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Thirty-Six
Five months later
Connie
“Connie, a package has arrived for you,”Grandma calls from downstairs, her voice floating on the summer’s breeze that passes through our house on moist sea air. I drop my pencil onto the notepad I was writing in and rest my guitar on the floor by my feet. I don’t get up immediately, instead, I look out of my window and to the ocean beyond. The air is humid, the salty sea-breeze a constant reminder of the man I love. Malakai has been gone five months. Five long months.
I’ve missed him every single day.
So much.
Last week I turned twenty. I didn’t even want to celebrate, choosing to work at Lola’s Shack, my gaze constantly pulled out to sea, hoping to see Princess sailing into the harbour.
I’ve passed through the days like a ghost, functioning but not really living.
Hope has been a fickle friend. Some days she hugs me close, promising me everything will be okay. Other days she’s abandoned me too and her evil twin, Doubt, keeps me company.
Sighing, I uncurl my legs from beneath me, then stand, heading downstairs. Grandma is waiting by the front door, holding onto a cardboard box. It’s taped up and a little battered looking.
“Did the postman deliver it?” I ask, noticing that there isn’t a date stamp.
“It was on the doorstep,” she shrugs, looking as intrigued as I am. I take it from her, surprised at the weight.
“It’s heavy…”
“Open it,” she insists, looking at the box with interest.
It’s not often we get packages delivered, especially not ones that appear to have arrived as if by magic. There aren’t any postage stamps, just my name scrawled across the surface of the box in thick black writing. Grandma follows me into the kitchen and watches as I place the box on the table, grab a pair of scissors and open it. When I pull back the lid, the first thing I notice is the smell. It’s as though the scent of the ocean has been trapped inside the box and with it a leathery undertone, reminding me of Malakai. With a thundering heart, I remove the packaging, gasping at what’s inside.
“What is it?” Grandma asks me, leaning closer.
My hands wrap around the most beautiful conch shell that I’ve ever seen. It’s huge, big enough to fill both my hands which are cupping it gently now. The outer shell is a creamy-beige colour and there are hundreds of speckles a few shades darker that scatter across the nobbled surface, reminding me of the freckles that are sprinkled across my chest now. It has a long whirl and undulating surface that feels oddly sensual beneath my touch. Turning it over in my hands, I study the smooth aperture and the outer and inner lips that shimmer a pearlescent pink.
“Well, that’s a very pretty shell,” Grandma remarks. The opening to the shell looks like a very pretty, pink vagina. I catch her eye and my cheeks flush.
“What’s that?” Grandma asks, pointing at something tucked inside the shell. I reach in and grab hold of the edge of something, my mouth dropping open as I pull out a note tucked inside. Gently handing Grandma the shell, I unfold the piece of cream paper. My heart constricts as I read, battering a familiar rhythm that only ever occurs when I’m reminded of the man I love.
Dear Little Siren,
Many years ago I found this beautiful conch shell washed up on Grace Bay Beach on the north shore of the island of Providenciales. It had sat in the sand, the ocean waves gently lapping against it. The moment I saw, I knew I had to have it. Just like I knew I had to have you, even though I fought hard against the pull.
This shell, it reminds me of you.
It’s beauty, it’s strength, it’s pretty pink lips that resemble a part of you I dream about night after lonely night…
Whenever I press the shell to my ear, I can hear your voice calling me back to you, calling me home. That’s what you’ve become, Little Siren. Home. A beacon I keep returning to.
I know it isn’t much, but this shell is yours now. I know how you love them, and I want you to have it. The perfect gift for the perfect girl.
If I were a brave man, I would’ve brought this to you myself. But I’m not brave, Little Siren, not when it comes to you. The truth is you scare me.
I’m terrified. I’m fucking terrified of how you make me feel. I’m terrified of how much I long for you. Need you, want you.
I’ve missed you, Little Siren.
There, I said it. I can admit that now.
I’ve missed you so damn much that there’s a deep ache within me. A deep ache that I don’t know how to heal.
