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“Got you.”
He does. He’s got me in a way that goes beyond us linking hands to take this wild and wet ride together. He’s well andtruly got me, even when the incline lessens and we float while he continues his story.
“The river runs past where I used to live.” He eyes me for a long and quiet moment before reaching out to push us away from more rocks, and we turn in a lazy circle. The water is calmer here, which means I get to hear him ask this. “Want to see where I grew up?”
I do.
I want to see anything he’ll show me.
Everything.
I’m meant to be filling a book with sketches of one kid. He’s who I itch to put on each page, and as we float under a canopy of trees, a way to do both comes to me.
I see it as if I’ve already drawn it, and calm descends in an instant.
Peace reigns and it’s fucking glorious.
The clamour in my head is silenced, that fast beat perpetually skittering behind my ribcage finally slowing.
Hayden is the story.
He’s the only one of us who knows what’s ahead on this downhill journey. But I know a way ahead too now. It is as clear as this water to me, and a new journey flickers to life behind my eyelids the same way as light flickers between the leaves above us.
I can’t fucking wait to add him to each page, not only to the first one.
“Nearly there,” he promises. He pulls me closer, not letting the current carry me even an inch away from him. I get a face full of water in the process but it’s worth it to be close enough to hear this. “I said that Dad was a moorland warden, yeah?”
I nod.
“He worked for the duke who owns everything between here and Porthperrin. The cottage was tied to his job.”
“He didn’t own it?”
Hayden shakes his head. “Didn’t need to. It was a lifetime deal. And he loved his work even if it never paid much. He got to be in nature, you know?”
Of course Hayden got his love for wildness from someone special to him.
“He got to do thatandcoach footy in his time off. I’m glad he got that. I only wish…”
He rolls away.
The water is shallow, and when he kneels up, silt stirs. The water turns cloudy. Murky. That’s the only way to describe what crosses his face until he covers it with both hands. Only for a few seconds. He’s back to usual as soon as he drops them.
Too late, mate.
Way too late.
I’m seeing through all his cracks now, and there are plenty, like him insisting he’s a short-term guy like me. Everything he’s shown me suggests otherwise, and I see more after he extends a hand to haul me out of the water, and then pulls me up a bank to peer through a gap in a hedge with him. His sudden exhale is a signal. I can’t ignore that he goes preternaturally still, his next breath held, until I prompt him.
“What is it?”
“The goal posts. They’re still there.” He swallows. I hear it over the rush of water behind us. “We needed permission from the duke to put them up. Proper regulation-size posts, not the flimsy kids posts I outgrew. I remember him and Kirsty talking about it.”
“Kirsty?”
“My stepmum. Dad always says she’s the brains of their operation.Said,” he tags on before clearing his throat. “She wrote the email asking the duke for permission. She explained my…” He swallows again. “She explained my potential. A weeklater, a truck turns up with a delivery. From the duke.” He tilts his head at those posts. “A pro setup—posts and a net, a dozen balls. And a cheque. Said he’d had a growing boy of his own once. Footy wasn’t his son’s sport, rowing was. But he remembered what it cost to keep him kitted out for that. Said to keep in touch about my progress.”
“Did you?”
