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It’s unseasonably dry. That seems to be the main topic of conversation amongst adults around the school. They’re well into February and haven’t seen a drop for the entire calendar year. Whenever Nick’s mum turns on the television – the channel defaulting to the news despite how many times David has tried to change the settings – there’s a rolling banner at the bottom of the screen counting the days since they were blessed with even a gentle shower.
Nick just shoves his hands in his pockets and grunts when his mum asks what he thinks of it all. He loves the rain, but he knows that’s not why she’s asking.
She’s asking if he’s figured it out yet. She’s asking if he knows.
It’s sort of ruining the magic for him, if he’s honest.
He’s always loved the rain: the pitter-patter sound it makes against the windowpanes or the patio; the way it washes everything clean and makes the air smell good; the sudden flash of green in the morning after a good downpour. Apparently, he was one of those toddlers who would strip naked the second the sky clouded over and would scream blue murder when anyone tried to drag him back indoors.
As he got older and started to notice the swirling patterns that would appear in the splashes on the pavement – little trails between souls that only appear in a downpour – the rain only seemed more and more magical. His mum would look out of the window and sigh, pack his breakfast up in a travel bowl and bundle him in his coat to start their walk to school early. Knowing, as she did, that he would insist on letting his tiny feet follow those trails until he bumped into the person at the end and declared, loud enough for the street to hear, that their soulmate was close by.
If he had grown up to be a natural mathematician, he might have been able to calculate the precise distance needed for a soul-trail to appear; those precise set of circumstances that would link two people together and set them on a path to finding one another.
Most of his school reports have described him, diplomatically, as ‘reassuringly competent’ at the subject, so Nick gave up on that particular notion fairly quickly. He has, at least, managed to determine that the distance must be ‘closer than the radius of Truham school’, given how infrequently those trails appear on the school pavements on a rainy day. Or, perhaps barely any of the Truham boys are destined to find their soulmate in the school next door. They’d know, otherwise, wouldn’t they? That’s the sort of gossip that spreads like wildfire. Nick’s seen the buzz of excitement when everyone is hurrying to get to shelter in the mornings, when the pavement is a muddle of Higgs and Truham students and the rain lights up the trails of those lucky few who don’t have to travel far to find their soulmate.
Nick knows he’s one of them.
He wasn’t sure, to begin with. Harry noticed his trail appear one November – clapping Nick on the back and ruffling his hair in delight – and Nick had watched it appear and disappear in the raindrops until, finally, it faded along with the bad weather. One of the other rugby lads had insisted that Tara Jones must be on the other end. Another, that it was definitely Imogen Heaney. Nick knew in his bones that they were both wrong. He’d know if either of them were his soulmate. There’d be a tingle or a flutter or some other notion, beyond what amounted to ectoplasmic chalk doodles on the pavement. And Nick may have had some of his romanticism curbed over the years, but he’s sure that meeting his soulmate should be a big deal.
It should feel like finally knowing yourself; like the world suddenly makes sense. It should make life easier, not cause a million new questions.
It should feel, a little bit, like finding your best friend.
Charlie is his best friend. That, at least, he’s sure of. Nick feels that warm glow whenever Charlie’s nearby and, if it weren’t a ludicrous thought to have, he’d want to bottle that feeling and remember it when his soulmate finally does appear. The bar is high, when your best friend makes you feel on top of the world.
Like now, with Charlie rocking on the balls of his feet, a blanket bundled around his shoulders and a soft smile on his lips.
“I wish you didn’t have to go,” he whispers. None of Nick’s other friends would think that, let alone let it out as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Nick wants to throw his arms around Charlie’s shoulders – to sink against him and silently wish that his future soulmate will make him feel as good as Charlie does.
He doesn’t, though. Not when Charlie nods to the door behind him and chuckles.
“Sounds like rain, good thing you’ve got a coat.”
Rain, finally. Maybe, as he walks home, he’ll pass his soulmate and watch his trail appear. Maybe he’ll let his feet follow it and knock on her door.
More likely, he’ll trudge home and be greeted by his mum’s shiny eyes as she waits to hear whether he’s finally figured it out. She’ll hide her disappointment before he thuds upstairs and lays, damp and despondent, on top of his duvet.
Charlie leans in close and Nick holds his breath. When Charlie pulls back, he’s holding an umbrella.
“Don’t want you getting too wet.”
Fair point, and Nick bites down the heavy feeling in his throat as he takes the umbrella and fumbles with the latch on the front door.
“B-bye,” he stammers, casting one glance at Charlie’s strange expression before pushing out into the rain.
It feels good. Despite the fact that his head is spinning, Nick still loves the sound of raindrops pelting the fabric above his head. He watches as he walks; neck craned up to see the way the droplets form and then slide gently down the surface of the umbrella before dripping from the edges. It’s distracting enough that he doesn’t notice the curb until it’s too late and he’s already toppling, ankle twisting painfully, before he hits the tarmac with a squelch and a yelp.
“Fuck!”
The umbrella lays twisted in the road next to him, the rain pelting his head and plastering his hair to his face. He’d be embarrassed, if there were anyone around to see him.
There’s a tiny bit of gravel stuck in his arm when he lifts it to look – a little drip of blood making its way down his forearm towards his elbow. It stings when he flexes his arm experimentally and Nick brushes his palms on his soaked jeans before swiping his fringe out of his face. He can already picture Jane Spring’s tight lipped faux-smile when she wanders into her dining room and finds Nick making a puddle on the floor, but he supposes he should head back to Charlie’s house and raid their first aid cabinet.
He pushes himself slowly to his feet and turns back towards Charlie’s house and stops, breath catching in his throat.
The pavement is lit up in blue and yellow; a bright, glittering trail from the tips of Nick’s toes, all the way to—
“Charlie?”
He’s dripping wet in just his jumper and jeans; barefooted and pale under the streetlights. The rain makes his hair coil in a way that Nick wants to feel under his fingertips.
And he could, couldn’t he? That’s what this means, doesn’t it?
Nick doesn’t have any more thoughts before he’s racing forward, eyes trained on Charlie as he stands stock-still on the pavement.
When their lips collide, Nick finally feels it.
Yes, this is right.