JOHNNY SINCLAIR X READER
WORD COUNT:5601
REQUEST: OPEN
The island rises from the water like itâs been holding its breath all year, waiting for you. The ferry engine shudders, gulls wheel, and your suitcase bumps your shin as you watch Beechwood come into focus: the weathered dock, the shingled roofs crouched against the wind, the pines leaning as if eavesdropping. You count the scrape-scrape of the ferry on the pilings because counting is how you donât think. One-two-three. You have counted every year. You tell yourself it is habit. You tell yourself it is respect.
Carrie is on the dock in her navy sweater, arms folded. She has new silver at her temples and an old smile.
âYou came,â she calls, and her voice carries over the water. âOf course you did.â
âI always do,â you say, stepping onto the planks, feeling them move under you like a heartbeat.
She hugs you too tight. âYou smell like city,â she says into your hair. Then, softer, âYou smell like summer.â
âDonât get formal with me, sweetheart. You know youâre mine.â She pulls back, studies your face the way people study paintings for meanings they brought with them. âYouâre thinner.â
âLiar,â she says, pleased. âCome on. The golf cartâs dying, like always. Weâll see if it remembers you.â
It does. The cart complains up the sandy track, the island flickering by in slices: the blackberry bramble Johnny once swore was full of snakes, the broken-backed deck chair, the rope swing you both outgrew and then didnât. The wind has that clean salt smell that grabs you under the ribs. You swallow hard. You do not cry on the ride in. You never cry until later, after the rituals,hello to the boathouse, hello to the shallow, dangerous stairs, hello to the place where the main house used to be.
âStop,â you say when the clearing opens like a wound.
Carrie stops. She doesnât look at you. âEvery year I think: plant something. A tree. A bush. A sign: donât look. And then I do nothing.â She smiles without humor. âOur family has always been better at doing nothing than doing the right thing.â
You get out. The foundation is still there, concrete rectangles like a childâs idea of a maze. There are rusted nails in the dirt, melted glass pebbles, a metal hinge fused into a shape like an apology. The sea talks to itself along the rocks. You put your fingertips on the concrete and feel heat that isnât there. You say, quietly, âHi.â
Carrieâs hand finds your shoulder. âYouâll stay at Red Gate,â she says. âLike always. Sheets are clean. I had the quilts aired out.â
âYou hungry? I made soup. Itâs nothing. But you have to eat.â
You look at the ruins again. âI will later.â
âIâll bring it by,â she says, which means she will, and it will be too salty, and she will stand in your doorway and pretend sheâs not checking whether your eyes are red. âYou knowâŠâ She trails off, bites her lip. âHe loved that you always came back.â
She shakes her head, brisk again. âIâm just saying what I always say. It makes me feel,â She stops. âNever mind. You know where I am.â
You do. You know where everything is. Thatâs the problem.
Red Gate waits at the end of the sandy path, the little gate flaking its bright paint, the shingles faded to driftwood, the porch steps worn by a thousand summers. The gate creaks when you push it with your hip. It sounds like a house remembering your name.
Red Gate smells like lemon oil and old paperbacks. The blue quilt is on the bed in the guest room, the one with the frayed edge where Johnny used to hook his fingers while you talked about nothing. You stand in the doorway and the room stands there too, innocent. Your suitcase sits obediently on the floor. Your breath is the only noise.
âOkay,â you tell the house. âBe kind.â
You unpack slowly. Swimsuit, sweater, the photo of you and Carrie at some long-ago Labor Day, both of you laughing at something not in frame. The ring Johnny gave you that last summer,garnet, oval, caught in a silver setting like a drop of blood in a web. You wear it on a chain now. You touch it and the chain goes cold.
âDonât,â you tell yourself out loud, which is ridiculous, but better than saying his name. Saying his name opens doors.
At dusk you take the path down through the red-painted gate to the little beach. The tide is halfway in, making sounds like someone whispering in the next room. The water is darker than you remember, or else your memory has bleached everything but him.
You step in up to your ankles. You say, âJohnny.â
The wind picks up. That could be coincidence. It often is.
âJohnny,â you say again, and you feel foolish, a woman talking to air, a woman who returns every year like a migrating bird with a broken compass. âIâm here.â
A gull screams. A wave breaks. The far buoy nods like a person. Then nothing else happens, except your heart doing its terrible work.
The first night, you dream of him. That is normal. Itâs almost a relief.
He stands in the Red Gate kitchen, barefoot, hair damp, knotting a dish towel like a little-boy sailor. He grins when he sees you. âYou took forever,â he says.
âTraffic,â you say. You donât look at the windows, because windows sometimes show fires.
âHold still.â He leans in, brushes a speck of sugar from your cheek with his thumb. He tastes it, like he always did, theatrical, delighted with very small things. âPowdered donut,â he decides. âHigh cuisine.â
âYouâre mocking me.â
âAlways,â he says cheerfully, like heâs rehearsed it, like he will always be fine. His eyes are ridiculous, bright as if the ocean climbed into them and stayed. âSwim?â
âNow now,â he says. âBefore you remember something and ruin it.â
That line is pure Johnny, and it hurts like good music. You go with him down the back steps, into the night still slick with heat. The beach is the beach you remember, not the beach that exists. The moon is indecently full. He runs into the surf and you follow, both of you yelping when the cold bites you under the ribs. He ducks under, comes up combing his hair back, face turned toward you like you are the thing people write poems about.
âHi,â he says, like he didnât say hi already. It feels new anyway.
âHi,â you say back, laughing.
âThey told me no,â he says, a little breathless. âMirren and Gat, you know how they are, with their rules. They said it would be cruel for me to,â
âDonât say it,â you say quickly. âDonât say anything you canât unsay.â
He tilts his head, and his mouth makes the shape of your name. He moves closer. The water makes your skin hypersensitive, like the world is too much. He touches your wrist. You feel his pulse like a bird, frantic. He slides his hand into yours under the water and it is so stupidly ordinary, so human, that a calm comes over you like warmth.
âYou always come back,â he murmurs.
âI promised,â you say.
He looks at you like youâve told a joke and heâs the only one who gets it. âYou always did that.â
âKeep your promises.â
You wake up with your cheek pillowed on your forearm and a mark on your wrist where his thumb might have been. You tell yourself dreams can leave marks if you sleep wrong.
Carrie appears at noon with a pot of chowder and a tin of biscuits she calls scones. She stands in your doorway with her sunglasses on her head like a crown. âEat,â she orders.
âMy queen,â you say, faintly, because itâs the joke and you both know the script.
She smiles. âOnly if you eat.â
You do. When you finish, she sits at the foot of your bed like a teenager. âDo you want to walk later?â she asks. âOr,no. Iâm not going to pretend I donât know why you like the little beach better. I can keep to the front, if thatâs easier. I can⊠exist somewhere else.â
âYou donât have to do that.â
She shrugs and looks around the room and the past. âFirst summer without him,â she says, and her voice goes husky. âYou remember? You wouldnât come out of here for hours. I would stand in the kitchen and imagine⊠I would imagine you and he were planning your getaway. He always wanted to âsteal you,â he said. Like a pirate. God, he was ridiculous.â
âYes,â you say, because your throat is full.
âHe loved you,â Carrie says, and that is not new information, it is the sun and the tide and the foolish gulls and the reason youâre not decent with anyone else. She says it like she says it every year. But then she adds, voice smaller, âI used to think,Donât be angry with me for saying this,I used to think youâd be my daughter-in-law. That there would be a day with flowers that smelled too sweet, and everyone would pretend the family wasnât awful for just one afternoon, and you and I would stand and fix his tie while he made faces in the mirror,â She stops, waves a hand at her face like she can erase what it just did. âWell. Then I thought it was cruel to wish that out loud. But I suppose I still do. Wish.â
âI know.â You put your hand over hers. Itâs the closest description of the hole you carry around: not just a missing boyfriend but the missing of everything after. âYou raised him good,â you say uselessly.
âThatâs debatable.â She studies your fingers. âYouâve never brought anyone here. Not once.â
âI know.â You keep your voice steady. âJohnny hated sharing the island.â
âMm.â She looks at you for a long time, like sheâs trying to make a decision. âSweetheart,â she says softly. âDo you,when youâre here,do you⊠talk to him?â
You consider lying, because it would be merciful. But Carrie Sinclair has learned truths the ugly way, and you donât know how to give her pretty ones. You nod, barely.
Her eyes shine and then donât. âGood,â she says, surprising you. âIf anyone could find a way to visit, he would. He would talk his way past God and the coast guard both.â She puts her knuckles against her mouth for a second. âTell him I said⊠Tell him I still yell at him in the car sometimes, when the radio plays those stupid songs he loved.â
âAnd if he says anything back, donât tell me,â she adds quickly. âNot yet. Iâm not brave enough.â She pats your knee and gets up, businesslike because thatâs how she survives. âLeftovers in the icebox. Come up for dinner. Iâll make fish. Or ruin it. You can laugh at me.â
After she leaves you stand in the kitchen and listen to the wood creak. âShe misses you,â you say to the empty house, or to the not-empty house, or to yourself. âWe both do.â You open the back door. The wind comes in like a person. âIf youâre here,â you say, âyouâre late.â
âI was sulking,â says a voice behind you.
You donât jump. You should. You turn slowly. Heâs leaning against the doorframe like he owns time. Heâs older than in the photos, but only because youâve grown older and are projecting it onto him. Heâs wet-haired again, like heâs always just come from the ocean. Heâs wearing the T-shirt he liked with the dumb lobster on it. Your breath becomes a million pieces.
âYouâre sulking?â you say, eyebrows up, heart in your throat. âOver what?â
âThat you said my mother âraised me good.â Grammar, darling.â He pushes off the doorframe, grinning. âBesides the grammar, itâs true, obviously.â
âObviously.â You canât help it; you close the distance and reach for him. Your hand stops an inch from his chest because you remember not remembering and you need to be sure. âCan I,?â
âYes,â he says, no teasing. His face changes when he says it, grows gentler around the mouth. âPlease.â
Your palm meets warmth. Not ice, not nothing: warmth. The very human rise of breath under skin. You skitter to his shoulder, trace the notch of bone you used to put your mouth on. You let out a sound that isnât pretty.
âProof,â he says quietly, closing his eyes.
âProof,â you say, and then you donât think. You curl your fingers in his shirt and kiss him, and he kisses you back like he learned there isnât a lot of time. The kiss is too much and exactly enough and full of all the things you didnât say on a night he did not live to hear them. When you pull back, his pupils are blown and heâs laughing breathlessly into your mouth.
âHi,â he says, like a fool.
âHi.â Your hands are shaking. âYou canât just,You canât show up like a,like weather.â
âThatâs literally what I am,â he says. âWeather. Tide. Bad habit.â
âI hate you,â you say, because itâs what you always said when you meant the opposite.
âLiar,â he says, stupidly fond.
You lean your forehead against his chest. âWhere do you go when you go?â
âA question for philosophers.â
He swallows. You hear it, strange detail, the human sound of it. âWhen I go,â he says, âIâm still here, but ajar. Like a door. Like you could push and it would swing, but you donât. You stand there and decide if itâs rude to enter. Thatâs where I am. In the deciding.â
âIt is.â He lifts your chin with a finger. âBut itâs true.â
You study him. His eyelashes clump in the damp. His mouth is the mouth that told you jokes you tried not to laugh at. âAre you,â You canât say the word.
âDead?â he says, not flinching. âI was. I am. Iâm also here. The island is a terrible boundary; it canât decide either.â
âSo you haunt me because of geography.â
âI haunt you because Iâm in love with you,â he says simply. âAnd because you keep your promises and come back.â
You sit, hard, on the kitchen bench. âYou sound like me.â
âI always did.â He drops onto the floor with his back against your knees. âTell me a thing.â
âWhat kind of thing?â
âAnything from the year. A small thing. Your favorite coffee shop closed? Your neighbor got a weird cat? Your hair did that thing where it wonât lie flat on Tuesdays?â
âYou donât know about my hair,â you say, faint, half-laughing.
âI know everything.â He turns his head and rests his cheek against your thigh like he used to when he wanted you to forgive him quickly. âTell me.â
So you do. You talk about nothing for a long time. The pie you ruined at Thanksgiving. The time you accidentally wore two different shoes to work and pretended it was a trend. How you stood at a bus stop and watched a little girl give a pigeon a French fry and felt this sudden, ridiculous swell of joy so big you had to sit down. He listens like this is news bulletins from a country he longs for. He laughs in the right places. He makes you tell the French fry story twice.
Then he speaks, soft. âTell me the hard things.â
You stare at the wall. âI donât date,â you say, and it surprises you to say it like a confession. âSometimes I try. I go to dinner. I laugh. And then I come home and think, I forgot to tell Johnny about the man who slurped his soup like a cartoon. And I realize I didnât forget. I saved it for you.â
He is very quiet. Then: âThatâs not a hard thing,â he says gently. âThatâs an ordinary thing with a bruise on it.â
âFine. The hard thing is that I donât want to stop coming here. People think that means I donât want to heal. But what if this is healing? What if you are the bandage and not the wound?â
âThatâs very poetic.â
âIâm agreeing with you.â He twists to look up at you. âI want you to come. I want to see you. And I⊠am not supposed to ask you to stay.â
âThe committee,â he deadpans.
âThey have a quorum. They bring snacks. They say things like, âThis is unhealthy, Johnny.â And I say, âObviously.â And then I break the rules anyway because Iâm a Sinclair and thatâs our family sport.â
You laugh wetly and wipe your face with the heel of your hand. âYour mother says to stop haunting the radio.â
âIâll try,â he says, guiltily delighted. âBut if Hozier comes on and I donât sing, am I even a specter?â
âDonât make me tell Carrie you said âspecter.ââ
âSheâll be proud I read something. Also: Tell her I miss her cooking and that she should never attempt risotto again.â
âIâm not getting between you and your motherâs risotto,â you say. âThatâs a death wish.â
âLittle late for that,â he murmurs, which is awful and he knows it, and he squeezes your hand when you flinch. âSorry.â
âDonât be,â you say. âWe always made terrible jokes.â
âTrue.â He looks at the window where the afternoon has arranged itself into something luminous. âWalk with me?â
You blink. âWe can do that?â
âApparently,â he says. âThere are loopholes. Come on. Before Mirren sends a thunderclap as a warning.â
You go. On the path, the light makes everything tender. He opens the red-painted gate for you with a mock bow. He points out turtles like he invented them. You argue about whether the clouds look like a dinosaur or a teapot. You sound like yourselves and also like actors who studied you for weeks and got the rhythm right.
At the clearing he stops. The ruins sit square and stubborn in the grass. The place where the kitchen was is a rectangle of weeds. He doesnât step closer. He tucks his hands in his pockets like a boy called into the principalâs office.
âI keep thinking if I stand there,â he says conversationally, âit will reverse. That the concrete will unpour. That the nail heads will pull themselves out of the floor like teeth unbiting. That we will be idiots in the hall with wet towels and silly grins, planning a future like we owned the calendar.â
He sighs. âI know. Thatâs not how anything works.â
You go to him, take his face between your hands. âLetâs not be here,â you say. âLetâs be every other place. The porch steps. The boathouse. The stupid swing. Red Gate.â
He kisses your palms like he agrees. âDeal.â
That night Carrie makes fish that is, in fact, ruined, and you and she eat it anyway and lie to each other about it. After dishes she pours you tea and sits across from you at the Red Gate table like a treaty negotiation is about to occur.
âAre you sleeping?â she asks.
âLike a log,â you lie, because your dreams are raucous, like beach parties.
âGood,â she says, and looks relieved in a way that hurts. âStaying how long this year?â
âTwo weeks,â you say, and she nods like itâs a business matter and not your heart opening at the hinges.
âStay three,â she says impulsively. âStay all of August. Let the city forget you exist.â
âYou can,â she says, then catches herself. âI mean, of course you have a job and a life and,and Iâm meddling.â
âSorry.â She smiles a little. âYou know, I still keep his room the same.â She says it like a confession, like she expects you to scold her. âI know. Itâs foolish.â
âSometimes I talk in there,â she admits. âI read out loud. I tell him about plastic in the ocean and the price of milk and how the dog across the street barks at snow. I tell him youâre coming. I tell him you did your hair different. I tell him he would have hated it.â She laughs, then presses her fingers to her eyes. âHe would have loved it. He would have loved everything.â
âHe did,â you say, and your voice breaks on the did like a wave. âHe really did.â
She reaches across the table and grabs your hand with both of hers so hard it almost hurts. âIf you see him,â she says, fierce with borrowed courage, âtell him I forgive him for everything that isnât his fault.â
You nod. You cannot promise anything else.
On the fifth day the wind is mean, and the sky lowers itself to the roof like it wants to listen. You and Johnny play gin rummy on the floor like youâre sixteen, and he is so bad at it that you suspect cheating in reverse.
âYouâre throwing the game,â you accuse.
âI would never,â he says, haloed by late afternoon.
âYou absolutely would.â
âI would,â he admits. âI like the way you look when you win. Itâs very⊠sharp.â
âTriumphant. Like you climbed a mast and planted a flag.â
You roll your eyes and arrange your cards. âWe should fight,â you say impulsively. âWe never do.â
He snorts. âWe fought all the time.â
âWe bickered.â You meet his gaze. âWe never fought about this.â
âThis,â he repeats. The cards go still in his hands. âAbout me being a dead boy?â
âAbout you asking me to let you go,â you say, because the words have sat in your mouth all week, unspooled and hot. âAbout me refusing.â
He looks at you like you just opened the right door. âOh,â he says softly. âThat.â
âDonât ask,â you say. âDonât be noble. I donât want noble. I want selfish. I want you to haunt me at the grocery store and in the dentist chair and when Iâm choosing laundry detergent. I want you to be the voice when I canât decide between two terrible dresses. I want you in my head like a glorious, infuriating chorus.â
He laughs, a startled sound, and then sobers. âI want that too,â he says. âYou know I do.â
âThen why do I hear you pulling back?â
âBecauseâŠâ He puts his cards facedown. âBecause sometimes I see you look at the door when a phone pings. Because sometimes you tell a story and switch out âweâ for âI,â and thatâs wrong. Because sometimes in the morning you rub your wrist like it aches. Because I donât want to be the reason you never,â He cuts himself off. âIâm so tired of being the reason.â
"The fire..." you started to say.
âI know. I also know I was there.â He leans forward, elbows on knees, eyes very blue and very sad. âI want every life you could possibly have, and I only get this one with you on the island. It feels greedy to keep it. And yet,â He looks at your mouth as if itâs his favorite view. âAnd yet.â
âJohnny,â you say, and then you canât speak because crying has shut your throat with glue. You sit there like a fool with water on your face. He moves to you, ridiculous, tender, pressing his forehead to yours.
âHey,â he whispers. âWe were always going to have a stupid fight about nothing.â
âThis isnât nothing.â
âI know.â He closes his eyes. âOkay. Compromise.â
âWhat kind of compromise exists between leaving and staying?â
âA messy one,â he says. âPromise me that when youâre in the city, youâll try. Youâll let someone make you coffee. Youâll kiss somebody terrible and laugh about it later. Youâll wear a dress you donât buy for a wedding youâre not invited to. Youâll do a thing that feels like a betrayal and then tell me about it in too much detail so I can be jealous.â
You let out an incredulous sound. âThatâs your compromise?â
âAnd in exchange,â he says, âI wonât stop coming. Not this year. Not while you ask. Not while you stand at the water and say my name like a blessing and a curse.â He swallows. âIâll be selfish with you just a little longer.â
You cover your face with your hands. âThis is a stupid deal,â you say, voice wrecked.
âThe best kind,â he says, pulling your hands down and kissing the tips of your fingers like youâre made of something worth worshiping.
On the tenth night the rain stops after midnight, and everything drips like applause. You and Johnny walk to the boathouse because the boathouse is a church and you are devout. You sit on the steps and watch clouds move.
âRemember when we thought weâd live in a tiny apartment with a window onto an alley and pretend the alley was the ocean?â he says.
âWe were poor at fantasies.â
âWe were rich in other ways,â he says. âI learned to fix a sink on YouTube for you. Thatâs love.â
âYou clogged the sink with kale.â
âHealth is dangerous,â he says solemnly. Then, quieter, âWhat will you do tomorrow?â
âSwim. Eat something green so you donât haunt me about kale. Try not to think about leaving.â
âDonât,â he says immediately. âDonât think about leaving until the boat comes. Pretend the island is the only map.â
âAnd tell my mother,â he adds, âthat I hear her. That I know she reads to me. That she should read something trashy. That I forgive her for the things she thinks need forgiving.â
âIâll tell her,â you say. You donât say: She will believe me or she will not, but she will like that I said it.
He leans his shoulder against yours. âTell me another ordinary thing from the city.â
You look out at the black water. âI bought an ugly lamp from a yard sale,â you say. âIt makes the whole room softer, like evening has a personality.â
âYou always were good at choosing light,â he says.
âAnd I planted basil. It died.â
âYou murdered an herb in cold blood,â he says gravely. âI am scandalized.â
âMy landlady says I am a serial killer. Of plants.â
He laughs, warm. âI am glad you have a landlady who says things like that.â
âIâm glad youâre here to hear it,â you say, even though glad feels like an indecently small word.
He hums and then is quiet for a long time. The quiet feels heavy, like a coat you could wear.
âWhat,â you say finally, nudging him.
He breathes out. âSometimes I think Iâm selfish for wanting you to come,â he says. âSometimes I think Iâm selfish for asking you to try to have that other life. I am selfish in both directions. That is very me.â
âYouâre human,â you say. âWhich is funny.â
âIsnât it?â He laughs, then shivers, and you realize the night has turned cold. You tuck your sweater around his shoulders like that could do anything. He makes a face. âThatâs very cinematic,â he says. âThe girl gives the boy her sweater. The boy is a ghost. The sweater is a metaphor.â
âYouâre insufferable.â
âMarry me,â he says, without thinking, the way you say pass the salt. And then he slaps a hand over his mouth, eyes huge. âI didnât,â
You stare at him. Rain ticks from the eaves like a clock.
âOkay,â you say, and he looks stricken and luminous and ridiculous all at once. You add, because you need to cut the wire before it explodes, âOkay as in I hear you. Not okay as in,You know.â
He lets his hand drop. âI know.â His smile is devastated and then repaired. âI just,I had to say it once, out loud. To know what it sounded like.â He looks out at the water. âIt sounds like a bell.â
âIt does,â you say, and you sit there with him and listen to the bell until itâs only the sea again.
On your last morning, the island is in a mood. The wind knocks at the windows like a friend who doesnât know how to be polite. You stand on the sand with your toes gripping the cold, like you could anchor yourself. Johnny stands inches away, his hands in his pockets the way he does when he thinks heâll be brave if his fingers canât fidget.
âI hate this part,â he says.
âI hate that it feels like a trick every time we get away with this. Like weâre going to be caught and given detention by God.â
âMaybe God likes lovers,â you say.
âMaybe God is Carrie with better lighting,â he says, and you snort damply and elbow him in the ribs.
âYour mother will make me pack you a sandwich,â you say. âIf I tell her.â
âTell her I want roast beef,â he says, automatic, then winces. âThat was⊠unkind.â
âIt was human,â you say again, and he nods, grateful for the excuse.
The ferry moves like a beetle on the horizon. Your body recognizes the shape of it and begins to shake, as if it knows what your brain is hiding.
âOkay,â he says. He turns to you, and there it is, the way he looks at you like traffic lights turn green out of respect. âOkay. The deal. Youâll try.â
âIâll try,â you say, and the promise tastes like salt.
âAnd youâll come back,â he says softly.
He nods, once. He steps in, and you do too, and he kisses you with his eyes open, like he doesnât want to miss a frame. He tastes like rain and something you will never be able to name. When he pulls back he rests his forehead against yours a second that lasts all morning.
âSay it,â he whispers.
âJohnny,â you say, and the wind takes it. âJohnny. Johnny.â
âGood.â He smiles, lopsided, boyish. âI like the way my name sounds in your mouth.â
âEgo,â you say, wiping your face with your sleeve.
âSinclair,â he says back, which is the joke and the truth.
You walk up to the house together, back through the red-painted gate. Carrie stands on the porch with a mug that says WORLDâS OKAYEST CHEF. Her mouth trembles when she sees you. She hands you a paper bag that is too heavy to be just snacks.
âI put the scones in there,â she says. âAnd also the good jam. And also the terrible risotto I tried to make into rice balls. Donât laugh.â
âI would never,â you say.
âLiar,â she says, loving you.
You hesitate. âCarrie,â you say, and you are shaking again, but not from cold. âHe hears you. When you read. He wants you to read trash next time.â
She closes her eyes, then opens them, fierce and wet. âI can do that.â She frames your face in her hands. âYou are my girl,â she says, as she has said every year, which means you are not hers and you are and both are true. âBe safe out there.â
She studies you, then looks past your shoulder at nothing. âAnd you,â she says, to the air in a voice that belongs in a church. âCome to me in a dream when you can. Iâll make us tea.â
The wind goes gentle, just for a second. You donât look back, because you are afraid of what youâll see, or not see.
When you reach the dock, you stand very still. The ferry is at the pier. The rope groans. The island is patient.
âOkay,â you say under your breath. âOkay.â
And then, because you are a woman who keeps her promises, you go to the edge of the dock and look at the place where the water changes color and say, very softly, âIâll try, but Iâll be back.â The buoy nods. The gulls wheel. The sea says something in its quiet language.
On the crossing you hold the paper bag and breathe the smell of jam and lemons and steam and time. You watch the island shrink without actually shrinking. In the glass behind your reflection there is a boy leaning against the railing as if he has never been afraid of falling.
He doesnât speak. You donât either. You lift your hand. He lifts his. Your palms meet on the ghost of a window.
You say nothing. You understand everything.
When the city rises like a new problem at the horizon, you take out your phone and type a text into a note you keep just for him.
âOrdinary thing: a woman on the ferry has a hat shaped like a strawberry. She looks like she could juggle summers. I think youâd like her courage.â
You save it. You tuck the phone away. You touch the ring at your throat. You stand in the wind and let it take your hair in its hands. You think of Carrie at Red Gate reading trashy novels out loud to air that is not empty. You think of risotto that is rice balls that is love, and the red gate that swings when someone you love comes home.
You think of a committee of ghosts arguing over rules and you grin, mean and alive.
âSee you,â you whisper toward the line where water meets sky. âSoon.â
