also know he’ll hate my instant submission. He wants a fight and I don’t blame him. I just don’t have the ability to put his needs first right now. Not until I’m sure.
Where are you?
“Work something out?” His tone is clipped and embedded with spiked barbs. “You know what, call me when you have something worthwhile to say. I’ve got a deal to try to save. And if you didn’t hear me the first time, fuck you, Macsen.”
He hangs up.
I think I missed the beginning of his tirade, my focus concentrated on navigating the potholed driveway that leads away from the manor to the winding single-lane road back into town.
I’ll feel bad about that phone call later but consumed by the driving need to search and find, I don’t have the capacity to even worry about it right now. My thoughts, instead, swirl like fine mist, never settling on one thing for long.
That’s a lie. Every thought I have returns to him.
Less than ten minutes later, I’m squeezing the rental into the only parking space I can find on a back street that leads out of the town centre.
It’s early evening. Crowds of families, couples, and friends swarm Lily Bay’s narrow cobbled streets. Some meander in and out of shops, buying souvenirs and knick-knacks. Others decide where to have their evening meal or a few drinks with friends.
I don’t have that quandary. I know where I’m going, and despite never being here before and having to navigate the seemingly maze-like streets, I find Safe Harbour within fifteen minutes.
I need to find a place to stay and a change of clothes pretty quickly, or else I’ll be wandering around tomorrow after spending the night in the rental car—or worse yet, the mouldy and crumbling manor. People will think me a squatter and not the new owner. Not exactly the impression I want to portray, which is why I shouldn’t be here tonight. If the one I’m searching for is inside, this isn’t the way I want him to see me.
Amongst all the coastal livers and holidaymakers, I stand out like the proverbial sore thumb in my crumpled business suit. Yet nobody pays any attention to me when I walk into the busy pub.
The whole place is alive with that sense of relaxed joy you only ever get from having no place to go and no rat race to run in, just minutes and hours and days to spend without a care—to enjoy the simple acts of breathing, and laughing, and living.
Inside, the pub is large and open plan. The bar sits to my left, every stool occupied, the bar staff busy chatting to customers while deftly fulfilling drink orders. Smiles are broad and carefree, customers all gregarious and happy, buoyed by the atmosphere and the lingering remnants of sun on their skin.
I search every face. He’s not here.
To my right, a low dividing wall separates the space, splitting it from the high-top tables and booths, and opening up into a homely, traditional looking restaurant area.
I weave my way around occupied tables and take a seat near the panoramic doors that open to a view of the outdoor terrace.
The evening is balmy and almost tropical. If you were to close your eyes, take a breath of the salt-tinged air and feel the warmth on your skin, you could be forgiven for thinking you were somewhere in the Mediterranean, and not in a small Welsh coastal town.
As I wait for a server to approach, I search the busy room. My eyes skip over families, groups of friends, and couples out on dates. I take them all in briefly—from the toddler with a face covered in chocolate pudding to the nervous couple on a first date, both unable to maintain eye contact for long—and quickly move on to the next person, the next table, and the next group. Not one of the faces before me is who I hoped to see, yet something tells me he’s here.
After exhausting my search of those surrounding me, I turn my attention to everything else. Needing to see what he’s seen. Be where he’s been. Search for any clues that might give me an insight into his life here.
My table is exactly like the rest—aged, simply carved wood with a patina that speaks of years of use. There’s a history to this place that seeps into every corner, from the rustic candles to the marine lanterns hanging from low beams. Outside on the terrace, fairy lights dance on