress about to ambush me with a pillow.
Jesus. I missed him.
A photo appeared that I didn’t remember taking. It was a little blurred, a mirror selfie with a hand held towards the mirror. With a heart drawn on the hand.
I stared at the photo, seeing his grin and the light in his eyes. There was an innocence to the picture, a sweetness I hadn’t known since I was a bit more than a kid. My heart sang, its melody loud and clear.
My Wi-Fi was down, which didn’t surprise me given the length of time the place had been empty, my housemate having left a month or two ago. I managed to fix it and dug out my tablet, by-passing the emails that were waiting for my attention and the social media notifications. I found the website where most schools advertised their vacancies and headed straight for within a thirty-mile radius of the island. Even if this with Gabe didn’t work out, even if we were just meant to have a summer romance, it was time to go back home.
I still felt grief. I always would. But where there was grief, there was love too.
Gabe
September
“This is the bit where I don’t breathe for ten minutes.” The site manager’s sense of humour came from the gallows.
“It’s all good.” I managed to say the words although watching the huge pane of glass being fitted was the closest I’d come to having to screw up my eyes and demand a cushion to hide behind.
It was one of the final external pieces of construction, three windows that would allow views across the coastline. For weeks, the spaces where they would go had been boarded up, waiting for the glass to be ready.
Now it was, and the house – my house – had started to become what I’d planned. I had a studio on one side, looking out across the sea. Above it was a study where I would install a drafting table, the light that would come in perfect for what I needed.
I watched a while longer as the final sheet of glass was installed, hearing the site manager finally exhale. I headed inside, wanting to see the view I’d be moving into in a few more weeks.
End of October. We were actually ahead of schedule. Another five weeks and I’d be living somewhere other than a barn and have a bedroom with an ensuite. The ensuite reminded me of Anya and I’d fitted it with her in mind: low level lights that were motion sensitive were being installed, enough storage and shelves, walk-through shower. We’d had a conversation about it before she’d left, where she’d told me everything that was missing when we slept in the barn.
I’d heard from her daily. Nothing deep or intense, just day-to-day messages about her job, the kids she had, life in London. I’d sent her pictures of the house and the sea, sometimes selfies taken at the bar and especially when Catrin had decided that a hangover was fair payment for a night that got far too wild and ended in her proposing to Anders. She hadn’t remembered it the day after, but there’d been enough video evidence to make her glad that her latest research project meant she’d be at sea for three weeks. With Anders.
I’d kept the house as light as possible and opened up the older, original building so there was a seamless change from the old into the new. Small rooms had become larger, fireplaces opened back up and wood burning stoves installed. Solar panels had been added and I’d found other ways to produce energy that would’ve made Ryan proud of me. Four weeks had made a massive difference. Four weeks of missing Anya. Four weeks of finding parts of me that I’d lost.
I spoke to the glazier, then found my phone hidden under a set of paintbrushes. There were a couple of messages from my sister, another asking if I was going to the bar tonight and then one from Anya.
Half-term in four weeks!
She hadn’t said yet that she was coming home for the break, but I’d figured it was likely. Her being back, even for a short time, could not be my focus though. That had shifted.
I headed back out and found my bike, jumping on it cycling down the quiet roads towards Llangefni. There was a therapist based there, a man in his sixties who specialised in pretty much everything as the island was small and mostly the sea counselled people who needed healing. I’d had nine sessions so far. A start.
