That’s him, not Porth Luck. Not the Joker or this confusing place we’ve found ourselves. And I want to tell him—Ineedto tell him—that when I forgot my own name and the bones of who I used to be, he was still there. But I’m so tired the wordswon’t come. My throat is thick, eyes weighted by anvils. I drift as the storm grows distant, energy fading, and as the dark and the noise ebb away, he never lets go of my hand.
He never lets go of my heart.
Sol is so Cornish. Sometimes I think if you cut him open, he’d bleed sea water and sand to the tune of the ancient shanties he and Oscar Kuznetov are singing in the back bar.
The Joker is packed.
I move through the crowd, collecting glasses and sweeping my gaze through every nook and corner of the old building, scanning every shadow. The whole town seems to be in tonight, the good, the bad, and the ugly drowning out the gloomy weather with one pint too many and a wall of noise.
Too much noise.
I block most of it out, imaginary plugs sealing my ears shut, turning down the volume on a life I should be used to by now. The life Sol and Skylar built me when I took a mortar round to my thick skull and forgot how to tie my own laces. I scout for the local dealers who sneak in to peddle ket and coke in the toilets.
I’m not looking for Sol.
Don’t need to. I know where he is. I hear him as his voice lifts over the muffled din smooth as sea-worn driftwood. Ifeelhim under my skin like something old waking up, always have, and I’ve never really learned what to do with it.
The Joker is the oldest building in Porth Luck. A fortress against the elements, it sits right on the sea wall, holding its breath against the waves, and it belongs to all of us.
Mal and Skylar.
Me andSol, and it’s him I see in the low beams and mismatched tables. The crammed shelves of dusty books and nautical artefacts. His sea breeze scent I taste in air stained heavy with woodsmoke and salt.
Don’t look at him.
A feat I can usually manage when I’m working and simple tasks require all the brain function I have left.
But Sol…when he sings like he is tonight, lit from within, wild and warm, how indelibly I’m drawn to him is a tough ask to ignore.
I slip behind the bar and dump the glasses I’ve picked up along the way. Locals clamour around the cider pumps, and though I’ve only been gone a few minutes, there are already too many thirsty fishermen to count.
It’s not hard.
Pulling pints.
Counting the hard-earned coins they chuck at me to pay for them.
At least it shouldn’t be. But the rush at the bar absorbs me until it dies down a little and my brain spins from the effort it takes to keep up.
I shut the till, blinking against vibrations in my left eye, my skin prickling from the awareness of attention on me, but it’s not a bad feeling. Can’t be—it’s Sol’s attention, and this time, I’m powerless against the need to find him in the crowd as the shanty ends on a roar, boots and pint glasses thumping in time with the final beat. The kind of sound that hits your ribs. The songs Porth Luck is built on.
But the racket, the riot of noise, falls to a low buzz as my searching gaze lands on my best friend. Through the carnage of a regular Thursday night, everything does. I don’t see people or pints. Only his tousled curly hair sticking up in every direction, his chest rising and falling as he catches his breath. His bronze-brown eyes so bright and luminous it’s hard to remember there’s anyone else in the world.
Fuck.
We lock in for barely a beat. But it’s enough for my pulse to thud in my ears, a loaded tattoo that should have me wondering if the fault in my kid brother’s heart is genetic.
Keyword:should. The truth is zero thoughts pass through my brain while I stare at Sol, every nerve coiling with a heat that sticks to my skin and lingers in the wreckage of my shattered memory.
Reach for it?—
“Oi. You serving or what?”
I blink and jerk my head too fast. The impact almost tips me sideways, but I catch myself on the bar as the familiar lurch hits the eye that already feels like it’s about to fall out of my skull, and set my jaw, irritation and anxiety surging in my veins, chasing off the vertigo. “Sorry. What do you want?”
The old man in front of me grins, showing his rotten teeth. He points at the brown ale. “One of them. And one for yerself.”
I don’t drink. Can’t. But it’s quicker to nod than explain myself. To pour an extra half I’ll slide Sol’s way next time he’s close enough.