At least, he thought he’d known.
Because, in some respects, he hadn’t known, had he? James had been assuming, erroneously, that love’s intensity was cultivated over time.
God, how laughably wrong he had been.
Love, it seemed, was not linear. Neither was it logical nor predictive nor sensical. And James Thomas Morrow had once been foolish enough to think that he’d known those things before leaping into this ill-fated not-friendship with a man whom he so fervently wanted to please.“Being in loveisnonsensical,” he’d said to Cassian, as though he’d been some sort of expert on the matter. But James hadn’t really known, hadn’t really internalized, justhownonsensical love could be. Love didn’t care that Cassian hadn’t been his. Love didn’t care that he had only known Cassian for something like fifty-seven hours. Neither of those facts had protected James from heartbreak.
Dammit,whyhad he let himself fall like this?
Burying his head in his hands, James felt a few humiliating tears escape, and he cursed himself for his naiveté. After a couple of minutes of silently wallowing in self-pity while his palms became wet from tears, he heard the sound of someone’s shoes scuffing the floor and looked up.
Lingering in the doorway was a little boy with curly blond hair and a rather stoic expression. He was clutching tight to a small wooden spinning top while looking around the room with interest. Even though the boy wasn’t meant to be in this part of the ship, his eyes held no fear or even worry, only curiosity. James sniffled and forced a smile.
“Are you lost?” he asked.
But the boy only stared.
“I’m a little lost myself,” James said.
Slowly, the boy shuffled into the room. His head swiveled back and forth as he walked, and his bright eyes, which James could now see were a mixture of blue and green, flitted from one thing in the room to another. James watched him for a while. The boy mustn’t have been older than four. Or maybe five. James couldn’t be sure. He hadn’t been around many children since he himself was one. Still, based on the boy’s size, he thought that he must not have been far off.
James gestured to the toy in the boy’s hands. “What do you have there?”
The boy’s eyes fell to the spinning top. James thought that maybe the boy would hand it to him, but instead he crouched low and, with the flick of his wrist, sent it whirling. James smiled to himself, and a moment later, the boy looked up and smiled at him, too.
After the toy toppled, James reached for it but stopped and hovered his hand a couple of centimeters above the little knob.
“May I?” he asked.
No reply. But the boy’s smile never left his face. So, James spun it. His own smile broadened the moment that he flicked his wrist.
Back and forth the two went for a while, taking turns spinning the top. At one point, the little toy traveled underneath the bed, and the boy’s smile faltered for a fleeting second before the top came out the other end. Then the boy burst out laughing. Hearing that laugh—carefree and innocent, bubbling with pure, unbridled joyfulness—pulled James out of his sorrow, temporarily banishing thoughts of Cassian from his mind and enabling him to feel happy again.
He realized, then, that he’d move on, eventually. Because life would keep moving, the earth itself would keep turning, no matter how grief-stricken he currently felt. He might stay heartbroken forever, as he’d likely still mourn George forever, but he’d survive it. God willing.
As James sent the spinning top whirling one last time, a woman with light-brown hair that was as curly as the little boy’s came rushing into the room. The moment that she saw the child, she heaved a relieved sigh, and her hand flew to cover her heart. Hurrying over, she said something that James couldn’t understand, though from her tone, James could tell that she must have been chastising the child, and then the boy replied, his voice so soft and sweet and perhaps even remorseful. It was strange to hear him speak after all this time.
The wooden top was still spinning when the woman suddenly scooped it up. She caught eyes with James and smiled a little. With a roll of her eyes, she said something else, maybe something regarding the boy’s behavior or how hard she’d been searching to find him. James held up his hand and shrugged.
“Not a problem, ma’am, really,” he said.
She bowed her head and said something else before pushing herself to stand. The boy stood, too, but before he left the room, he looked back at James and waved. James’s smile widened, his chest filling with warmth, and he waved back.
Once the mother and boy had left the room, James shut his eyes and sighed. Concentrating on the fast-fading warmth in his chest, he reminded himself that he’d be all right. Eventually.
***
Hours later, on the First-Class Promenade, James was sitting in one of the lounge chairs, writing more of his story while listening to the sounds of the sea, the yellow glow from the lights illuminating the promenade barely reaching where he was to properly brighten the page.
Even though James’s heart still hurt, he had made it through working in the Smoking Room—where Cassian had been enjoying his nightly post-meal cigar and brandy—without falling to pieces, mostly because he’d managed to internalize that he’d survive this. Somehow.
Still, he’d been unable to rest afterward. And so, he’d brought his notebook and pen onto the promenade to try to release some of his emotions onto the page in peace. Or at least escape reality for a while. In truth, it felt like a bit of both.
Muscles tense to keep himself from shivering, James began the next sentence of his story. His protagonist, a man he hadn’t yet named, had set sail on his first ever voyage across the Atlantic. Good-natured and kind, the man—living in 1700-something or other—was standing at the helm, the ocean wind whipping through his hair, feeling free for the first time in his life. But, of course, the poor fellow was unaware that his lovely little ship would soon be taken by pirates.
After a few more minutes of furious scribbling, James stopped when a strange feeling came over him—one that was close to, but not the same as, the sensation that came when being watched. Goose bumps pebbled over James’s skin. Something told him to look up.
So, he did.
