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When Connor speaks, he’s quiet and reserved, he has none of that prideful, self-absolved edge in his tone. No one would expect him to.
When Connor speaks, the sun has just started to set, but you would not know it over the fog that melts the sky into the sea.
The beach is as big as can be, but their committee is small and they're close to one another. Just in terms of physical proximity, though—most don’t like each other. Some haven’t seen one another in years.
When Connor speaks, he wonders if Ewan had ever stopped grieving Rose. He'd never asked him.
I don’t think he was a bad guy, he says, and he really means it. I think he was a little kid that I wasn’t able to love enough to fill whatever had been drained from him. I don’t think any of us were.
There’s a breeze, and the air reeks of algae. Somewhere behind them, he can hear a group of teenagers play volleyball. It’s warm enough at this time of the year, and people on this side of the coast have always had a fondness for the outside.
They’d considered inviting Naomi. They didn’t. Stewy said that she might have declined anyway. Maybe out of respect, maybe grief, maybe because she wouldn’t care. He didn’t specify which. He doesn’t think he needs to.
Roman doesn’t have his shoes on, and the sand is cold in between his toes. Slightly wet, too, because he stands at the edge of the water. It’s kind of freezing. He thinks that if he’d had a dip right now, he would probably catch a cold. He’s just out of a shitty flu, so he’d rather not risk it.
The small vial glides in between his moist fingers—he’d eaten an arguably gross Subway sandwich right before this, and the tuna dip had dripped over his palm, and the glass feels kind of greasy now, coated in his fingerprints. The water would wash it away, but he likes that he still leaves a mark, in his own way.
He has a nice script waiting for him in his office, about a man so repulsive looking that he hides himself away in his castle, spending his days gardening for a flower that would please the woman he loves. He will probably greenlight it.
He doesn’t speak, but he holds the glass vial in his pocket, runs his thumb over it the way you would soothe a bruise.
Siobhan had almost not made it in time. Her flight from D.C. had been delayed due to heavy winds, and no pilot had wanted to jump into her jet. Turns out two million dollars are worth a bit of a life endangering flight, though. So if someone had to ask her— say, how much is worth someone’s life? —she would say, well, that’s easy. Two million, and gusts of wind.
Her hair is long, and it makes up for the lack of the rays of the setting sun in their horizon. You can make out her faint freckles if you come close enough to her, which is why no one remembers she has those, still.
She thinks she’d have made for a terrible mother, but when she looks at hers, standing small next to her husband, she thinks that perhaps she does not have it in her to make comparisons right now. They’re not getting any younger, but the white in Caroline’s hair stands out even more today. At least that’s what she thinks.
The last time she’d worn this blue shirt, the weather had been just as cold, but close contact had made it warmer. It was never forced proximity, just one she wouldn’t allow herself to feel or consider. The lump in her throat has not disappeared, but she’d learnt that all things did, with enough time. Someone behind her sneezes, and she does not need to turn around to know who it is. She thinks she’ll always carry that bit of regret within her. But maybe it’s alright. Better a burden than nothing at all. Better too much than not enough. Better opulence than bareness. She’s always been left wanting more. There are scraps that would just never be for her to beg for, though.
Sometimes he wonders if he’s allergic to iodine, because every time he’s next to the sea he feels himself holding back a sneeze, nose itchy. His husband had told him that it was, in his words, literally not possible. That he could be allergic to shellfish, sure, but that being allergic to sea salt was just not a real thing. Also, that he was being a fucking moron.
Still he rubs his nose, and without a word he feels a tissue being shoved into his hands. He smiles and blows into it, a little sheepish about the noise he makes. He feels a little sheepish about being so tall as well, too. Like the shadow his figure was casting over the sand was insulting. He’s probably overthinking it, though.
He puts the used tissue in his pants’ pocket and links his hand back with his husband’s. They’re warm and soft, and he briefly wonders if it’s because he’d put on hand lotion. His favorite is the bergamote and lemon scented one.
There are no tears on his cheeks, no matter how much his eyes burn. He’s never really been a crier. He’d cried when he’d gotten proposed to, and married, but he usually is the most dry eyed of his relationship, which apparently comes as a surprise to people. He feels a shiver, but he’s not sure if it’s because he’s cold or something else he can’t really put a finger on.
He listens acutely when Connor speaks, wondering if Roman’s skin feels cold under the water, eyes tracking Siobhan’s red locks.
When Connor speaks, it’s soft and full of warmth, like a freshly baked cake just out of the oven, where the scent would overwhelm a room, a home. He would know the smell now, and it has finally erased the bitter aftertaste of strawberries.
Roman’s toe clench when his feet move forward amongst the small waves, though he guesses he couldn’t even call it that. He kisses the vial, raises it to his forehead, where the small white line stands, never fading.
Siobhan holds her siblings’ free hands at the same time, even if she feels a little nauseated at how corny it all felt. Connor’s to her right, Roman’s to her left. They’re all bundled together, and she wonders if they look like those penguins she’s sometimes seen in wild-life documentaries
There’s a room in the Smithsonian’s Sant Ocean Hall that’s been given his name. She doesn’t know who made it happen, though she could just look at the contributor to find out. She doesn’t want to.
The dim light reflects on the glass like a shooting star diving across universes.
Maybe in one of those, marine biologist Kendall Roy is explaining to a group of seven-graders that octopods have three hearts, crouching to reach their height. Maybe he wears a stupid shirt with seashells and fishes on it.
The eastern wind rises, the western sun sets.
They’re not octopods, because they have twelve limbs.
They do have three hearts, though.
They do have three hearts.