Beyond the Horizon Read online

  Lola has repeatedly asked me what happened the day before he left. I’m sure Rob filled her in on the majority of it, but if he guessed that Malakai returned with me to my house that fateful night, he’s never let on. I’ll never be able to share what happened between us. The guilt I feel has eaten away at me. It was my fault he left. I pushed him too far. He warned me, time and again that he would leave, but I refused to believe him. I refused to believe that the connection we’d felt wasn’t strong enough to keep him here. I was a fool.

  Like Lola, I should’ve been angry at his sudden disappearance. I should’ve nursed that anger with every passing day like she has. Instead, after stealing his contact number from Lola’s phone, I sent him text after text. He never answered, but he did read them and that soothed my heart just a little knowing that he was alive at least.

  A few weeks ago, I turned nineteen with just a small celebration attended by Grandma, Lola and Rob. Jack, Alice and Georgia missed my humble celebration, choosing to spend a few weeks over my birthday in Ibiza living it up with their new university friends. Truth be known, we’ve drifted apart. Their lives and mine are so very different now, and no amount of cajoling by them has made me want to leave the island. How can I, when I still hold onto the small hope that he might return? Then, just when I began to think that I could start living in the present, rather than in a memory of the past, I received a brief message from Malakai.

  We need to talk, Little Siren.

  A couple of weeks later he sailed back into our lives once more, wreaking havoc on our emotions.

  Wreaking havoc on me.

  Eighteen

  Malakai

  It’s been a year since I left Connie sleeping peacefully. Her satiated body and calm breaths a memory I’ve clung onto with every beat of my undeserving heart. Leaving her had been the single hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.

  But I had to leave.

  I did it for her. To keep her safe. From me, from my family.

  I thought I could stay away. I thought that I could get her out of my system. I’ve travelled the oceans, sailing around Europe, never laying down anchor for more than a couple of days to stock up on provisions. I’ve been living off the memory of her that night, hoping it would be enough, and it was at first. Then out of the blue a couple of weeks after I left, Connie sent me a text message. My initial reaction was to throw my phone into the ocean. I couldn’t do it.

  I read that text a thousand times. It was a simple message, short and to the point.

  I’m sorry.

  That night I’d drunk a whole bottle of bourbon trying to assuage my guilt. I was the one who should’ve apologised. I was the one who should have at least said goodbye. I was the one who wasn’t man enough to do either.

  Her texts came regularly after that first one. I began to look forward to them. Sometimes she would send a few in one day, sometimes a week or more would pass before another came through. Those days without word hurt, and I suspect she was trying to show me what it felt like to be on the receiving end of silence. I don’t blame her. In fact, in a weird way, I was proud of her. Nothing like a bit of your own medicine to keep you grounded.

  Yet, in all the messages, she never once asked me to return. Instead, she told me about life on the island. She told me how Lola was sick for a whole week when I left, and Ma Silva had been true to her word and looked after her until she was better. She talked of Lola’s Shack and finding a rhythm working there. She told me about the small things, how Lola tried experimenting once again with healthier food options for the fishermen and how, after a whole month of serving fat free yoghurts and fruits and nuts, they all complained, and she went back to cooking them fry-ups for breakfast. She told me how her friendship with Jack, Alice and Georgia had drifted apart. I can’t say I was unhappy about that. I didn’t like that little prick Jack, he looked at Connie like she was his and that pissed me off more than I’d care to admit.

  Life carried on without me, as I knew it would.

  In her texts Connie was also careful not to tell me too much about Lola, but from the brief mentions, I knew my best friend was beyond angry. I can read between the lines better than anyone. Lola might’ve forgiven me once, but she won’t do that again. I know that. I’ve accepted that fact. Like my mother once loved to say, “you’ve made your bed, now you’ve got to lie in it.” Some things can’t be fixed, and mine and Lola’s friendship is one of those things.

  But throughout the long months apart, Connie never once made me feel guilty for leaving.

  Part of me wished that she had begged me to return. Part of me thought that she would. But Connie is stronger than either me or Ma Silva gave her credit for.

  At some point down the line, the text messages became less conversational, albeit one-sided, and more like random thoughts, an expression of her feelings, I suppose.

  The sky was so dark today, it reminds me of the quiet between sleep and wakefulness.

  I wonder how many years it takes for a boulder of stone to turn into sand, a thousand, ten thousand. More? When I hold those tiny grains in my hand, feel them run through my fingers, I imagine how many lifetimes have passed.

  A whale beached itself on Broken Shores this morning. I knew death had come even before I’d left the house.

  Joy doesn’t have to be fleeting. Love doesn’t have to be all-consuming. Happiness is a state of mind, don’t you think? Are you happy, Malakai?

  Grandma said that Lola and Rob are an item. I don’t like to think of relationships as things we can purchase.

  That message had made me smile and believe me that doesn’t happen very often. Lola deserves to be loved. Hurting her the way I did was never my intention, but she knows the kind of man I am. I’ve never hidden that from her. We’ve spent months apart before, never sharing a word. Though, I accept that this is different. Lola isn’t mad that I left. She’s mad that I left without saying goodbye. Twice.

  Repeating that same mistake with Connie isn’t something I’m proud of, but it was a necessity. I needed her to hate me. To forget about me. And yet, as far as I can tell, she doesn’t, she hasn’t.

  As I sailed across oceans, to different countries, my one constant aside from the ocean’s tides were Connie’s text messages. Every single one that I received brought me a little joy and as pathetic as it might seem, I looked forward to the tiny bell that would sound every time one of Connie’s messages came through. I became obsessed with ensuring my phone was fully charged, which is no mean feat when you live a life on the ocean waves. After a while I began to respond to her text messages on paper. I picked up a leather-bound notebook in a small fishing village in the South of France and scrawled my response to Connie’s messages across the thick cream pages. Eventually, it became a diary of sorts. A way to explain how I was feeling, rather than bottling everything up inside. I purged myself of my past, and it helped. For a while, at least.

  Some of her messages made me smile…

  I found a conch shell this morning. When I put it to my ear I swear I could hear your voice.

  And some made me wince…

  Words are powerful, don’t you think? They can ease someone’s suffering, they can cut deep, they can express emotion so easily if only a person is brave enough to voice them. Is that why you didn’t say goodbye? Do words scare you, Malakai?

  I’d wanted to respond to that particular message. I almost had…

  I’m not afraid of words, Connie. I’m afraid of you.

  Another bottle of bourbon was drunk that night.

  And some messages made my heart crave for a girl who was a thousand miles away…

  Winter is here, and the elements have hit the island hard. My tan has faded, and so too have my freckles. It made me sad, as though you were fading too. I touched myself, thinking of you, trying to conjure you back up. It made me feel warm at least.

  That night, and the many that came before and after, I touched myself thinking of her too.

  I yearned for her.

&
nbsp; Yearned.

  A feeling I’ve never experienced before.

  I’ve met many women over the years who were looking for a fling, a night of passion. I was the perfect man who could give them that. With me there were no strings attached, just a warm body, skilful hands and mouth. I gave them what they wanted, a fantasy. Those faceless women could fulfil their desires with me, and I could sail away satiated. After a while those kinds of encounters became hollow, unfulfilling. So I didn’t seek out pleasures of the flesh. For almost three years I didn’t touch a woman. Didn’t want to.

  Until Connie.

  Until my Little Siren called to something buried deep within me.

  I’ve asked myself if I was attracted to her because of her resemblance to her mother, and whilst they are similarities, there’s something about Connie that affects me deeply. This yearning I have is more than me lusting after her. She calls to the broken parts of me. I can admit that now. When I’d looked her in the eyes that first time we met, I saw into the depths of her. I might hide out here on the ocean, but Connie hides a whole ocean of pain right within her heart.

  God, how I’ve longed for her. No amount of swimming in the sea over the last year to cool off my flushed skin and soothe my already damaged heart could ease the feeling.

  Still I fought it.

  Then I tortured myself by reading every single message from Connie a million times over. Some nights, when the sky was clear and the moon was bright, my fingers would hover over the phone and I would have the urge to respond. On a few, rare occasions, when loneliness began to get the better of me, I’d gone as far as even beginning to type. I never pressed send.

  Instead, I’d pick up my notebook and write. I’d purged myself across the pages. Some days it made me feel close to Connie and some days it reminded me of what I’d left behind. A beautiful girl with a pure heart, who loved to sing, who made my own heart race with anticipation, with aching need and desire.

  Like the ocean, Connie Silva stirred up long-forgotten feelings within me and just like those mythical creatures that sailors still tell tales about to this day, my Little Siren called to something within me.

  I’d ignored the pull for over a year, refusing to give in. Then I received some news from my contact on the island. Grant. To the majority of the islanders he may just be a man who builds boats, but he’s more than that. Much more.

  Some kid arrived on a ferry filled with tourists. He didn’t leave when they did. He’s spending a lot of time with Connie. Thought you should know.

  The second I read the text, I’d turned Princess around and began heading back to the island. It wasn’t just because I was filled with jealousy and believe me that was bad enough. It was because my cousin, the King, had been making bold moves lately. Moves that involved getting kids to do his dirty work. This kid arriving might just be a coincidence, but that was a risk I wasn’t willing to take. Not when it came to Connie.

  When I was halfway back to the island, travelling along the coast of France, Connie sent me a final message that twisted my gut and had me roaring at the night sky until my throat was hoarse.

  The sunset was beautiful today, Malakai. It was the first time I felt at peace knowing that tomorrow would come. A chance to begin again, I guess.

  She was saying goodbye, and I couldn’t let her. I caved, sending her one short message then sailed day and night, not stopping, all because I needed to get to her.

  My Little Siren called, so I came.

  Nineteen

  Connie

  “I’m heading off to the beach, Grandma,” I call from the front door, slipping on my trainers and grabbing my sunhat.

  “Lola doesn’t need you today?” she asks, stepping out of the living room with her hands wrapped around a large mug of coffee. She’s grown her hair out over the last year and now it falls in soft silvery waves around her shoulders. Her pale skin is smooth with a few wrinkles and her eyes are still a deep blue without any of the colour loss that sometimes happens to people of the same age. Her beauty is still evident. She’s a striking woman, a woman who’s been alone for almost thirty years. Grandpa John was her one and only love. She once said to me that their time together, however fleeting it might have been, has sustained her all these years. I believe her.

  “Today’s my day off. Anyway, Lola locked up after the breakfast rush this morning and took the ferry to the mainland with Rob. They’re meeting some friends for lunch and staying until tomorrow afternoon. I’m opening up tonight and tomorrow for her though.”

  Grandma Silva smiles knowingly. “Love’s young dream, eh?”

  I nod, giving her the barest of smiles. “Yeah, I guess they are.”

  I’m not jealous of Lola and Rob’s relationship. Far from it, in fact. I’m happy for them both. Rob lost his wife to cancer a few years ago and Lola has needed someone to ground her, to help her ease the pain of Malakai’s desertion. They’re good for each other. They’re happy.

  “I’ll see you later at dinner time before I head back to The Shack, okay?”

  Grandma Silva gives me one of her looks. The kind of look where she knows I’m keeping something hidden and she’s trying to figure out what it is. For the past couple of weeks since I received Malakai’s text, I’ve been distracted. Grandma is no fool, she knows me better than anyone. She’s seen through all the smiles that I’ve plastered on my face over the past year since he left. She’s tried to talk to me about Malakai, but I’ve refused to engage in conversation. I know she didn’t want him to stay. I know she thinks he’s dangerous for my heart. I understand her fear about his family, his past, about the damn curse, but that doesn’t give her the right to try and choose my path for me. She had her time with Grandpa John, she got to love and be loved, even if that was for only a short time. Alfred Lord Tennyson was right when he wrote: “Tis better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all.” He knew what he was talking about.

  I want to love, to be loved, for however long I can, and it pisses me off that Grandma keeps trying to prevent me from experiencing that. I know it comes from a good place, from a place of love, but that doesn’t mean it’s right.

  “Connie…” She begins, but I give her a quick smile and head out the front door not willing to hear what she has to say, because sitting in my back pocket is my mobile phone and it’s just vibrated with a new message.

  Somehow, I know it’s from him, from Malakai, and I can’t be around Grandma when I read it. Too afraid to reach for my phone and check if I’m right, I head towards Broken Shores, needing the comfort of my most favourite place in the whole world before I find the courage to see what he has to say. It’s been two weeks, almost to the day, when I received that one and only message from Malakai. A whole year had passed before then, and in all that time he never once responded to any of my messages, except that last one.

  The day I’d sent that message I’d convinced myself Malakai was never coming back. After a year of waiting I’d let go of the hope he’d ever return, I was saying goodbye. Then he messaged me back.

  We need to talk, Little Siren.

  Those six words had thrown me into a spin, and I’ve been on edge ever since. Funny how that message came a short while after Peter arrived on the island. Peter with his sandy blonde hair and pale grey eyes. Peter with his cheeky smile and his warm laughter. Peter, a man nearer my own age, who had stepped off the ferry from the mainland a few weeks ago now and who’s shown no signs of leaving.

  Like Malakai, he’s travelled the world. Originating from Australia, he’s been hitchhiking around Europe for the past six months. Like me, he’s fallen in love with our little island.

  From the moment we met, Peter has pursued me religiously, and whilst I’m flattered, he doesn’t hold a candle to Malakai. He doesn’t make my heart sing. He doesn’t make my head fill with passionate words and painful song lyrics. He doesn’t set my skin on fire.

  But he does make me smile and Grandma Silva likes him. So one day, after spending the whole a
fternoon and evening on Broken Shores thinking about my life, my future, and considering developing my friendship with Peter, I sent that last message to Malakai. I let him go.

  A few hours later he texted me back, fucking with my head.

  Now as I step onto the beach, slipping off my sandals and looping them over my fingers, I make my way over to my favourite spot to read Malakai’s text message. The tide is out, and the black stone is warm as I settle onto the rock. Sliding my feet into the pool of sun-warmed water, I realise how significant it is that I’m here. This is where I first laid eyes on Malakai.

  Man-god. Poseidon. A broken man with scars that run deeper than the ink tattooed across his skin. A man I don’t really know, but long for anyway.

  Pulling in a deep, steadying breath, I stare at my phone’s lock screen. A photo of Grandma Silva and me, stares back. We’re both grinning widely, wearing silly party hats. The photo was taken on my nineteenth birthday a month ago. Only my smile isn’t real. If you look close enough you’ll see the sadness in my eyes. You’ll see the longing for a man who stole my heart and sailed away with it.

  Despite itching to call Malakai since he sent the message, I haven’t. I’ve waited. Living here on this island has taught me to be patient. According to Grandma Silva, patience is a virtue, but I’m not virtuous, far from it. I have sinful thoughts. I’ve brought myself to orgasm night after night thinking of Malakai and his lips and tongue pressed against my wet heat. I’ve imagined him taking me, fucking me hard, fucking me slow. I’ve imagined how it would feel to suck his cock, to spread myself bare for him whilst he jacks off over my naked chest. I’ve imagined so many things. So many naughty, sinful, adult things.