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Whitlock.

Poet Whitlock.

It is a good name. I like it. And I like that it’s him who has emerged from the gloom at this end of the vast driveway. I was curious about Ivy’s blue-eyed uncle when we crossed paths earlier.

I am curious about most people.

Connection is life.

I crumple the empty bag of nuts in my hand and bite into an apple, observing Poet as he comes a little closer. Not smiling, exactly, but he doesn’t seem unfriendly.

“You came back.”

I nod while chewing. “Aras is staying in Norfolk. I will go home with Skylar.”

Poet leans forward, as if he’s only caught half of what I’ve said. “Home?”

“Cornwall. Porth Luck. Skylar will drive my car later so perhaps I can have a beer.”

“Beer. Right.” He does smile now, and I like that too. “I can help you with that.”

But he doesn’t move.

Neither do I. I finish my apple and turn back to my car to dispose of the core.

A warm hand skates over my arm, a hand attached to a wrist ringed with bracelets made from leather and stones that glint as Poet points somewhere behind him. “Compost.”

He takes the core and tosses it somewhere I can’t see. I follow the line of his body as he completes the simple movement and note that he is a bigger man than his older brother. More muscle packed onto his frame. His hair is lighter too—honey-blond. Like wheat in late summer on my grandfather’s farm back home. His eyes are the colour of the sea in Juodkrantė. Even though it’s dark, I am sure of this already. And I wonder why.

Folk’s eyes are not this blue.

Or maybe they are and I haven’t noticed.

Poet rotates back to me. “Beer is that way.”

I know that. I’ve been here all day, in the beautiful garden of this beautiful house, to share something truly magical with my friends. But I follow Poet all the same, a beat behind him, letting my gaze roam his back as he walks, admiring the shape of shoulders slimmer than mine, but every bit as strong.

Stronger, perhaps. I work hard on the boat, but farm labour is something else. A fact I remember from a childhood spent trying to avoid it. I did not want to pick potatoes in Šiauliai County when the waves called my name. I did not want to tend the land when I could be at one with the sea. Folk Whitlock is an ocean man. I ask his brother, “Do you sail too?”

Poet doesn’t respond. He keeps walking into the mild breeze until he veers left and ducks behind the homemade bar. Returns with a bottle of beer and a larger vessel of something I can’t identify until he tells me, “Gin. Beer gives me headaches.”

“Gin does not?”

“I don’t drink much.”

“Do you share?”

Poet looks me over. Then shrugs. “Sometimes.” He passes me the gin and nods as I wave away the beer. “Careful, it’s better with ice. Got an unruly kick straight from the bottle.”

Works for me. I like weddings and I like seeing the people I care about so deliriously happy. But I can’t deny a strange feeling crept over me this afternoon as the double ceremony unfolded. Aras’s mother would say it was loneliness—because she cares more about me than I probably deserve—but I am not sure. It’s a choice to be alone. To focus on providing for my son and being the best person I can. And love comes in all forms. I do not need a wife to be happy. I am happy.

Cool glass touches my hand.

Poet.

The gin.

The bottle has a wide spout. I uncork it and take a sniff. “What kind of gin is this?”