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Twelve
Connie
The next morningI awake with the sunrise. Pinks and gold feather across my skin drawing me out of my restless dreams. For a moment, I just lie still allowing the morning sun streaming through the window to caress my body. Dust motes float in the air and I lift my hand into the sunlight, my fingers wiggling, scattering them about the room. When I turn to check the time, my digital clock flashes four thirty-seven am but there’s no point in trying to get back to sleep now. I need to be at work in little over an hour anyway. Getting up, I haul my arse into the shower then change into a pair of cut-off denim shorts and a dark blue vest top before slipping on my converse trainers and hoodie. Grabbing my notepad, rucksack and favourite guitar, I head downstairs.
Grandma is still asleep, and whilst I have so many questions for her about Malakai, I leave a note telling her I’ve headed off to work early and I’m going to grab some breakfast at the shack. Honestly, I’m not in the mood to talk. I’m itching to write, to strum my guitar and find an outlet for all these thoughts and emotions tumbling around inside of me. All night I dreamt of Malakai, of his lips against my cheek, his warm breath against my skin. Those dreams had quickly turned to nightmares of faceless people hurting this broken, bitter man, his tattoos revealing scarred and damaged skin that no amount of black ink could cover, or caresses could soothe. Before I awoke, the last dream had been of Malakai climbing onto his schooner and sailing away whilst I stood on the harbour, a breeze lifting up tendrils of my hair as a deep sadness welled inside of me. That part, most of all, felt the most real. He’s going to leave, just like he promised he would, and I’m going to try and stop him.
Clambering onto my bike, with my rucksack stashed in the basket and my guitar slung over my shoulder, I cycle to the harbour. The sun rises steadily, casting everything in a warm glow. It’s looking to be another beautiful day, but even though the sky is clear I feel the heavy weight of thunderclouds looming over me. Even the cricket song and the call of the terns circling overhead do nothing to soothe my soul.
Fifteen minutes later, I arrive at Lola’s Shack. The door’s locked, the lights off, so I lean my bike up against the wood, grab my rucksack and head towards one of the benches that line the harbour wall. Most of the trawlers are out and only a few tugboats remain. Princess is still moored at the far end of the harbour, bobbing gently on the water. The pounding of my heart settles a little when I see that she still remains because where she is, so too is he.
Malakai. Even his name sends a thrill through me.
Placing my guitar gently on the seat next to me, I pull out my notebook and pen, opening up a fresh page. My fingers gently slide over the thick cream paper as I settle my gaze on Malakai’s boat, beyond which the sunrise climbs, turning gold into burnt umber and pink into a rose red that reminds me of the dress I wore last night. Beneath the stunning sky, the ocean glitters with every imaginable colour. Blues and greens mix with pinks, oranges and reds, a kaleidoscope of colour. Mother Nature sure is a talented artist, the original Monet. There’s so much beauty here. Sometimes I wonder if I’m the only one who sees it. My friends just want to escape. They want everything that’s beyond the horizon. They want a life that’s exciting and thrilling, a life where simple pleasures are replaced with bright lights and loud noises. They want the rush of a busy city, where there’s danger, new experiences and variety in every sense of the word, and whilst I enjoyed spending time with my friends last night, I sensed the change in them. It was subtle, but it was there. Talk of their time in Canterbury quickly evolved into in-house jokes and knowing looks that I wasn’t party to. They had anamazingtime, which they repeatedly told me, and theycan’t waitto get back to party. Yet, throughout, all I could think was that I’m glad I stayed home.
Turning my attention back to the morning, I bask in the rising heat. This is my favourite part of the day. No matter the season, I’m often up early enough to catch the sunrise because with every new day the pain of my parents’ loss lessens that little bit more. I will always feel their absence, that will never go away, but like Grandma Silva says;“Life goes on no matter how much your heart hurts, Connie.”
She’s right, it does. My parents wouldn’t want me to be perpetually sad. They wouldn’t want me to live a half-life. I know they’d want me to find happiness. To live and to be loved. Mum never shied away from it. She refused to believe in the curse and loved my father with every piece of herself. Sometimes I would watch them in awe, my young impressionable heart absorbing their happiness, allowing it to fill me up. When they were happy, I was happy.
And when they died, part of me died too.
It’s taken me years to get to this place, to be thankful to be alive rather than wishing I died with my parents. Much of that is to do with this island. It’s more than a home to me, it’severything. I feel a deep connection to this place, especially to our little cove, Broken Shores. Our private beach has a special kind of beauty. Even through the winter months when the ocean’s violent waves eat away at the rock and sand, I still adore it. There’s something so alluring about this place I call home. I think that’s why I’m so drawn to Malakai. He’s how I imagine the island was before anyone settled here, standing alone against the elements, unapologetically raw and wild.
Inhaling the briny sea air and opening my eyes, I put pen to paper and start to write. Words flow freely until I’m so absorbed by them that I pick up my guitar and begin to strum a tune, my voice gently singing words about love and loss, life and death, words that morph into a story about a man lost to the sea, longing for a place, a person to call home. Closing my eyes, I allow the music to take over, I allow the words to fall from my lips and lift into the air until a feeling of peace washes over me.
“You sing beautifully, Connie,” a deep melodic voice tells me.
My fingers still on the strings, the last note drifting free from my lips as I open my eyes. Malakai is standing on the deck a few feet from me, surrounded in a halo of light that makes his black hair lighten to a chocolate brown. My breath is snatched from my body as I absorb him, imprinting this moment to memory. He’s wearing low slung slacks and nothing else, his skin tan against the cream material. Words to describe him fill my head. Strong, bold, handsome, hard, withdrawn,lonely…
“Thank you,” I respond, gently placing my guitar on the ground by my feet, afraid to move too quickly, afraid to break the spell and the magic in the air that seems to be settling around us both. For the first time he isn’t looking at me in anger or like I’m the one to fear. He looks at me as though I’m a breath of fresh air, as though, maybe, I’m more than just some kid he doesn’t want to be attracted to.
“Did you know that your mother loved to sing?” he asks me, a faraway look in his eyes.
“I did. Dad always said she had the voice of an angel, but that was only because he loved her so much. Mum knew she was tone deaf.”
Malakai smiles gently. “She was awful, but that never stopped her.”
“No, I bet it didn’t…” My voice trails off as I push away the heavy feeling of loss. Talking about them both is difficult. I’m still not at the point where I can do so without crying, even eight years after their deaths.
“Would you mind if I sat?” He asks after a beat, glancing at the space next to me. I nod.
For a while we both look out to sea, at the endless ocean that stretches off into the distance. This morning my heart doesn’t thunder, my stomach doesn’t roll over and my pulse doesn’t race. Instead, I feel a deep sense of peace in the gentle rise and fall of our breaths and the lap of the water against the dock. Malakai is the first to break the silence, his voice papery and thin as though any moment now he’ll disappear like a ghost and I’ll wake up in bed, this moment nothing more than a dream.
“There’s something about you that frightens me, Connie Silva. Something I can’t even begin to explain…” he sighs heavily, and when I turn to face him a deep sadness pulls at his features. I want to reach for him, soothe him somehow, but I don’t want to break the spell. So instead, I listen, my fingers clasped together in my lap. “I’m drawn to you.”
“I understand, because I feel it too.” My words are no more than a whisper, a gentle chord that my heart strums in time to. I’m fully aware that this honesty won’t last, that whatever has given him the courage to speak the truth this morning will end. He lifts his gaze to meet mine, anguish slicing through the sudden heavy weight that seems to drag his shoulders down. He rests his elbows on his knees, clasping his head in his hands.
“I shouldn’t have said what I said. I shouldn’t have done what I did… It was wrong.”
“Was it a lie?” I ask him, trying not to flinch at how much he believes that. He thinks for a moment and I know he’s considering telling me one right now. He doesn’t.
“No, it wasn’t a lie,” he admits, drawing himself upright once more. “But that doesn’t make it right either.”
“I’m not a child, Malakai,” I say, before he can accuse me of being one. These feelings, these needs, these desires, they’re not childish.
“You’re eighteen. You’re too young. You’re Anna and Blake’s daughter. You’re off-limits. You’re here, and I live out there,” he reminds me, pointing out to sea.
“And Lola?” I ask, frowning. Why hasn’t he mentioned her? They’re together after all.
