in my blood. The places I’ve lived, the people I’ve known, all seem like temporary shelters now. Love is something entirely different. It’s realizing the storm’s been raging so long you forget you’re drenched, until the sun kisses your cheek, dries your tears, and shows you where your real home is.
TWENTY-TWO
Brighton is alive. Where London’s subdued with a quaint charm and bustling seriousness, Brighton is loud. It’s loud, it’s organic, it’s really fucking gay. I stick to Pierce, who leads me down stone streets with coffee shops and boutique stores and through parks teeming with the tiniest of dogs.
We pick out a postcard together.
My hand’s in his. And we’re in public.
It’s the type of vulnerability that makes you feel right, in some weird way. Look at me now, Kentucky county clerk I still refuse to name. The wind whips my face, a welcome shift from muggy, rainy London. The taste of salt in the air, the squawk of seagulls in the sky.
“It’s been so long since I’ve been on the beach,” I say. Brighton reminds me how similar a place can sound or taste, even though I’ve never been here before. “My family used to go to the beach when I was younger, but we haven’t been in ages.”
“I used to come here with my parents too. But they don’t even live in London anymore. My gran got sick not too long after I left for the academy, and Mum moved all of them back up to Leeds.”
“Sorry about your grandma,” I say. “That must be hard, being away from them.”
The wind is fierce up here. I welcome it by releasing my hand from his and stretching out my arms, for a brief second. Let the air wrap around my body. Nothing feels better after a long car ride.
We meander down toward the beach, and Pierce gestures out to a bright pier jutting far into the water. Wind carries the cheering sound of a carnival toward me, and I marvel at the bright lights. All around us, the Brighton Marina is alive with activity, even with the sun arcing quickly toward sunset.
We step onto the beach. Instead of the soft sand I was expecting, it looks like the whole beach is made of tan-and-brown pebbles. I make a mental note to google why this beach doesn’t have sand, though it must have something to do with the way the water interacts with the coast.
“Thanks for telling me about your parents, and your grandma,” I say as the pebbles crunch beneath our feet. “I feel like you don’t open up much.”
“Ha! What do you want to know about me? I can be an open book.”
“What’s the town like where your family lives?”
He takes my hand again and smiles. “Quaint. At least in American terms. Actually, it’s probably a bit like your Kentucky, now that I think about it. More grass and trees than you could imagine. It’s quiet, peaceful. They’re on a train line, so I don’t even need a car to get there.”
“That’s sweet.”
There’s a peacefulness that comes over him when he talks about home, and a light smile. “It’s actually where I grew up. We moved closer to London for Mum’s work, but she can work from home now, so it’s not as big of a deal. So they’re all back there, in that quaint little town outside of Leeds. All but me.”
We make our way to the boardwalk, and I look out toward the pier. We don’t seem to have any plan for this trip, and for once, not having a plan feels amazing. Pierce and I haven’t had much time to talk—like, really talk.
As we walk, we bypass the arcade and carnival games. I pull him close to me when a cool breeze picks up.
“Do you want to move back to Leeds someday?”
“Yes, probably. In my dream world, I’d like to work in London, play for the Pops or something and commute in on the train, and live a quiet life in the countryside.”
“That sounds nice.” I can’t stop myself from thinking about how it might look, the two of us following the same path, living together outside the city. It’s a long way off, but I can almost grasp it.
He clears his throat. “That all you got?”
I’m comfortable with him. But I don’t think I’m comfortable enough to ask him the thing I really want to know about him. Especially when I can’t piss him off too much, as I’m miles and miles from London and