The Sight of You

by Holly Miller

  Though I’ll probably never send it, it’s a kiss blown across oceans, from my heart to his.

  78.

  Joel—eighteen months after

  Dawn patrol. I’m a pretty decent surfer now, since I started making regular trips to Cornwall and Warren shoved me into lines of white water, told me to paddle and try not to kill anyone.

  I look across. Give him the thumbs-up, a salty grin. It’s only May, so the sea’s not had a chance to warm up yet. Even through five millimeters of neoprene, the breaking waves steal my breath.

  But the swells are prolific and the summer crowds haven’t peaked.

  I sit up on my shortboard, watch the sets roll in. Picking my wave, I paddle, take off, charge left. Vaguely aware of Warren to my right, for a few exultant moments I no longer have to think. The water becomes thunder, deafening as a military fly-past.

  I let it drown out everything. The past, the future, and everything in between.

  * * *

  • • •

  Later, we head to the pub. I get lost in the crowd, start talking to someone. End up back at her place, a small nondescript house miles away from Newquay. I have no idea if she lives here or if she’s transient like me, but the sex is good. Nothing close to the magic of being with Callie, but good enough. Just like the waves, it helps me forget.

  * * *

  • • •

  The next morning I find her in the living room. Petite and dark-haired, she’s sipping coffee in her dressing gown. She lives here, I realize. There are framed photos everywhere, fresh flowers on the coffee table, pairs of shoes in the porch.

  An excruciating silence. I haven’t done this in so long.

  She smiles shyly. “Coffee?”

  “Actually, I’d better . . .” I jerk my thumb clumsily over my shoulder, like a hitchhiker.

  Something breaks over her face that might be relief. “Yeah, I wanted to say. I’m not really looking for anything—”

  “Me either,” I say quickly. “Sorry.”

  “No! Don’t be. I’m sort of . . . getting over someone, so . . .”

  “Oh, good.” My mind hiccups, then stalls. “I mean, not good . . .”

  She laughs nervously. I can actually see her toes curling. (Is this honestly the effect I have on women these days?) “It’s okay. I know what you meant.”

  I glance at the photos on her mantelpiece. She used to have long hair. The crop must be a recent thing. “Is that your . . . ?”

  “Little boy. Yeah. He’s five now.” She wraps her hands even more tightly around her mug of coffee. Takes a protracted sip, like she’s playing for time. “It’s sort of on-off, on-off with his dad at the moment.”

  “Oh. I hope I haven’t—”

  “Not at all. I mean, technically it’s off, but I just can’t quite seem to . . . get over him, you know?”

  Something contracts in my chest. “I do, actually.”

  “You got kids, John?”

  I half laugh, about to correct her before thinking better of it. “No.”

  A silence follows. Through the dividing wall drifts the sound of a baby crying. The muffled syncopation of an argument.

  “Sorry,” she says, after a few moments. “That was all a bit insensitive of me. I did have fun last night.”

  I take her in, wonder briefly if this is how it will always be. A series of half connections, nights devoid of true emotion. Never quite feeling the way I did with Callie.

  “That’s okay,” I say, reaching for my jacket where I left it on the armchair last night. “I think we were both on the same page.”

  She leans forward. “You’re such a nice guy, John. Honestly, there aren’t enough like you.”

  I pull on my jacket and smile again. Well, the sentiment’s there, at least.

  * * *

  • • •

  “Don’t,” I say to Warren, when eventually I make it back to his place. (Long walk, bus, cab.)

  He smiles. “Didn’t think you were in the market.”

  “I’m not. What market? I’m not.”

  Warren holds up his hands like I’ve whipped out a gun. “Forget I said anything. Listen, we still on for next week?”

  Warren’s coming back to Eversford with me next Saturday for the barbecue Dad’s finally agreed to host. For the first time we’re all going to gather in one place and get to know one another. The whole family.

  “Reminded Dad before I left.”

  “It’ll be weird to meet him properly. In a good way, I hope.”

  I don’t tell Warren that Doug is in fact my main concern, given his general inclination to behave like an arsehole.

  Six months ago, with Tamsin’s and Warren’s encouragement, I eventually went to see a GP. I knew by then that I could never be anyone’s project, so had turned down Diana’s offer of help for good. But I had noticed a subtle uplift in my well-being simply from throwing punches at Steve several times a week. And there were people I’d told now supporting me. The timing felt right.

  Far more understanding than my university medic, this GP listened properly. Referred me straight to a counselor. And now, gradually, by way of twice-weekly sessions, I’ve started working through the mess in my mind. Begun contemplating the idea of a future.

  It’s been more challenging than even I thought possible. But in a way it needed to be, to stop me thinking about Callie. The idea of her death is like an insect in my mind, a moth that stirs at the merest hint of light. I can’t allow myself to dwell on what she’s doing now. Because if I do, I’ll be devastated by the thought of losing her all over again.

  So instead I’m focusing on fitness, my mental health, and a rainbow of attendant benefits. Like improving things with my dad, and with Doug. Being a good uncle. The possibility of becoming a vet again. I’ve been gradually increasing the time I spend asleep each night, the end goal being not to fear it. I’m learning how to cook, cutting down on caffeine.

  Callie would be pleased for me, I think. And that’s the desperate waste of it all. Yes, I can try to live a life Callie would be proud of. But it will always break my heart that my dream became a chasm so wide between us that we had no hope of crossing it.

  Because although she decided against saving herself in the end, I’d never have been able to stop trying.

  I miss her still. All the little things. Like anticipating her smile as I cracked a joke. The way she’d press her face into Murphy’s neck when she got home from work. How her head would nod and jerk as she fell asleep in front of the TV. Those first sky-high moments of kissing her. Stirring to hear her singing in the shower.

  The last song she ever murdered in there was “I Will Always Love You” on our final morning together. Two days later, after Esther’s message to say Callie wasn’t coming home, I went into the bathroom and just stood there. Tried to conjure up the sound of her voice. Her towel had slipped off the rail, become a crisp crumple on the floor tiles. A bottle of her favorite coconut shampoo was still balanced on the rack behind my shower gel, cap flipped open.

  I picked it up and held it for a moment. Took a giddying breath in, before pressing the lid back down.

  I did that for months afterward. Inhaled it every morning, so I could start each day with only thoughts of her.

  79.

  Callie—eighteen months after

  I see him on the boardwalk every morning. We’re staying at the same site on the northwestern tip of Latvia, in rustic beachside cabins where pine forests end and the Baltic Sea begins. The place is tiny—there’s only around twelve of us checked in. I realized he was British when I overheard him chatting to a birdwatcher one morning, as I was returning from a stroll along the sand at dawn.

  There are lots of birdwatchers here. I’m not among them, per se, but migrating birds often touch down at the wildest extremities of the earth. I can see why Liam loves it her
e so much—it’s mesmeric in its desolation, a place of arresting remoteness, of sweeping sands and sprawling forests, where sea segues into sky.

  I’ve been in Europe for a fortnight—my first trip abroad since returning from Chile last autumn. I wanted to surround myself with solitude once again—the vast beaches I’d seen between the pages of books, the pine woods I’d pictured in daydreams. Ricardo, my guide from Chile, recommended an atlas’s worth of other destinations to me too, before I left South America, but they’ll have to wait until I’ve topped up my bank account. Esther and Gavin’s first baby is due in a couple of months, and they’ve asked me to be godmother, so I’m fitting in some time away now—because once the baby’s born, I won’t want to miss a thing.

  We’re both early risers, Finn and I. When he introduced himself to the man in the gift shop yesterday, I was behind him in the queue and made a mental note of his name. Two cabins along from me, he attempts to greet me in Latvian each time I pass him, the phonetic jumble that results about as amusing as mine. He’s here by himself—at least, I’ve not seen anyone with him.

  On my penultimate night, I’m sitting on the wooden bench outside my cabin with a beer and some bread and cheese, breathing in the view. The sky is strewn with candy-floss clouds, the sun like an orange being squeezed into the sea.

  I’ve just finished writing Joel another postcard. There are several now in an envelope at Esther’s house—a time capsule of all my thoughts, my adventures. I’ve been passing them to her for safekeeping, in case anything should happen to me. Because if it does, I need to be sure Joel has a way back to my heart.

  Postcard written, I capture the sunset on my phone and message it to Liam. Wish you were here? I add an emoji on purpose, because he always gets so grumpy about them.

  Then, flip-flops on the boardwalk.

  I turn to see Finn heading to his cabin. He raises a hand in greeting.

  I smile and set down my beer. “Hi.”

  Cautiously, he returns the smile. “You’re English?”

  “Yep.”

  “Ah. Sorry about my pidgin Latvian, then.”

  I laugh. “Mine too.”

  He exhales, looks up at the sky. “Nice night for it.”

  “Beautiful.”

  Just as I’m expecting him to move on, he lingers. “You staying long?”

  “I leave the day after tomorrow.” I hesitate. “Would you like a beer?”

  The smile reaches his eyes, and he walks over. “Love one. If I’m not disturbing you?”

  “Not at all. Unless you had plans to . . .”

  “I was pretty much going to do what you’re doing.” He laughs. “I’m a sucker for a sunset.”

  I uncap a beer and hold it out to him.

  He thanks me and sits down. Six-foot-plus, he’s blond and open-faced, with blue eyes that grip tight. He looks laid-back and beachy in shorts and flip-flops, a baseball cap.

  I glance down at my beer and feel a twitch of anticipation, deep in my solar plexus.

  “So . . .”

  “. . . Callie.”

  “Callie. I’m Finn.” We shake hands, his dwarfing mine. “Did you come here for the birds, or the solitude?”

  “A little of both. I’m not really a birdwatcher. More of a bird . . . appreciator.”

  He laughs. “Nicely put. So you’re here on holiday?”

  “Yep. You?”

  “Same.” Eyes sparking, he nods. “Nice T-shirt, by the way.”

  The tractor T-shirt Joel gave me for Christmas, nearly three years ago now. Finally I’ve been able to wear it again, remember his smile with one of my own. I feel braver, somehow, when I think about him, these days.

  My thoughts still drift to him a lot—to what he’s doing now, who he spends time with, the things he dreams about. To whether he’s got a job, or a love interest, or a different outlook on life since we split. But slowly, incrementally, the sharp edges of my memories are beginning to blunt. They wound me less, feel more like scratches now than stabs.

  “Thanks,” I say to Finn. And then, so I don’t have to explain, “How long have you been here?”

  “Nearly a week now. You?”

  “Here, only three nights. I went to Estonia and Lithuania en route.”

  Finn looks impressed. “Both on my bucket list.”

  I smile and tell him more, about spotting storks in the forest and eagles over lakes, about losing my way in an Estonian bog as night was closing in.

  Finn leans in as I talk, listening intently, eyes spilling good humor. “God, I need to do more traveling,” he says, when I’ve finished, sipping his beer.

  “Anything stopping you?” The question people have been asking me my whole life. It feels weird to be the one saying it, for a change.

  He grimaces. “Money. Annual leave. Being organized enough. Argh. I hate real life.” He swigs his beer. “You sound like you’re pretty sorted, Callie. I’m jealous. What’s your secret?”

  “This is all new to me, actually. You know the story—too terrified to make the most of my youth, then start panicking as I hurtle toward forty.”

  Finn fixes his smile. “Ah. Here you were enjoying a peaceful sunset, and I come along and land you with an existential crisis. Okay. Let’s rewind—tell me all about you, and don’t let me speak for the next half an hour at least.”

  “Half an hour?”

  “I’ll time you,” he says, looking down at his watch. “Start by telling me why your other car’s a tractor.”

  * * *

  • • •

  “Is my time up yet?”

  “I have no idea.” Finn’s eyes are shining, like ship lights far out at sea. He’s leaning forward, elbows resting on his thighs. He’s been laughing at all my jokes, digging into my stories, asking questions. He’s funny and self-deprecating, arrestingly handsome with a winning laugh.

  He asks about my job, offers up smart questions on tree-felling, carr woodland, and habitat management. I realize as we chat that I’m not comparing him to Joel as I thought I might. I’m not comparing him to anyone. Maybe that means I’m giving him a fair shot, or maybe it means I still think Joel’s beyond compare.

  “So what about you?” I ask Finn, conscious that I’ve been running on for a while now. “What do you do for a living?”

  He looks into his lap, just for a moment, then back up at me. “I’m an ecologist. That’s kind of why I’m here. To catch the migration. Brush up on my ID skills.”

  I stare at him. “That’s . . . You should have said.”

  “I wanted to hear about you.”

  So many questions spring to mind. “So you actually . . . What kind of ecology?”

  “Well, I’m with a consultancy. Lots of time out in the field. Surveys, assessments, reports, all that jazz.”

  “Do you love it?”

  “Yeah,” he says. “I love it. It’s what I was born to do.”

  I know that feeling, I think, as we stare out at the sea together, now swathed in darkness.

  He tells me he’s a Brightonian born and bred, with a big family, lots of friends. He’s a fan of dogs and romantic comedy, a lover of good food. Hopeless with technology, he’s shocking at DIY, is someone who tries not to sweat the small stuff.

  “So if you don’t mind me asking,” he says, glancing down at the carpet of pine needles beneath our feet, “is there anyone waiting for you, back at home?”

  My mind journeys to Joel. I picture him in his garden, hands stuffed into his pockets, staring up at the stars.

  I wonder, just for a second, if we’re looking at the same spot of sky.

  Then I return my gaze to Finn. “Not anymore.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Later Finn and I kiss, lips cold and then hot against the backdrop of the Baltic Sea. It’s a kiss that feels foreign and e
vocative all at once, a kiss that taps back into a long-forgotten thrill. There’s not been anyone since Joel—and I’m trying to forget him now, the way his touch coursed through me in currents. Because I fancy Finn, and I already know that this could be something good.

  It’s time to move on. Joel said that was what he wanted for me, and kissing Finn beneath the stars tonight seems like a pretty great place to start.

  * * *

  • • •

  And then, because I want to, because it feels right, I ask Finn into my cabin.

  There was a time when I couldn’t imagine wanting to be with anyone other than Joel. And that almost terrified me more than the idea of moving on. I feared being dogged for eternity by subconscious comparisons I’d never be able to override—because how could anyone ever kiss me the way Joel did?

  But being with Finn reminds me that there are a million kinds of mind-blowing. He’s confident, I soon discover, as our kisses intensify. He’s really good at this stuff—bold and undaunted, emphatic, vocal. And in the end it is this self-assurance that saves us, because Finn’s hot in a way I can’t ignore, in a way that blazes straight through any thoughts I might have had of Joel. We don’t once stop for breath, and it’s the most thrilling surprise, that Finn has roused something in me I was worried I’d lost forever.

  * * *

  • • •

  The next morning we’re up at first light, sitting on the rocks atop a spear of sand. We’re the only ones out here, watching the air turn apricot as the sun begins to rise. Like we’re shipwrecked on our own private island.

  Up in the sky, a river of migrating birds is rushing over our heads, a surging torrent of beating wings. Finn points all the different species out to me as they pass. I can hardly keep up, but not just because of the birds—I feel dazed and quietly jubilant that this man is by my side, charismatic and attentive, a warm hand around mine and a cloud-nine smile. He woke me this morning with kisses at dawn—kisses that took only seconds to become more.