“Hey, babe,” he says.
“Hey.”
He’s sitting at the kitchen table in our house in Brisbane, the window behind him, the edge of a curtain just visible in the frame. The distance between that room and this beach feels impossible sometimes.
He looks tired.
“Tell me again... how much longer until I see you?”
“Two more months. We’ve made it four. We can do two more.”
The plan is working.
The media has mostly moved on. There are fewer stories, fewer photos, fewer strangers dissecting our lives online. Every week the noise fades a little more.
That was the whole point.
Give people enough time, and eventually they find something else to care about.
“I’m starting to wonder if I can last that long.”
I smile. “You can.”
“I’m running out of patience when it comes to being away from you.”
“That’s not new.”
“No,” he says. “I suppose it’s not.”
Something softens in his expression.
“I miss you too,” I say.
“Tell me something,” he says after a second.
“Like what?”
“What you’re doing.”
“I’m walking on the beach. Getting some exercise.”
“That’s not helpful.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because I’m picturing you in a bikini.” He pauses. “And it’s not making this any easier.”
I smile at the screen.
If he only knew.
“I’m not wearing a bikini, if that helps.”
“Good,” he says immediately. “I don’t want anyone looking at you.”
I glance down the shoreline, empty in both directions, the sand stretching clean to the headland.
“There’s no one here. Not for miles. It’s almost like being back on the island.”
