PROLOGUE
It’s twelve minutes past five on a Sunday morning, when I realise I’m in love with Simo Lorca. The thought that I love my best friend arrives fully formed in my head, like it’s always been there. A piece of knowledge I’ve held for so long, yet always chosen to ignore. There’s no denying it. I am in love with him. And suddenly the truth isn’t scary at all. It’s just fact.
Next to me on the sofa, Simo sighs in his sleep. His warmth seeps into my skin, his breath the only sound. We’re sprawled out on the L-shaped couch, my legs facing one wall, his legs another; our heads meet in the middle. From where I lie propped up on a bunch of cushions, my gaze falls across his sleeping form.
His chest lifts and breath escapes through his parted lips. And maybe it’s the first rays of the rising sun that press against the curtains and fill the lounge with a cool glow, or it’s ten years of soaking up his features, but Simo’s lips are what a Renaissance painter’s wet dreams are made of. The bottom lip is full and soft, while the upper lip is two sharp lines arcing into a Cupid’s bow.
I have never allowed myself to think about kissingthem. To imagine their weight on mine. That’s asking for heartbreak, and I don’t have a single masochistic bone in my body. But in the early morning, with the world still caught in a dream and Simo dreaming next to me, I see clearly. For the first time, loving him comes easy.
Even in his sleep, Simo remains calm and put together. He rests on his back, duvet tucked in, no slobber in the corner of his mouth, his hair perfectly tousled. His lashes form two dark curves against the rise of his cheeks, and I almost – almost – reach out to trace them. The half-light softens his edges, steals his imperfections. I miss the pockmarks on his temples, even though they make him feel self-conscious. I like the spattering of scars on his skin, though I have never told him this. In my eyes, they make him even more beautiful. The vein above his eyebrow has faded into shadow too, the one that appears whenever he’s deep in thought, or when he gets annoyed with me. Sometimes I provoke him just to see it pop.
He doesn’t stir when I pull the TV remote out from under his shoulder, careful not to disturb his dreams. We stayed up late, celebrating his birthday, only for midnight to strike and mine to begin. We were born on consecutive days, hours apart. We always spend our birthdays together, as they blend into each other, making sure we remain the exact same age.
With a deep breath, I sink back into the sofa. My body grows heavy and my eyes flutter shut.
I know that when I wake up again, this moment of clarity will appear to me like a dream. I’ll turn to him, seconds away from telling him every fuzzy detail I recall –Simo, Ihad the strangest dream; I was in love with you, would you believe it?– but I’ll stay silent. Because I’m not ready to say it in bright daylight. So right now, in this moment with him close to me, I savour the peace. I am filled by the knowledge that I love the boy lying next to me. With one heavy blink, consciousness slips away. The last thing I see is the shape of him filling my vision, following me into slumber.
SUMMER
CHAPTER 1 – LUCA
September is a controversial month. Nobody questions August’s summer status, and October annually turns into a cult-like festival where the average person obsesses over knit jumpers and pumpkin spice. But September remains stuck in an identity crisis so severe that even the Christmas crowd tries to claim it through the strategic distribution of chocolate Santas. When I was eleven, I started a petition to ban the sale of Christmas-related goods before November, but I only collected three signatures – Dad, Simo and Miss M – and had to admit defeat.
I make my way up to the second floor of our building, a mug in one hand filled to the brim with coffee – black, three sugars – minding every step I take in my sliders. Like every Monday, the lady of the house awaits my attendance. I can feel her impatience simmer before I’ve reached her door. I knock and walk into the flat, incense lingering in the air. She sits by the window, glancing out on to the street, like a queen observing her kingdom. Her curls are a deep silver, a stark contrast against her umber skin. She taps the tabletop, every finger adorned with rings. She’s unchanged from how I remember her from when I was a toddler.Loyalty and love make my chest swell, and as if she senses the shift, she turns. A grin splits her face.
‘How dare you expose your toes to an old lady, and before I’ve had my coffee!’
I smirk back and set the mug down in front of her. Miss M opens her arms wide and wraps me into a hug, bony but strong. Then she orders me into a chair without releasing my hand. Her eyes fall on the necklace that rests on my chest, but she doesn’t comment. It’s a fine golden chain with a pearl pendant, shaped into a round disk no bigger than a thumbprint, its surface uneven, like crests on a wave. ‘I know pearls are passé or something,’ Simo had said when it struck midnight and he’d placed the gift box in my hands, ‘but I saw this and thought of you.’
The memory, barely a day old, gives me goosebumps.
‘Now, tell me about the bonfire last night. It all but smoked up my apartment!’
Miss M has a taste for dramatics. While it may be true that the wind carried wisps of bonfire smoke all the way up the street from the beach and through her top-floor window, I know she still welcomes every source that keeps her informed of the goings-on in town.
‘It was perfect,’ I say, and I mean it. It’s one of my favourite birthday traditions. There’s something magical about a fire by the sea. Flames tickling the sky as it turns purple. Stars popping up by the millions. Dad to my left, Simo to my right, as we hold sticks towards the flames, the dough wrapped around them gaining a golden crust within minutes. Then we slather the still-warm bread in sour cream and cheese and herbs and olives. The latter is a newdevelopment. I used to detest olives, but eating them feels very adult. It’s what I like to think of as character growth.
I tell Miss M all this and she nods and hums, her eyes half closed. ‘Paul shut the kiosk and joined us with ciders,’ I tell her. ‘Librarian Joni brought her dog and her guitar and had Dad choking on his food with some of her bawdier sea shanties. And even Simo’s parents came by to say hi, though they didn’t stick around.’
‘Don’t like sea shanties, do they?’
‘Not exactly,’ I say. Simo’s parents are complicated, to say the least, but they have their reasons. ‘You should have joined us, Miss M. We missed you.’
Miss M effectively adopted us when Dad showed up in Lombard one day, with my heavily pregnant mum and a broken-down car. Seventeen years later, Miss M is the most constant person in my life, apart from Dad. And Simo, though Miss M has been around for longer. She is the only grandparent I have ever had.
Miss M gently presses the palm of my hand. ‘I’m not one for beach outings. I prefer the comfort of my home to any other place on earth, you know that.’
I also know she hasn’t left her flat in months. I know she’s happy in her own home. She loves few things more than people flocking to her doorstep like carrier pigeons to feed her gossip. When I was a child, she used to be the epicentre of Lombard social life, but after a couple of ugly falls, she withdrew to her flat. Now she observes everything in the town below her from her perch up high.
‘And what about my favourite explorer? My very own Jane Goodall?’
She always asks this question, but I rarely have anything new to tell her. ‘Mum is Mum. She’s probably crouching in the dirt right now with a pair of binoculars, watching a rare bird pick a worm out of the mud.’
Miss M grunts, satisfied by the image I’ve drawn.
‘She says she’ll be back in the country when I turn eighteen next summer.’ Mum is often the first person I speak to on my birthday. But sometimes, like last night, Simo beats her to it. He’s usually right there when Mum phones from half a planet away.
‘She can’t miss her baby becoming a man,’ Miss M confirms.
