For all the sex, sea air and wine I can’t sleep.
Apart from his camera, all of Alex’s things are gone. His bike, his decks, even his records. They fetched a couple of hundred pounds less than I’d hoped, but with additional shifts at the Duck and accumulated holiday pay from work, all systems are still go, the spreadsheet still holds, and I can still afford to leave Henry behind. It’s beyond frustrating. Henry, on the other hand, is handling it all with noble stoicism. No, not noble; it’s annoying. A bit more moping wouldn’t go amiss, a bit more ‘please don’t go’.
Kind of, he said.
I’m glad I met you . . . kind of.
I mean, come on, Henry. I’m teeing this up for you, already. Three little words is all I’m asking for.
I’ll miss you.
It’s not like I’m asking him to tell me he . . .
There is something there, though; something mutual that scores higher than ‘LIKE’ on the Scrabble board. Something that maybe I’d be a complete and utter idiot to walk away from. And maybe this is the real reason I can’t sleep – the worry that I might be seven weeks away from making a huge mistake.
Outside, the wind is howling in from the coast, banging the gate and making the washing line whine like a tormented ghost. Normally I find the sounds of harsh weather comforting, but tonight’s elemental cacophony has me as keyed up as a frightened child.
Henry is sleeping like a baby.
I want our fast-expiring time to count, so when Mum invited me to Copenhagen with her and Dad, I said no. Henry, on the other hand, broke the news today that he’s heading back to his own hometown in a couple of weeks. And I’m not invited. He didn’t explicitly say as much, but then neither did he say: Hey, seeing as you invited me to see the house where you grew up, why don’t I return the favour. It crossed my mind to invite myself, but, call it pride, I want it to come from Henry. Not that I didn’t hint: I wonder what I’ll do that weekend? I’ve never been to the Peaks. I do love a ramble in the hillside. But the bait went untook.
The wind sounds like thrown gravel and the gate bangs again, loud enough this time that even Henry stirs.
‘Humhh, wassat?’
‘Storm,’ I tell him. ‘Ghosts of sailors.’
Another bang, metallic sounding, and then . . .
‘Is that the door!’
‘Shit, Henry! I . . . I don’t know . . . maybe.’
Henry is out of bed without hesitation, pulling on his boxer shorts, shushing me silent with a finger and indicating for me to stay put.