FLORENCE
TAP.
Wait.
I slide out of bed and when I fling the window open, I find Florence in my yard again, texting furiously.
My phone vibrates in my hand just as she looks up at me.
FLORENCE
ON YOUR WINDOW.
I smile so widely that it makes my cheeks burn. ‘Yeah, I got that.’
‘Good,’ she says. Her mouth twists into that soft smile that’s doing a terrible job of not implanting itself in my consciousness. ‘I didn’t want to have to spell it out.’
I pull on the hoodie that’s hanging on the end of my bed frame so I can properly lean out of the window. I feel like I’m Juliet and she’s Romeo, a reference I hadn’t even realised my brain had retained from year eight English lessons. God knows it didn’t retain much else.
‘Florence,’ I say, revelling in the way saying her name makes me feel somehow lighter. ‘I gave you my number so you didn’t have to throw stones. Not even digital ones.’
I can see the twinkle in her eyes even in the darkness of the yard. ‘Where’s the fun in that?’ she asks, and there’s a new tone to her voice, something playful and warm that I can feel resonate deep in my chest. ‘Get dressed and meet me down here,’ she orders. Then, almost as an afterthought, ‘Oh, and keep the glasses.’
Florence is into the glasses. Noted.
I pull my clothes on so quickly I surely must break some kind of record, and then I head down the stairs and out into the yard. She’s perching on the edge of an upturned crate, her legs stretched out in front of her, but she pops to her feet as she hears the door close behind me.
‘Come on,’ she says through a smile. ‘Let’s walk.’ And I follow her through the alley and out onto the deserted street without a second thought. All the thoughts that were spiralling in my mind are suddenly silent, and in their place, two syllables play over and over.
Florence. Florence. Florence.
She leads me down the hill and through the narrow passageway that leads to the harbour front. I wonder if she’ll take a right and head back up towards the abbey again, but she heads left instead, out towards the west pier.
It’s a calm night, mild even for early June, with a light breeze and a smattering of stars in the sky. I don’t often see Whitby at this hour– not unless it’s the inside of the bar– and it’s surprisingly peaceful. There are a couple of drunk men leaning over a wall near the pubs on Pier Road, but once we’re past the bandstand and onto the pier itself, there’s no one else around. When we’re facing this way– out into the vast darkness of the North Sea– it kind of feels like we’re the only two people in the world.
We haven’t spoken since we left my yard, but it hasn’t felt strange at all. There’s a comfortable silence that rests between us. I’m not normally a person who likes silences, but this one felt like it was there for a reason, a moment of calm in the midst of a storm.
I think Florence might be heading for the pier extension, but once she reaches the lighthouse she grabs my sleeve lightly, pulling me towards one of the benches positioned against the harbour wall. She takes a seat and I follow suit, making sure to leave a respectful distance between us even though the gap feels like a vast chasm. I wonder what it would feel like to have the weight of her resting against me but then I mentally scold myself.
She turns to face me, tucking one leg up to her chest and draping her arm over it. She’s beautiful there, her delicate features picked out by the silver glow of moonlight, her hair loose in dark waves that cascade over her shoulders.
‘We have to stop meeting like this,’ I say, meaning it as a joke, but Florence’s small smile doesn’t waver.
‘Do we?’ she asks.
I don’t follow at first and my confusion is obviously apparent, because after a moment she takes pity on me and continues.
‘Do we have to stop meeting like this?’ The wind whips a lock of hair into her face and she swipes it away, tucking it behind her ear. ‘I had a good time with you, before…’ She doesn’t say it, but we both know what she means.
‘The incident of which we shall not speak?’ I offer.
‘Yes.’ Her smile softens. ‘That.’
One of her hands flexes, and for a moment I think she’s going to reach out for me, but then it wraps around her knee instead.
‘How are you handling it?’ she asks, and I see the wince in her expression even though she tries to hide it.
Badly. That’s the answer. I’m handling it badly. Who wouldn’t be? I’m young– relatively, at least. I thought I had all the time in the world. And now suddenly I’ve been dragged into this supernatural shitstorm where there’s a chance I might float on the waves forever, but there’s also a very real possibility I’ll drown. And soon.