A Quiet Kind of Thunder

by Sara Barnard

As the afternoon set in we took our time on the Royal Mile, stopping in every souvenir shop and trying on tartan hats and scarves. We were the annoying English teenagers who loitered and didn’t buy a single thing, and I didn’t care. Nobody knew what we were saying as we signed and teased and laughed. The day, the city, the world – it was all ours.

  Are you happy? Rhys asks me.

  I can’t stop the grin breaking over my face. I am so happy.

  He grins back at me and we beam at each other like children let loose in Toys R Us. He leans over to kiss me and I lift my face to meet his. I taste salt and vinegar and Rhys.

  What shall we do tonight? Rhys asks when we break apart.

  Are we still aiming for less than £10? I ask, pondering.

  He nods. It doesn’t count as a win if it’s not the whole day.

  What could we do that’s free? I muse, and I don’t even realize what it is I’ve said until after my hands have finished. I flush scarlet, flail my hands a little, then look away. ‘God, Steffi,’ I groan out loud.

  I hear Rhys laughing, and I look back at him, too embarrassed to speak. He kisses my nose.

  You’re adorable.

  I cover my face with my hands and he pulls them away, pressing his lips to the tips of my fingers, his eyes on mine. God, those eyes. If I could keep just one part of Rhys, it would be his eyes. And, OK, maybe his mouth too. Basically his whole face. I’ll keep his face.

  Maybe we should go out for drinks, Rhys suggests, releasing my hands so we can talk.

  I hold up one finger. One, I’m seventeen. I hold up two fingers. Two, do we have enough left of the £10 for drinks?

  Rhys reaches into his pocket and pulls out a handful of change. He stretches out his palm and counts the coins, nibbling his bottom lip between his teeth. He looks up at me. Do you think we could find a bottle of wine for £3.47?

  I roll my eyes. I think you’re taking the ‘less than £10’ game a bit far with that. ‘Cheapskate,’ I add, sticking out my tongue.

  Challenge accepted! Rhys grins, eyes lighting up. Come on. He stands, holding out a hand to me, and I take it happily. We’ll get some cheap wine and decide what to do next.

  We walk in silence, swinging our knitted hands between us. I am squidgy with happiness, warm all over. This is love, I think, and I am in it. I have it. No wonder everyone goes on about it so much. It’s really nice.

  Rhys stops at an off-licence and I wait outside while he goes to find an impossibly cheap bottle of wine. I dawdle, pretending to read a tour poster on the wall, trying to act like I’m not the underage girlfriend of the boy who just walked in. When he emerges again, he’s beaming.

  What did you get? I ask.

  He twinkles. Wait and see.

  I bet you didn’t get anything, I tease, trying to grab the paper bag so I can look. No way did you find any alcohol that cheap.

  Wrong. He waves the bag in front of my face, the weight of the bottle within unmistakeable.

  I bet it’s just Coke, I amend. Or lemonade.

  He laughs, pulls me towards him and kisses my forehead. You’ll see, he says.

  He’s bought us champagne.

  OK, it’s not quite champagne. It’s sparkling wine, and it didn’t cost the earth. But it has bubbles, and the cork comes off with a satisfying, heart-pinging pop. He refuses to tell me how much it cost, saying only that his £10 challenge didn’t include alcohol. And, anyway, he loves me, and we deserve champagne. Or sparkling wine.

  We don’t even have glasses, let alone flutes, so we end up pouring the fizz into the hotel mugs that look like they’ve gone through the dishwasher about five thousand times. When we toast, the mugs clunk instead of clink, but I don’t mind. Everything feels perfect.

  To you, Rhys says.

  To you, I respond.

  He grins. To us. Bronze and Gold.

  Bronze and Gold, I agree, then close my eyes to take a sip. I imagine hundreds of tiny bubbles fizzing down into my stomach. When I open my eyes again, Rhys is staring at me, the softest, sweetest smile on his face.

  What? I ask, bashful, even though I know what.

  He says it anyway. I love you.

  I put my mug down on the table by the bed and lean into him, resting my head against his shoulder and breathing Rhysness. He puts his arm round me and squeezes gently.

  When I break away, I sign, I love you too.

  There’s a pause that stretches out into silence as we look at each other. I am giddy with happiness, light with love. Punch drunk with the freedom of being in this city, in this country, with this boy.

  But mixed in with all of this is anxiety, tying my thoughts into knots, making me feel suddenly shy in a way I haven’t felt around Rhys for a long time. Even though nothing has happened yet my heart is pounding, maybe in anticipation, maybe with nerves. What happens now? What happens next? Should I just lean in and kiss him?

  Rhys is still watching me, his smile a little more crinkled, as if he somehow knows the confusion of feelings running through my mind. He reaches over to the bedside table, grabs hold of his iPad and hands it to me. Find me a song, he signs. A song that is exactly how you feel, right now.

  He’s trying to relax me, and I love him for it because it works. The anxiety dissipates like bubbles in a glass of sparkling wine. Beaming, I open up Spotify, my mind already scrolling through the options. There’s a tap on my wrist and I look over at him. Make it a good one. His eyes are so full. I could look at them all day.

  When I make my selection and hear the first few beats, I am not sad that Rhys can’t hear it too, because I understand. He doesn’t need to. How had I ever thought that music was all about sound? It’s not. It’s about feeling.

  Look, I sign, bouncing up off the bed. I’ll show you.

  The song is ‘You Make My Dreams (Come True)’, which is a song by an old duo called Hall & Oates. It is the happiest song in existence, and it is impossible to listen to it without feeling happy. And if you listen to it while you’re already deliriously happy, it will make you do this:

  • play it to your deaf boyfriend when he asks you how you feel

  • dance around the room to bring it to life

  • sign the lyrics as you jump from one foot to the other, spinning, twirling, laughing

  • sing along unselfconsciously as you do this, because you are so happy you can’t believe you could ever want to be silent

  • get to the line about being found, about never being the same, and burst into tears.

  And it will make said boyfriend do this:

  • turn the music up so loud you can feel the vibrations through your body

  • jump up beside you and dance with you

  • even though he can’t hear the music

  • even though you both look like idiots

  • put his arms around you when you start to cry out of the blue

  • kiss your hair

  • write I love you on to your skin

  • say it out loud

  • say it with his hands

  • say it with his eyes.

  ‘I love you,’ I say into his ear.

  The song comes to an end and then starts up again, jaunty. Rhys takes my hand and spins me, then pulls me in close. He lifts my chin with his fingers and kisses me, soft at first and then firm, opening my mouth with his, touching his tongue to mine.

  We tangle around each other, his arms around me, hands at my hips and back and chest and neck. We kiss, kiss, kiss.

  He pulls me down on to the bed and my heart is going, hummingbird-like, in my chest. There is no need to talk; our bodies are having a conversation of their own. Is this what it’s like for everyone? Do all couples know each other’s movements like this?

  Rhys pulls away from me slightly to look into my eyes. His face is suddenly shy. He takes my hand, currently at his chest, squeezes it into a fist and moves it gently in an up and down motion. Yes? he is asking me. Yes?

  I nod – yes – slowly first, then faster. Wait. I put m
y hand up suddenly and he retreats immediately. I touch his wrist – it’s OK – and then say out loud, ‘I am not losing my virginity to Hall and Oates.’

  Rhys smiles and raises his hands, palm up, rolling his eyes sweetly as he does. I scramble for the laptop and turn off Hall and Oates. I’m about to turn back to him with the music off, but then something occurs to me. We might not be able to share a musical memory, but that doesn’t stop me making one for myself. I can soundtrack this, just for me, if I want to. A secret for myself.

  With this thought in my mind, I glance back at Rhys. I realize I don’t know the BSL for ‘condom’, so I fingerspell the word instead.

  For a second he just looks at me, then starts to laugh. Very romantic.

  I’m suddenly worried. Do you have one?

  He grins. Yes.

  I flap my hands at him. Go on, then.

  Rhys takes my hands, grips them together in a four-handed fist, then kisses my knuckles. When he lets them go, he touches his fingers to my cheek, his eyes locked on mine. There is an entire conversation in these gestures and in his eyes. When he turns to scramble in his bag for a condom, my fluttering heart has calmed. This is me and Rhys. Rhys and me.

  There isn’t time for a soul-searching hunt through Spotify to find the perfect losing-virginity-but-for-my-ears-only song, so I go for the first song I think of. Passenger. ‘Heart’s On Fire’. Because it is, and also because the lyrics about eyes and touch are so perfect for Rhys and me.

  Everything about this moment is perfect. When he asks me if I’m ready, his eyes both nervous and excited, I mean it when I nod yes.

  His touch is hesitant now, and I feel his nerves as we slide under the covers together, face to face. I kiss him to ground us both and he wraps his arms round me, pulling me close. Between kisses we shed our clothing, top to bottom, slowly at first and then faster. In no time at all we’re both down to our underwear and he is starting to ease down my knickers and oh my God has there ever been a more perfect moment in the history of moments and I’m going to have sex and it’s not going to be crap like everyone says the first time is and holy crap we’re naked and he’s getting on top of me and –

  And then it all gets awkward very fast. Half leaning on me, Rhys pushes his hand down between us both and there’s some kind of sweaty fumble, then a judder. He half thrusts, half pokes his penis at my leg. I hear him grunt, then there’s another attempt at adjusting himself. I let out an involuntary ‘ow!’ when he puts his elbow on my hair, and am grateful he can’t hear me.

  After another few awkward seconds I reach down, take hold of his penis and guide him. He breathes into my ear, drops a kiss on my neck, then raises himself on his arm so he can kiss me as he pushes his way in. The moment itself is not exactly painful but not exactly pleasurable either, and I’m glad he’s not looking at my face, because I can feel I’m screwing it up involuntarily. The whole thing is so much . . . realer than I was expecting, so much more physical. Maybe I’d always imagined sex as more like a dance or something, instead of this sweaty tangling of bodies and body parts that it actually is, and the reality is a sloppy, slightly anticlimactic surprise. I guess it takes time to –

  And then, suddenly, it’s over. Rhys’s face tightens, his eyes glaze over, he lets out a noise I’ve never heard before, then collapses against me. He’s sweaty and hot. I love him, and I’m glad we’ve shared this intense, sensual thing, but ew. Can I push him off? Is that allowed?

  The whole thing has lasted less than two minutes. Passenger is still singing about his heart being on fire.

  Rhys rolls off me and I try not to be too obvious about wiping his sweat off my chest. He beams at me, all breathless and hopeful, and oh God, I do love him.

  OK? he asks.

  I nod, beaming back. He leans to kiss me, softly this time, and I have had sex. Suddenly, for no reason at all, I want to cry, even though the impulse makes no sense. I push my face against his chest, not caring now about the sweat, and close my eyes, listening to his heartbeat. I think, Rhys, Rhys, Rhys. I feel him wrap his arms round me, safe and warm and close. I think of everything that led to this moment and all that could come next for us. I think how nice it is to be part of this us.

  Rhys pulls back a little. With one hand, he signs, I love you.

  I look at him, trying to turn this moment into a sense memory I can keep and return to forever. I love you too, I sign.

  I wake up the next morning with half my body hanging off the side of the bed. I blink, trying to figure out where I am, and then it all comes rushing in. I’m in Edinburgh! I had sex! (Twice! And the second time was so much better!)

  I sit up and look over at Rhys, who is lying on his stomach, face buried into the pillow. It would have been more romantic to wake up in each other’s arms, but oh well. Can’t have everything.

  I lie back down and curl up next to him, resting my cheek against the smooth slide of his shoulder blade. He makes a happy snuffling noise, but doesn’t properly stir. I stay like that for a while, too awake to doze but also too relaxed to get up. Outside I can hear the soft rumble of cars through the double-glazing of the windows. Someone walks down the hallway talking loudly about the merits of croissants versus Danish pastries. I close my eyes.

  Later, we go for a late brunch in a Scandinavian cafe on the way to Arthur’s Seat. We get one full breakfast and one plate of French toast and share them across the table, tapping each other’s hands out of the way to spear potatoes, dropping forks with loud clangs to speak.

  I tear off a hunk of French toast and begin to chew. So is it a mountain? Bonus of BSL: talking with your mouth full and it not being rude.

  More like a hill, he says. Arthur’s Seat is the peak. The views are amazing.

  How many times have you been up there?

  Only once. I was about eight.

  Is it a big climb?

  He smiles, Not really. You’ll be fine. We’ll be up and down in a couple of hours. Wait until you see the view. We’ll get some great pictures.

  My phone gives a buzz against the table and I reach for it automatically.

  Tem:

  Are you at home? Can I come round?

  I need to talk to you. Xxx

  I hesitate, feeling my very first stab of guilt about going away in secret. Maybe I should have told Tem. I’m not even sure exactly why I didn’t, except that I was attracted to the idea of Rhys and me being the only people in the whole world who knew.

  Steffi:

  I’m out with Rhys!

  Sorry, what’s up? xx

  I reply finally, telling the truth but not the whole truth, nor nothing but the truth.

  Wah ☹ When can I see you today?

  I REALLY need to talk to you. Xxxx

  Shit.

  What’s wrong? Rhys asks, seeing my face.

  Tem, I say, holding up my phone. She wants to see me. I nibble my lip, trying to figure out what to do. How can I say I can’t see her until Sunday without telling her why?

  Maybe you should tell her the truth?

  I can’t do that now. It’s too late.

  You were going to tell her eventually anyway. Better now than later, right?

  I hesitate. He’s right. But a selfish little twist in my head knows how Tem will react if I tell her where I am – what! Wow! Why! Etc. I want to be in my Bronze and Gold bubble for just a little longer. There’ll be time enough for a best friend debrief.

  I tap out a reply, trying to shut off the ‘guilt’ portion of my brain.

  Steffi:

  I can’t right now! SORRY! xx

  Tem:

  Steffffff ☹

  *plays the girlfriend card*

  I put my phone back down on the table and watch as Rhys steals the last bite of French toast. He smiles at me. Ready to go?

  I nod distractedly. My phone has lit up already.

  But I need you ☹

  *plays the best friend card*

  Want to phone me?

  I’ll answer. And talk xxxr />
  No! Want to talk face-to-faaaaace.

  I feel the tiniest flicker of irritation. Since when is Tem so needy? Why can’t she wait for once? I can see that there’s going to be no way around telling her exactly where I am and why I can’t drop everything to go and see her, at least not until I get back home on Sunday.

  But I can’t bear the thought of spoiling the magic of today with the reality of an argument. If she’s going to be annoyed with me anyway, I can put it off for a little while. I’ll phone her after I’ve climbed Arthur’s Seat. Surely I’ve earned an extra hour in all our years of friendship?

  OK, I sign, smiling at Rhys. I turn off notifications from WhatsApp on my phone and push it into my pocket. Let’s go and climb a mountain.

  Rhys is right. The views are amazing.

  We don’t even need to be walking for very long before it’s possible to turn around and look out at Edinburgh. Wow, I say to Rhys. If it’s like this from here, what’s it like at the top?

  He laughs. The same. But higher.

  We don’t rush. For the most part he walks ahead of me and I follow his lead, turning in circles every few steps to see how the view changes each time. We stop about halfway up and sit on the grass so we can have a proper conversation as well as a breather. He tells me about the first time he visited Edinburgh as a kid, how he’d gone to see the rugby with his dad and older brother and got lost in the crowd. Did you cry? I ask, and he looks surprised.

  No, he says. I knew they’d find me.

  We walk for a while more hand in hand, side by side in easy silence. I am thinking about French toast and Creme Eggs, whether we’ll have sex again tonight, how I haven’t yet told Tem that I’ve lost my virginity even though I always promised I would. I wonder what Aled will say when we turn up on his doorstep. How my parents will react when I tell them where I am.

  Rhys’s hand drops mine and touches my wrist. Look. He points. A kestrel.

  I’ve never seen a kestrel before. I watch it hover then swoop, disappearing from view.

  Come on. Rhys taps my hand again and gestures. Let’s look for it.