The thought carries me to one of the reasons, beyond my friends, that I stay. The tiny private beach that belongs to the pub—that belongs tous. It’s barely a few feet of sand, but it’s ours, and cut off by the tide and sheltered by Sol’s boat shed, it’s the closest to solitude I’m going to find outside tonight.
I find my spot, such as it is, and sit on the sand, my back to a rock that feels moulded to my spine, unlike the one that left bruises on my skin from the night I met Mal. Injuries I didn’t fucking earn.
Because you left.
I roll my eyes and swig my beer, contemplating what could have been. If Ihadn’tleft, and I’d fucked Mal in the shadows of Saltkiss Bay. If it had got that far. In my head, we kissed a thousand times against that rock, but my imagination stallsevery time my thoughts turn tomore,hitting a roadblock I’ve yet to dissect.
I don’t care.
Why would I? I can fuck someone tonight if I want. And maybe I do. I have time and energy to spare, and it doesn’t feel unhealthy to scroll through my phone and find someone. For the first time since I met Mal, my head’s screwed on right. I feel like banging someone because I like sex, not because I need out of my entire fucking existence, so why my phone stays in my pocket, I have no clue.
I lean back on the sand, closing my eyes, listening to the waves beat the shoreline, light spray misting my face. Even with the accordion murdering my eardrums, it’s so peaceful it’s hard to believe the same waves claimed a girl’s life today. Even harder to contemplate she might’ve survived if the lifeguard base hadn’t burned down six months ago—an arson attack that might not’ve happened if the bikers had stayed.
Disquiet rattles my mood. My eyes flash open and I don’t feel alone anymore. Until I do, as if whoever’s attention I claimed is already gone. It’s a weird feeling and my gaze slides to the empty beer bottle. It’s been a while since I last drank. Maybe this is another reason I shouldn’t.
It’s definitely a reason to quit this day, go inside, and pretend the sound of my tatty Vans crunching over the gravel doesn’t set my teeth on edge.
I dodge Jack and Sol and duck upstairs.
The windows are still open. I shut them one by one until I get to the narrow corridor where my own room is. WhereMal’sroom is. And that’s when I spot him. On the roof looking out over the whole pub, long arms resting on his bent knees, a beer dangling from one hand while he flexes the other, clenching it into a fist, over and over.
He has scarred hands—I noticed them that night, and again the other morning. The marks on his knuckles, the ring finger curved at an odd angle.
Old injuries.
Years.
Decades.
He’s thirty-one and he’s been a soldier since he was sixteen. Which makes me wonder about the rest of his body beyond what I already know, and it’s a slippery slope that has me forcing myself into motion. To pass his open bedroom door and continue to my own.
I slip inside, finding sanctuary in the familiar four walls. Three bone-white, the other painted black by whoever lived here before. That’s where my bed is, pressed up against the coal dark wall, grey sheets Sol says match my eyes, but he’s full of that whimsical shit, especially when he’s drunk. And he’s definitely drunk tonight, I hear it in the laughter filtering up from the garden, and I hope he’s happy. Sol doesn’t deserve to be sad.
Neither do you, boyo.
I push that voice away. Not because I hate it. Because I don’t, and my life would be easier if I did. Maybe. Either way, pushing an old friend aside leaves room for other things and I realise I’m hungry.
The urge to ignore it comes as naturally to me as breathing. To go straight to sleep, or worse, downstairs to the cellar gym to burn through the last meal I ate until I’m empty and raw inside. But I’m not as lacking as I was a week ago. I go to the kitchen and make a sandwich like anyone else, and eat it standing at the counter while I scroll on my phone to stop myself peeping at Mal as he sits on the roof.
I have three hook-up apps on my phone and six acquaintances-with-benefits I can text. I thumb through the numbers, the sandwich heavy in my stomach no matter howtight my head is screwed on. None appeal to me. Same on the apps as I navigate faceless profiles and dick pics. But I still feel like fucking someone’s brains out and the first lick of agitation ripples through me. Why can’t anything be easy? Why am I even looking? I don’t want a stranger in my bed and my inclination to get back in my car simmers below sea level.
But it’s what I do when I’m coming off the back of a mental storm. Winding up in someone’s arms smack bang in the eye of it is something that’s never happened before Mal. The thought of it happening again—not with him, with someone else…
No.
I push off the counter and walk away from that train of thought. I go to my room. Like the door at my back, the window’s shut. Probably locked. But I see Mal’s silhouette on the sloping tiles and I can’t tear my gaze from it. I can’tsleepknowing he’s out there, and the frustration I’ve brought from the kitchen flares again.
I’m beginning to regret telling Jack I was okay with his brother in my space. Clearly I’m not. And it’s more annoying than Mal. Though, if he’s going to lurk on the roof all night that might change.
A pebble hits my window.
Tension floods me, but I force it down into the depths of my gut, where the food I’ve eaten still sits, waiting for its moment to ruin my day.
It’s him.
Mal.
And he’s throwing stones at my window.