he never did sports with the other kids and why my out-of-order comments about his weight perhaps hurt more than they would have if he had been able to be more active. He really enjoyed doing physical stuff—he just couldn’t.
A FTER A while Thomas stopped and turned. I got the sense he felt guilty for getting carried away with the skimming. Though he needn’t have worried—I was quite happy sitting on the stones and watching him.
“Hey, we could go and collect sea glass, if you want?”
I shook my head and squashed my first reaction.
I loved sea glass. I never had the patience to tumble pieces so smoothly, and the sea had been tumbling glass and stones forever. My favorite piece, the piece Thomas now wore in his necklace, had once been borne from the sea. From Brighton beach, what felt like a million years ago. I remember the day I’d found it. I’d been walking in the rain, and there it was, bright among the wet stones, a perfectly sculpted raindrop. It had felt so right to use it in Thomas’s necklace. It still did.
But I didn’t want to collect glass today. I was desperately trying to be someone different today. Someone without obsessions and worries and doubts, and the glass collecting would bring the reality of my existence crashing back. I knew I couldn’t escape it, though—the reality of life was like the endless churning of the sea. It was impossible to stop.
I UNPACKED the haphazard sandwiches I’d made, and we ate them sitting together on the stones, watching the tide go out, the waves drifting slowly farther down the beach as though the sea were being sucked away by a great watery beast.
“Do you mind if I ask what happened with your mum?” Thomas asked tentatively.
I minded his question. But I wasn’t going to say that. Instead I pulled a face and chewed my lip.
Thomas’s hands were in his lap, so I had no chance of any accidental contact. And I really wanted some accidental, or perhaps not-so-accidental, contact right now.
“She went to Spain with her boyfriend,” I said with a sigh, relenting finally.
“And left you with your sister?”
“No. She just left me.”
“Oh…. In Brighton?” His eyes went wide, and I could see it dawning on him, all bright and expansive—why I hated Brighton, why I had to stay back a year in school. But he was wrong, so wrong. Because it had all gone wrong long before that. “What about your dad?”
The questions were too much. I was close to snapping. Thomas must have noticed my expression.
“Sorry…. I’m being nosy…. I just want to know about you.” I glanced sideways at him. He knew more about me than anyone. “I like you…. I mean….” He stopped and took a deep breath, his eyes searching mine. “I really like you… more than—”
“We should go,” I interrupted quickly, scrabbling up off the stones and packing our rubbish into the small backpack I’d brought before he could get any more words out. “It’s a Sunday, and the trains are only once an hour. We should really get back to the station.” I set off up the beach, walking quickly and not daring to turn around to check if he was following me.
T HE PLATFORM was lifeless. We had missed the train by about five minutes. Feeling as though my body was full of wet sand, I slumped down onto the single iron bench set at the edge of the platform. Thomas kind of stood by the side of it, staring at the ground or at his feet, or at something I couldn’t see. I was trying not to pay too much attention. It wasn’t working. The awkwardness was unbearable.
Initially I was worried he was going to finish up the conversation I’d interrupted, but as time went on and he didn’t—he didn’t say a word—I began to wish he would just open his mouth and say anything.
I wanted to tell him again that I was a coward. Emotions and feelings were not something I felt comfortable talking about. I wanted to tell him I was sorry. I was messed up. I was not the sort
A FTER A while Thomas stopped and turned. I got the sense he felt guilty for getting carried away with the skimming. Though he needn’t have worried—I was quite happy sitting on the stones and watching him.
“Hey, we could go and collect sea glass, if you want?”
I shook my head and squashed my first reaction.
I loved sea glass. I never had the patience to tumble pieces so smoothly, and the sea had been tumbling glass and stones forever. My favorite piece, the piece Thomas now wore in his necklace, had once been borne from the sea. From Brighton beach, what felt like a million years ago. I remember the day I’d found it. I’d been walking in the rain, and there it was, bright among the wet stones, a perfectly sculpted raindrop. It had felt so right to use it in Thomas’s necklace. It still did.
But I didn’t want to collect glass today. I was desperately trying to be someone different today. Someone without obsessions and worries and doubts, and the glass collecting would bring the reality of my existence crashing back. I knew I couldn’t escape it, though—the reality of life was like the endless churning of the sea. It was impossible to stop.
I UNPACKED the haphazard sandwiches I’d made, and we ate them sitting together on the stones, watching the tide go out, the waves drifting slowly farther down the beach as though the sea were being sucked away by a great watery beast.
“Do you mind if I ask what happened with your mum?” Thomas asked tentatively.
I minded his question. But I wasn’t going to say that. Instead I pulled a face and chewed my lip.
Thomas’s hands were in his lap, so I had no chance of any accidental contact. And I really wanted some accidental, or perhaps not-so-accidental, contact right now.
“She went to Spain with her boyfriend,” I said with a sigh, relenting finally.
“And left you with your sister?”
“No. She just left me.”
“Oh…. In Brighton?” His eyes went wide, and I could see it dawning on him, all bright and expansive—why I hated Brighton, why I had to stay back a year in school. But he was wrong, so wrong. Because it had all gone wrong long before that. “What about your dad?”
The questions were too much. I was close to snapping. Thomas must have noticed my expression.
“Sorry…. I’m being nosy…. I just want to know about you.” I glanced sideways at him. He knew more about me than anyone. “I like you…. I mean….” He stopped and took a deep breath, his eyes searching mine. “I really like you… more than—”
“We should go,” I interrupted quickly, scrabbling up off the stones and packing our rubbish into the small backpack I’d brought before he could get any more words out. “It’s a Sunday, and the trains are only once an hour. We should really get back to the station.” I set off up the beach, walking quickly and not daring to turn around to check if he was following me.
T HE PLATFORM was lifeless. We had missed the train by about five minutes. Feeling as though my body was full of wet sand, I slumped down onto the single iron bench set at the edge of the platform. Thomas kind of stood by the side of it, staring at the ground or at his feet, or at something I couldn’t see. I was trying not to pay too much attention. It wasn’t working. The awkwardness was unbearable.
Initially I was worried he was going to finish up the conversation I’d interrupted, but as time went on and he didn’t—he didn’t say a word—I began to wish he would just open his mouth and say anything.
I wanted to tell him again that I was a coward. Emotions and feelings were not something I felt comfortable talking about. I wanted to tell him I was sorry. I was messed up. I was not the sort
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