This one has been hanging around for a while. I started writing it back in 2021 and never got around to finishing it. I guess this counts as clearing clutter and making space for other things.
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Sean and I first crossed paths in my godfather's bookshop.
I was seventeen, ridiculous in my faux-goth phase, playing at being an interestingly-ragged lost soul. I was digging through the assorted works of Lovecraft and Poe, looking for something that I had not yet read. The shop door opened, the bell jangled on its hook, and I paused and watched him walk in. He stood there, sandy brown hair brushed back from his face, quiet and self-possessed as he greeted my godfather as "Uncle Jimmie". He knew the shop well, that was clear. He smiled at me as he eased past me, and, flustered, I fumbled and nearly dropped a copy of 'At the Mountains of Madness' that I'd been clutching as I tried not to stare.
I snuck to the corner of the bookshelf and peered around it like a dark-side Juliet.
He was looking through the Romantics. I knew that shelf of the bookstore well enough. He gently slid a hardcover book from the shelf, considered it, sighed, then returned it. He shook his head and moved over to Dickens.
"Set works then, is it?" I heard my godfather ask. I could hear the grin.
"Bane of my life," my Romeo answered. He glanced once towards my side of the shop, and I ducked back behind the shelf, flushing guiltily.
"Ah, Great Expectations. At least they've spared you Oliver Twist this year."
"You know me, Uncle Jimmie. I prefer Hardy."
"You and me both, lad. Here you go. Give my regards to your Nan, will you?"
"Will do, Uncle Jimmie. Take care now."
"You too, lad."
The shop door opened and closed with a thud and a jingle, and I waited a moment before sauntering out from behind the bookshelves. My godfather was not fooled, and I flushed deeper at his knowing smile.
"Who is he?"
My godfather grinned. "Who?"
"Uncle Jimmie, don't tease me."
"That's Sean."
"Sean... wait, is he nanny Jenny's grandson?"
"That's the one."
"I didn't recognise him at all."
"He's in sixth form up near Sevenoaks. Scholarship at some posh school. Plays a lot of sports and does quite well from what Jenny tells me."
"Hmm."
.:.
I saw him down by the sea the following evening, walking along above the tide line, staring out at the horizon. Every so often he'd look down at his feet, find a shell, and spend a moment or two inspecting it before he'd carefully put it back where he'd found it.
Of course I didn't follow him. I just happened to decide to walk on the same beach, from the other direction.
I was less goth, more seventeen-year-old waif, barefoot in a long flowing skirt and a distressed black jacket, carrying my sandals carelessly in one hand. I ignored him as we crossed, turning my chin dramatically to sea.
He was still as gorgeous as my first impression of him, even in his teeshirt and faded jeans.
.:.
Weeks became months and months turned slowly into years. I'd see him sometimes on my jaunts down the coast to visit my godfather. We would cross paths on the beach; sometimes deliberately on my part, sometimes seemingly by chance, and he'd always smile and nod to me.
But he never tried to talk, never tried to get my name, and there were many nights I stared at myself in my pitted bathroom mirror, wondering what was wrong with me.
.:.
It was June, and hot. I'd abandoned skirts for sundresses, had stopped dying my hair jet black and let the natural brown return. A year of university had expanded my tastes and horizons, and these days I was as likely to listen to Dire Straits as Nightwish. I was trying the carrot cake in the village's new beachfront cafe when he walked in and ordered a coffee. I watched him like a cat, chewing on my liver in envy as the rather pretty girl behind the counter pushed out her small but nicely-proportioned chest and preened for him. But he treated her with kindness and courtesy and gave her nothing else, and I was both amused and somewhat ashamed at myself for my reaction. I left three pounds and some change in the tip jar as a mea culpa and left not long after he did.
He was leaning on a promenade railing and staring at the waves, but I elected not to invade his space and let him be. Instead, I walked down one of the many concrete ramps to the sand, kicked off my sandals, and made for the water's edge.
I had gone quite some way before I realised that he'd followed me.
.:.
"It's... Theresa... isn't it?"
I stared at him, then remembered my manners. "Yes. I'm Theresa. You're... Sean? Sean Jackson?"
"That's me. I thought it was you," he said with an easy grin. "You've changed a lot since Year Two."
"You haven't," I replied. Then I flushed as I realised how that could be taken. "Wait... that... that didn't come out right. Um..."
"I'll take it how you probably meant it," he said, still grinning. "You're not from around here though? Didn't your family live down Hastings way?"
"They do these days but Uncle Jimmie is here... so I always come up when the weather's nice because it's much quieter here than at Hastings and I can actually get to the water's edge here."
"Fair enough. Mind if I join you?"
"It's not my beach," I teased him.
"We've walked this beach often enough, we might as well do it together and actually talk to one another."
"What makes you think I want to talk?" I said, amused.
"Most people do," he retorted, eyes crinkling as he smiled.
"Maybe I'm not most people?"
"Then I'll be graciously wrong."
I grinned at that, and tucked my hair back. "So what are you doing here?"
"Visiting Uncle Jimmie," he said. "He's an old family friend, practically my blood uncle. And I love the shop, it's been my sanctuary for more years than I can count."
"It is a place of safety," I agreed. "I spent hours there when I was hiding from life."
"Life has a funny way of finding you when you do that."
"That it does," I said softly. "Are you here long then?"
"This weekend, heading back to campus on Sunday."
"Where's campus?"
"King's College," he said, self-consciously.
"London?"
"Oh. No. The other one," he said, softly.
And just like that I realised how ephemeral this would all be.
"Oh."
Cambridge.
It might as well be the moon for someone like me, doing my B.A. at my small second-rate satellite campus because I'd lacked the focus to ensure I got decent A levels.
We walked in silence for a minute or two, then I sighed. "Well. I can't waste the day. Need to get back home soon."
"That's a shame," he said. "It's been nice to finally talk to you, however briefly."
I smiled a well-rehearsed smile as I worked to rebuild the wall between us, and managed desultory small-talk as I extricated myself. I even turned and waved a cheerful goodbye to him as I made for my bus stop.
But on the slow bus trip home I sat, head leaning against the grimy window, battered headphones feeding me "Self-pity Playlist number two" just loud enough to muffle the noise of the road.
.:.
It was the first Friday evening of July, and I was at an outside table at the Royal Oak with Molly and Shannon, nursing my second cider as we watched the sun dipping towards the sea.
"Gosh I love it out here," Shannon said. "You're so lucky, Tess. I'd kill to live by the coast."
Molly snorted. "Just wait, Shannon, she's going to complain about damp laundry and her rusty bicycle chain."
I closed my mouth and glared at Molly. I'd been about to do precisely that. "It's nice in summer," I admitted. "But it's a bastard in winter, Shan. And besides, I'm not by the coast. I'm a mile or so back."
"Trade you."
"No thanks," I said with a grin. "Summer here tides me over until the next year."
