‘That’s a bit dramatic,’ I say with a smile, trying to stem the tears that are inexplicably blurring my vision, but I think he sees them, because his face softens.
‘We’re in a graveyard, Lucy,’ he says, with the slightest of rasps in his voice, and his lips tug into a smile. ‘If ever there was a time to be dramatic, this is it.’
‘You know,’ I reply, suddenly filled with gratitude for this man I barely know, who somehow feels like less of a stranger than anyone I’ve ever met. ‘You’re surprisingly upbeat for someone who dresses like Death himself.’
And then he throws his head back and laughs harder than I’ve heard from him so far, and it’s a beautiful sound– rough and messy and unapologetically loud– so loud that some of the people near us turn to glare at him, and I remember where we are. I turn to look at the church behind us, old and beautiful. I remember reading that it was built almost a thousand years ago, and something about that fact humbles me.
‘Hey,’ I say, squeezing Bram’s hand lightly. ‘Can you go inside this church?’
He hums in reply. ‘I don’t know, actually.’
‘You’ve never been in?’
‘Nope,’ he says, flipping his hair out of his face. ‘Kinda feel like I might burst into flames if I cross the threshold.’
Something shifts in my brain then, hazy puzzle pieces shifting and moving into place. Ever since that post-shower jump-scare on the first night, I’ve suspected there was something different about Bram, but I could never put my finger on what. I thought perhaps it was just because he’s so different to anyone else I know, but what if it’s something else entirely?
Something more … supernatural?
My chest tightens. ‘What?’
‘I’m not christened,’ he says, a rumble of laughter behind his words.
‘Right.’ I nod. ‘Just an absolutely normal human person that was never christened.’
But that only makes him laugh harder, and soon I’m laughing too, half convinced I’m going crazy as I cling on to his hand for dear life and we sit together on an old windswept bench in the October sun.
It’s a little after three when we skip out onto the beach beside the West Pier, ice creams in our hands. After we’d outstayed our welcome on the bench, we walked back down into town, weaving our way through throngs of jubilant and slightly drunk goths, and, after a small detour to blow five pounds’ worth of small change on arcade machines, ended up at an ice cream stand.
Still half full of fudge, I opted for a pastel-coloured unicorn cone, while Bram went for an entirely on-brand scoop of black vanilla.
‘Only vanilla thing about me,’ he said with a wink, and I laughed at his ridiculousness.
I’m still chuckling now, as we scurry down onto the beach. The tide is coming in, and in an hour or two the water will be at our feet, but for now we have a huge strip of sand ahead of us. I can’t resist kicking off my shoes and socks and rolling up my jeans as best I can with one hand so I can feel the sand between my toes. Bram watches me for a moment or two before he does the same, and then we set off walking, shoes in our hands, down the beach to the surf.
‘So what does black vanilla taste like?’ I ask, the wind whipping against my grin.
He huffs a little laugh and licks his cone dramatically. ‘Like vanilla,’ he deadpans, ‘but darker.’ And then I watch as histongue darts back out for another taste, a small knot of tension tightening in my belly. Somewhere in my consciousness I wonder what he would taste like if I kissed him right now– how cold his lips would be against mine.
Wait, where the hell did that come from?
I mean, I’ve known from the second he appeared half-naked on the landing that Bram was hot, and I can’t lie, I’ve been enjoying the view. And the more I learn about him, the more he shows himself to be decent and funny and caring too. So I don’t know why I’m shocked that I’m suddenly having thoughts.
Thoughts of his fingers on my skin. Thoughts of his mouth on mine.
But I am shocked nonetheless. I feel a flush of embarrassment from my scalp to my toes, which I really hope he can’t see. But luckily, when I sneak a glance at him, he’s still engrossed in his goth ice cream.
‘Should I be eating this?’ I quip. ‘Aren’t unicorns an endangered species?’ Silly jokes are, after all, my tried-and-true way of alleviating sexual tension. This time, though, it barely makes a dent.
He looks over at me, a smear of black on his upper lip. ‘I’m not sure if you’re joking or not,’ he says steadily, ‘and I’m a little worried that you’re not.’
I just smile in response, waggling my eyebrows as I pop the last of my ice cream cone into my mouth. The sand has begun to feel damp under my feet, cool against the gentle warmth of the sun. It’s almost blissful.
‘You going in?’ Bram asks between mouthfuls.
There’s a teasing tone to his voice that almost makes me want to strip naked and dive into the waves just to prove a point, but I realise that would be ridiculous. So instead I pointedly dip a toe into an approaching wave. It’s freezing– so cold that I feelthe contact as a stinging pain– but I don’t flinch, don’t react. Instead I turn to him and shrug.
‘It’s actually strangely warm,’ I say, forcing down the shiver that’s rippling up my leg, and dipping the same toe in again. It’s half numb now anyway.