I think of the thick, oily strands that snaked around me when I fell in the sea and shake my head. ‘Maybe I was being optimistic.’
‘Never stop,’ he says, gentle. ‘It’s a skill I lost a while ago.’
Sometimes, he lets me see the gaping hole in his happiness; it’s as if someone fired a cannonball through his chest. I want to curl myself into that space and make him feel whole again. It isn’t a selfless act, I’m taking as much as I’m giving. When he rubbed that chalk line out, maybe a little of my resilience seeped into him, a little of his bravery into me. Mutually beneficial osmosis. I hope, anyway.
I made a fire. A tick for my list. Well, strictly speaking I made a fire with Mack instructing me how, but either way there’s actual flames and light from kindling I’ve gathered and I feel bountiful and at one with nature.
Mack is sitting on the sand alongside me, our bums saved from the damp by an old checked picnic rug, warm blankets around our shoulders. It’s a clear, see-your-breath kind of night, a sky full of stars and a low half-moon over the gently undulating ocean. It looks alive, and I feel more alive for being here. I hope I never forget how beautiful it is tonight. Mack’s camera is slung around his neck as always, as much a part of him as his limbs.
‘How’s the ceremony plan going?’ he asks, turning his serious eyes to me. I like that he doesn’t make light of my self-coupling project. I hope I never fall out with myself because consciously uncoupling à la Gwyneth and Chris is not going to be an option.
I nod. ‘Getting there, I think. I’ve made notes, but I’ll probably just wing it. It’s not as if anyone is going to be there listening.’
‘You mean I’m not invited?’ he says, half smiling. ‘I was gonna put my best shirt on for you.’
I roll my eyes. ‘You’re absolutely not invited,’ I say.
‘I could officiate?’
‘Could you pull off a decent Elvis impersonation?’
He clears his throat and delivers an alarmingly gravel-sexy couple of lines from ‘Are You Lonesome Tonight?’ and then cracks into a grin. ‘Stop, I’m swooning,’ I laugh and lean against him. ‘You’re still not coming.’
‘Okay,’ he says. ‘But I can come to the reception, right?’
‘I’m having a reception?’
‘Of course.’ He rolls his eyes, pure teenager. ‘Sketchy DJ, cake, speeches. You name it, it’s happening.’
‘Idiot,’ I say, wrapping my arms around my knees.
‘At least let me be your official photographer?’
I think about it. ‘If I say yes, can we ditch the reception?’
‘If you insist.’
‘Okay. Deal.’
‘I’ll use a long lens, stay out of the way. You won’t even see me.’
‘Paparazzi,’ I say, aware that Ali will be thrilled to have professional shots.
He mirrors my position beside me on the rug, his chin resting on his forearms.
‘My father didn’t come to my wedding,’ he says. ‘He was speaking at a dental conference.’
‘I don’t like your dad very much,’ I say.
‘He’s a difficult man to like.’
‘And yet his son is pretty damn cool,’ I say, bumping my shoulder against his.
‘My mother raised me,’ he says. ‘She’s the cool one.’
I know that feeling well. ‘My mum made every single costume for my class’s nativity play when I was five. Mary, Joseph, wise men, shepherds. She even made the donkey, took her weeks.’
‘She does sound pretty cool,’ he says. ‘What part did you play?’
I sigh. ‘The innkeeper. My mother is a great seamstress, but I’m a terrible actress.’
‘Yeah, maybe so. But I’ll bet you’re an incredible writer.’
Mack has a way of flipping from kidding to serious that makes me catch my breath every time. I stop laughing and swallow hard, watching the firelight on his face, burning him into my memory so he never fades.
‘Remind me. Was “Have wild sex on the beach” on your to-do list?’ he asks, sliding his hand inside the back of my jumper.
‘No,’ I say, wriggling my arms out of it awkwardly under the blanket. ‘But it is now.’
Sometime after one in the morning, Mack presses his lips against my forehead. The bed has reached that optimum comfort level, you know, when the bedding is the same temperature as your body and you’re totally blissed out? We’re there, cocooned, my leg over his thigh, his hand on my hip, the mists of sleep gathering us in. It doesn’t feel as if we’ve only been this close for three days. Or three weeks or three months, even. It feels as if we’ve been this close forever, as if we know everything there is to know about each other. How can that be? We stayed in this lodge without touching each other for several weeks, but perhaps even then we were touching each other in a different way – with shared secrets in the dark and shared glances across the room. Mack and I have connected in a way I’ve never known before, a way I don’t know what to do with if I’m honest.