TRISTAN

Excruciating, unbearable pain. I’m torn into pieces and there are stars waltzing before my eyes. Near death experience. I can see the light at the end of the tunnel. Breaking my arm during the accident was a cakewalk compared to this.

“Oh, my poor boy.” Gran pinches my cheeks so hard, I’m afraid she’ll just tear the flesh from my skull. She pulls me against her bosom almost choking me and all I smell is chamomile.

“Gran, ouch.” I lift my cast, desperately hoping that she’ll now stop trying to kill me. It works. She lets go of me, reluctantly though, and I take the chance to step back a bit.

“Oh, sorry, boy. Are you in pain?” Her expression is worried and I do my best to look pitiful and hurt.

I am in pain. My arm is killing me. I carried my board the whole way across town because every bump in the concrete made me whine like a kicked dog. I rest it against the wall next to her patio, only to find its usual place taken by another one. The deck is completely unfamiliar, some drawing, and it has super heavy trucks attached, the kind that most certainly won’t allow any great tricks. I’m puzzled, because as far as I know, Gran doesn’t have any other acquaintances who skate.

“Come, come, Tristan.” She beckons me over to the table and pulls a garden chair out for me like I’m disabled. “Sit.” She shoves me into the chair and lets out a long sigh as she eyes my cast. My snapback lands on the patio with a small thud as she pushes it from my head. Oh, right, a gentleman doesn’t wear a hat in the presence of a lady. Jesus.

“Oh, your beautiful hair, boy!”

I run my fingers through what once had been a chin long mane of black curls and is now restrained to the top of my head. Because of the stitches I got me an undercut and shortened it in the back, there are only a few long strands left in the front that I can tuck behind my ear. I like it though, makes me look kind of punk.

She brushes her hand over my hair and sighs again.

“What can I get you? Tea?”

“Tea’s fine, Gran.” I lean back and try to relax; the flower printed cushions are - even if ugly -soft and comforting. Still, I’m tense, as always when I’m here. As if my Dad, her son, could magically show up. I can hear her lawn mower and every lawn mower owned in a half mile radius buzz around, the air is saturated with the smell of freshly cut grass. You know how it works. One neighbour starts and it spreads like a disease. Especially on such a warm and peaceful day like this; even the birds seem too lazy to sing their choral.

She lives in a small cottage close to the beach. Her garden isn’t that big, but pretty contorted because of all the bushes and potted plants that stand around.

Usually, I come by every other week and mow her lawn, but not today and not anytime soon. She seems to have found a replacement though. A guy appears in my field of vision and he’s pushing the mower with grim determination. He’s about my age and looks like Gran got herself an upgrade, a grandson 2.0, updated and improved. We’re both lean, but while I’m short, he’s tall. His hair is dark, too, but short and wavy, it peeps out from under his beanie. As he comes closer, sizing me up, I can see that the blue of his eyes is so bright and glowing that mine are rendered rather unremarkable. His features are well defined; hallow cheeks, sharp cut nose; his face is nothing as soft and boyish as mine. Something about him seems vaguely familiar. I hint a nod at the guy and he nods back, his face absolutely vacant.

Gran comes back out, carrying a tray with three cups and a water kettle and arranges everything on the hand knit tablecloth.

“Sky!” she shouts across the garden and waves her arms like a ramp agent.

The guy who is apparently Sky turns off the mower and directs his gaze towards Gran.

“You want some tea? I have cookies!”

“Thanks, Mrs. Ashmore. I’ll just finish up first if that’s ok,” he calls back, his hands on the handle uncertain.

“Yeah, yeah.” Gran waves him off and sits down next to me. She starts filling the steaming water into two of the cups and sets up the cookie plate so that it’s right in the centre of the table. There are nine cookies, chocolate, and they are lying in an overlapping circle.

“Who’s that?” I ask her and jerk my head towards Sky.

“That’s Sky St. Cloud.”

“Come again?” I blurt out chuckling. What a stupid name. I mean, wow, his parents must really hate him.

She harrumphs and lowers her voice as if she’s filling me in on something Sky isn’t supposed to hear and that he wouldn’t hear anyways above the droning of the mower.

“He’s one of Sharon St. Cloud’s kids. From down the road?” She pulls up her eyebrows to reinforce her message but to me that information means nothing. No, not nothing. There might have been a girl in my year at school that was called St. Cloud. Janet? Josie?

“Sharon St. Cloud?” I ask Gran nevertheless.

I know she has probably told me about her before, she always gossips about her neighbours as sure as I never pay attention.

“You know. Sharon St. Cloud. Seven kids? All from different men?” She barely whispers and I have to lean in close to even understand her.

It bothers me big time because nothing screams tittle-tattle louder than our conspiratory posture. Even if Sky can’t hear us, it would take him one look to know that we’re talking about him. “He’s the eldest. Bit strange. Goes to Oxford.”

Blimey. How can a single mother of seven children afford to send a kid to Oxford?

“His father is supposed to be some celebrity; nobody knows who it is though. But apparently he takes care of the financials for the boy.”

I lean back in my seat because Sky approaches the patio with his beanie in his hand and Gran’s sudden occupation with the tea makes me feel uncomfortable.

“Sit, sit, Sky.” She gestures to the seat next to mine and turns the cookie plate around its centre to invite him to take one.

“Thanks, Mrs. Ashmore.” He doesn’t smile but his voice is polite and friendly. He doesn’t come off arrogant, but he sure seems strange with that unmoving face of his. It’s impossible to read.

“Sky, that’s my grandson Tristan.”

“Hi,” we both say at the same time.

I was wrong about his eyes. They aren’t blue. They are freaking blue. Almost turquoise.

She takes the tea bag out of my cup and pours me some milk like I have both arms broken and not just one and then hands me a cookie. I’m kind of thankful that she refrains from feeding me in front of Sky.

“So, now tell me all about your accident. What did the doctors say?” She strokes my hair again, traces the stitches with her index and I flinch. Sky must think I’m a big fat mummy’s boy.

I don’t even try to explain to her what happened, because she wouldn’t get it anyways. Words like rails or slides just don’t fit into her brain.

“I told you. I was skating and I fell. Broke my arm, hit my head. It’s alright. In a few weeks I’ll be as good as new.”

“You kids. I don’t get it. You almost kill yourself and still you show up with that death-trap of a skateboard. Isn’t one cast quite enough?”

I want to explain it to her but since she won’t get it anyways, I stay silent. I’m a bit surprised as Sky speaks up.

“It’s not a choice.”

It’s only five words but they perfectly sum up my feelings. It’s not that I could stop skating. If I did, I’d be missing a limb. The next few weeks are going to suck, because if Mom catches me do so much as a flip, she will rip my balls off and feed them to our cat.

I smile at Sky and he turns his head to watch a sparrow’s silent dispute between wanting a cookie and being afraid of coming closer. Has he even heard about such a thing as a facial expression?

“How long do you have to wear the cast?”

“About ten to twelve weeks.” Both bones in my forearm are broken and the cast goes from my hand up to above my elbow. It’s already itching like hell.

Sky puts down his mug and attempts to get up.

“I have to get going, Mrs. Ashmore.”

“Already, Sky?” She gets up on her feet and gestures him to stay put. “Wait a second.” She hurries inside and her presence is replaced with awkward silence. Sky just looks at the tablecloth and doesn’t say anything and I feel like I should resume a conversation that doesn’t exist.

“So you skate, too?” I ask just to say something.

“Yeah.” He nods towards the board next to mine.

“Cool.” I check out his board again, it shows a drawing of some guy skating down a road on a windy day with his hands shoved in his pockets and his shoulders pulled up to brace himself against the cold. “I like your deck.”

“Thanks.”

King of the monosyllable.

Thank Goodness, Gran reappears and waves a tenner around in front of her.

“Here.” She attempts to give it to Sky but he just shoves his hands into his pockets. “For your work.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Ashmore. But no. I can’t take it. It’s alright. It’s been a pleasure.” Although his face is blank and his posture relaxed, something about him makes it seem as if he’s utterly uncomfortable.

“Not a chance. You’ve earned it.” The note quivers in Gran’s outstretched hand as if it’s afraid that she’ll drop it.

Sky sighs and takes it but doesn’t pocket it. He gets up now and thanks her.

“I’ll get going, too, Gran.” It’s almost time for dinner and I had just stopped by because Mum would’ve made me anyways. I’m still a bit dizzy from the concussion and I really just want to lie down.

“Alright.” Gran pulls me close and moistens my face with a dozen kisses. “Call me when you get home.” Apparently, I lost the ability to cross our small town safely, too.

“I will, Gran. Bye.” I grab my board and follow Sky and we go around her house. I almost crash into him as he comes to a sudden halt on the sidewalk in front of Gran’s cottage.

“Here. You take it.” He pushes the money into my hand and quickly retreats. “I really don’t want it.”

“You’ve worked for it”, I say. I always get a tenner, too, when I mow her lawn. I gesture him to take it back.

“Please?” Sky breathes deeply and locks eyes with me, making me think of the sky above Greece where my family and I once spent our holidays. Maybe the name ain’t that stupid after all. I have no idea why he objects so much to the money, but if it bothers him that much, I’ll take it. It’s not that I don’t have any ideas how to spend an extra ten.

“Alright.”

“Thanks.” Sky relaxes his shoulders and puts his right foot on the nose. He rides goofy, just like me. “Bye, then.”

I watch him ride down the sidewalk. Every time he crosses a junction, he does tricks. I notice that his Tre Flip is really smooth, despite those heavy trucks he uses, like he’s done it at least a hundred times. Yeah, no tricks for me at the moment. As he disappears into an entryway I can’t see from here, I turn around and head home myself. Just walking along the street in the most boring way possible.

----------------------------------------

TRISTAN

Since Mom won’t let me go to work for now, I have much more time on my hands than I’m used to. I can’t write and I can’t help with the rooms, so she’ll be running the hotel by herself. I read, I play video games and it usually takes me ‘til noon until I’m bored out of ways to distract myself from thinking. That, and Mum is so busy pampering me when she’s at home, I can’t take it. My body is simply not able to contain all the liquid she offers me in form of tea and I’m out of ways of telling her that yes, my arm is hurting, but no, I don’t want any more pain meds. Today, I actually feel strong enough to bail, so I grab my board and I’m just through the door as she stops me.

“You’re not seriously considering to skate, are you?” Mum shrieks.

“Mere transportation, Mum. No tricks, I promise.”

“Take the car, Tristan.” Well, that’s a first. She has never ever offered the car to me before.

I wave my cast at her in exasperation.

“Stick shift, Mum?”

She sighs and then looks at me in earnest. “No tricks, Tristan. It’s only been a week.”

“Eight days. And I promise. No tricks.”

Sometimes I feel like she forgets that I’m nineteen. And I feel like I forget it, too, because otherwise I’d just tell her to mind her own business. I get on the board and very carefully avoid going too fast in front of her but pick up speed as soon as I’m out of sight. It’s not the best idea I ever had; I have to admit. My arm is hurting anyways and the bumps in the road echo in my nerves. No, skating, even if only riding down the street is not an option and I feel incredibly stupid walking down the street with my board in my hand. Even more, because I didn’t consider that I have no place to go. Mark’s away on a job and he won’t be back before Friday. My old school, where we used to hang out to skate, isn’t an option either – I’m not sure I can stand the sight of him and not get into a fight. Matt, that is. So basically, I stroll through town aimlessly all the way down the esplanade until I find myself at East Coast and I decide to visit the new skate park they recently built there. I’ve never been there before, it’s all the way across town and honestly, why waste hundreds of thousands of pounds, when the three people in Seaford that skate – Matt, Mark and me – can easily do so at the schoolyard, which ain’t even ten minutes away from home.

I’m a bit surprised to find a well-thought-out structure after I’ve pushed myself through the bushes that separate it from the street. It’s not that big, but there are plenty of concrete walls, some stairs with rails and a half-pipe as well as a bowl. It’s adjacent to an old industrial building and the old roof is included in the area and casts some shadow over the far end. I wish I wasn’t wearing that stupid cast. But oh, well, even if I can’t skate myself, I can at least watch the people around. Nobody’s there though. No, not nobody. The lonely dark-clothed figure that is working on his flatground tricks belongs to Sky St. Cloud. He’s not bad. There’s a lot of stumbling every time he tries a Cab, but I simply have to admire how he goes at it again and again and again and eventually succeeds every now and then. I sit down on a wall and watch him for a while. I have no idea if he has noticed me; he doesn’t look in my direction once. His face is determined and absolutely concentrated. It takes several rounds across the park until his eyes suddenly focus on me.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“Hey.”

He pops the board into his hand as he reaches me.

“Nice”, I allow.

“Thanks.” There’s not even a hint in his face if my compliment mattered to him. Maybe he is arrogant after all. “So, are you here to torture yourself by only watching?”

“Yeah, kind of.” I grin. “Better than being stuck at home though.”

“So, what really happened?” Sky nods towards my cast.

“Urgh. Dark slide on the rails at Tesco’s.” I still can’t properly remember it.

Sky squints at me. “Oh, boy.”

“Yeah.”

It’s ten steep steps from the parking lot down to the street. I guess, I can be glad that I didn’t get hit by a car.

“Mum totally flipped.”

“I can imagine. I broke my wrist last year doing a Tre Flip. My mum locked my boards away the whole summer.”

“Blimey! How did you survive?”

Sky smirks. “Since then, I have a spare board hidden in the cellar.”

“I can’t do a Tre Flip. I get credit carded every time.”

“You need to get your feet out of the way.”

“Oh, really?” I pull up one eyebrow sarcastically. “Show me how you do it.”

“Alright.” Sky gets on his board again and speeds off, then turns around and casually pops, scoops and flicks the board in his flight down the stairs before his feet catch it again at the bottom. Very elegant.

“It looks so easy when you do it.”

He shrugs and pushes his board back and forth with his foot. I feel like I’m keeping Sky from skating, so I nod towards his board.

“Go on. Just watch out for the pool of self-pity I’m currently drowning in.”

“I’ll just do airs over it.” He says it so dryly, I have to laugh out loud, and Sky bites his lip.

He rides off and I put on my headphones and listen to some music while I watch Sky carve the bowl. No, not that bad to be stuck here. Watching Sky skate is kind of like watching clips online, only the tunes are much better. When he’s pumped out, he scoots over and gestures towards his ears.

“What are you listening to?”

I hand my headphones over and watch Sky’s face contort to something between surprise and dislike.

Sky shakes his head. “Sure…”

He’s interrupted by sudden loud wailing from the close by playground. His head jerks towards the source of the noise and he’s up and on his board in no time. I can see that he’s going as fast as he can, but he still can’t resist to drop into the bowl on his way over – he even makes a detour for it. Sky disappears between the bushes and then the wailing stops. A few moments later he reappears with a small child on his arm, maybe four years old, and his board held in his hand.

“I have to go. Adam’s not up for playing anymore.”

The boy’s face is drenched with snot and tears and he has a small bulge on his forehead.

“Swing hit his face,” Sky explains and then puts his board down. “Come on, bruv. We’ll skate home together, alright? Just don’t tell Mum.”

Adam’s face lights up and he lets Sky position him close to the front trucks.

“Bye, Tristan.”

I watch Sky arrange his legs around his brother’s body and carefully push the board with his left, holding onto Adam’s arms. And then it’s me alone again.

Next day I head directly for East Coast. Maybe Sky’s there again. To watch him skate seems like a much better way to spend the day than boring myself to death at home, even if my whole body hurts from wanting to skate myself.

For a moment or two I consider myself alone at the skate park and that sucks, because it means that this day is never going to end, but then I see Sky disappearing and reappearing as he scoots up and down the bowl. His hood hides most of his face, but every time he appears, I can see his expression of absolute concentration as he is practising some new trick.

I sit down on the concrete and let my feet dangle down the vertical. Sky’s eyes widen subtly as he notices me and scoots over.

“Hey.”

“Hey. You mind?” He nods towards the spot next to me.

“Eh, no?”

Goodness, this sucks. Not being able to skate, not having a place to go, forcing myself on a stranger because any company is better than no company. Ok, that’s unfair, Sky isn’t bad company, but talking to him isn’t exactly easy either.

“When did it happen?” he asks and lifts his own left arm.

“Nine days ago.” I retrieve my mobile from my front pocket. “Hey, you want to see it? My Dark Slide? Well, three quarters of a Dark Slide and then me trying to turn the stairs into rubble?”

“Someone recorded it?” Sky pulls up his eyebrows.

“Yeah. In the beginning I was very positive I would make it.”

As Mark told the story, I had been high as a kite, on a mission, inconvincible that pulling such a trick stoned was just too risky. So, not even close to being sober himself, he had preserved the end of my trip for all eternity.

I start the video and Sky leans in to watch. There are outbursts of ‘Go, Tristan!” from Mark and then my figure appears in the corner of the screen and I half-heelflip onto the rails. It looks good, I’m kind of proud of myself. Almost down the rail I lose my balance though and crash into the stairs, trying to break my fall with my outstretched arm first and then my head. The way my body folds makes me think of a dummy. I don’t look like a real person. I get up, blood running down my face and start walking towards Mark; I’m totally disorientated, before I just fall down flat on my face. I can’t remember any of it.

Sky gasps. “Well, that was three quarters of one good Dark Slide.”

“Yeah. Last quarter sucked though.” I grin.

“It’s usually the last part that sucks.”

The corners of Sky’s mouth twitch and I’m guessing that’s supposed to be a smile. After all, it’s not that bad to have no other place to go.

“Are you here every day?” I ask him.

“Almost. I’m home from… college, so yeah.”

“You go to Oxford, right?” I feel that I can admit that I know about it; he must have already guessed that Gran told me a thing or two about him.

“Yes.”

“What are you studying?”

“PPE.” When he realizes that that explains nothing for me, he adds, “Philosophy, politics and economics.”

“Oh, wow.”

Sky shrugs and directs his gaze to a burger wrap that sails aimlessly through the air. As the wind picks up, the wrap suddenly rises into the air, dances a pirouette before it smashes against a tree and slowly drops to the ground again. It touches the grassless earth beneath the trunk as softly as a freshly fallen leaf. It’s so silent that I’m wondering why I can’t hear its connection with the ground. Sky rearranges is beanie with one hand and takes a deep breath before he makes another attempt at conversation.

“So, what do you usually do, when you’re not disabled?”

“I work at my mum’s hotel. The Seaside Inn?”

He nods; he must know it, it’s right at the sea in the middle of town close to Jubilee clock.

“What exactly is your job?”

“Eh, you know… I’m mainly at the front desk, talk to the guests. Paperwork. I organize events, like weddings and stuff. When a maid calls in sick, I do room service, too. Help out in the kitchen sometimes. But mainly front desk.”

“Do you like it?”

“Yeah. I do.”

“What do you like most about it?”

“I’m not sure. Everything. Or at least a bit of everything, I guess. I love the familiarity, that’s for sure.” It might look like one of those generic faceless hotels from the outside, but we’re different. Holidays with friends, that’s our motto. I love the people that come, and I love it even more when they leave, saying that they had the best time, that they can’t wait to come again. I love the interior. There are not two rooms that look even remotely the same. Every room has its own charm. The furniture is mostly thrown together, there are a lot of plants in the rooms, decorations, mostly marine themed of course, pictures of random people we bought at flea markets, everything you’d find at home, too. The tableware in the breakfast room is completely mismatched and I love that.

I direct my gaze back to Sky and am astonished to find an expression. It’s sympathy.

“That’s really nice.”

“Yeah. Call me nuts, but I actually miss work.”

“That’s not nuts. That’s perfect. To love what you do.”

“Everyone should do that,” I say.

“Not everybody can.”

His expression shifts so smoothly, I don’t even see the change and it’s blank before I’m even aware that it had been friendly before. Sky pulls a tool from his front pocket and starts to tighten the hardware. He takes extra care to fasten each and every screw, his head bent down towards the deck. The birds around us start to chirp desperately to cover up the awkwardness.

“Am I keeping you from skating?”

“It’s fine.”

He pushes the tool back into his pocket and leans back, supporting his weight by his arms. He doesn’t say anything and neither do I and I feel like I’m overstaying my welcome.

“I think I’ve got to go,” I say as I scramble up to my feet.

“Alright.” Sky doesn’t even look up; his eyes are fixed on some spot across the park.

“Ok.” I shuffle around with my feet, waiting for a goodbye or something and as Sky shows no sign of awareness that I’m still there I just turn around and jump on my board. And get punished for my forgetfulness immediately by a stabbing pain in my arm. I get off again as soon as I’ve left the park and walk.

----------------------------------------

SKY

It takes Josh ten days before he can talk to me. That’s a new record. In a bad way. We’re at the breakfast table and it’s four words that spin an almost invisible new band between us.

“Pass me the milk?” he asks.

The carton on the table is empty, so I get up and get a new one from the fridge. He doesn’t even say thank you. But at least, there have been four words. It’s a start.

Of all my siblings, Josh has always taken it the hardest when I had to leave. Jen ‘s indifference to my presence seems almost cruel. And Amanda doesn’t really care either. She is so wrapped up in whatever teenage girls wet their knickers about - if I’m here or not makes no difference to her. Les just accepts it and Adam, well, he simply forgets about me. I don’t blame him; he’s only three. And Rosie, she’s just a toddler. She’ll forget about me, too. And when I come back for Christmas, I’ll be the stranger again. Josh though, he takes it personally, I know that. Every time I come home; he punishes me for disappearing for days. He might be powerless and he can’t do anything to keep me from going but he can make me hurt afterwards, giving me the silent treatment. He’s only six, but he’s already figured that out.

“Cereal’s good?” I ask him and he nods into his bowl.

“What are you up to today?”

I overdid it.

Josh shoots me a glance like he wants to say, ‘Don’t you dare talk to me!’, picks up his bowl and leaves the kitchen. From the corner of my eyes, I can already see Mum’s hand creep towards me across the table.

“I better get going, too.” I shove my stool back and take my bowl and mug and put it in the sink.

“He doesn’t mean it like that.” Mum tries to comfort me, maybe unaware that she’s lying straight to my face.

“It’s ok.” It is. I know he’ll come around to it sometime soon, he just needs time. Doesn’t mean that I’m not hurting, though.

I kiss her cheek on my way out and firmly close the door behind me before she can come up with another alternate reality. I love her madly, I really do, but she’s just too much to handle for me most of the times.

I get on my board and head towards town. The skate park won’t do today. I’ve kind of been hoping that Tristan would show up again yesterday and the day before, but he didn’t. I have a feeling that I’ve been antisocial again, on purpose maybe but by mistake. He seems like a nice guy, despite his family connection. I go by the schoolyard again, but just like last time, Tristan’s ripped skater friend is there alone. I have no idea where else Tristan could be, so I hit the town centre first and try the esplanade. It’s super crowded; tourists flood the concrete like a river with two opposite drifts. They search for a way through the masses, to get drinks, to find a good viewing spot, to greet their friends. There’s the usual kid that lost its parents in the maze of legs, too, crying with snot dripping down its nose before Mum or Dad find it. The multitude of voices merge into a cacophonic mess that is impossible to understand; people laughing, talking, shouting, dogs barking, seagulls fighting, music from the merry-go-round; I can barely hear my own thoughts. I decide to continue on the sidewalk, where it’s much easier to move forward. The chilly wind is a nice contrast to the blazing sun; its blow against my skin leaves goose bumps on my bare arms while my shoulders burn from the heat of the sun. I shouldn’t have put on a tank top. A fat lady yells at me in some foreign language as I get too close to her dog, panicking that I might run him over. As if I had no control over my board whatsoever. And then I spot him. Tristan’s leaning onto the rails by the sand sculptures, his board attached to his backpack and his cast arm held to the side. Apparently, I’m not the only one who chose to go for a tank top today, although for him it might have been a decision based on convenience, with the cast and all, instead of looks. Still suits him well.

I swallow before I step up and rest my forearms on the banister next to him.

“Hi!” His smile is wide and open and I’m wondering if he ever considered to conceal his inner world at least a bit for it’s displayed all over his face.

“Hi.”

I don’t know what to say, now that I’m here, so I just look at the sculptures down in the sand. I’ve loved them ever since I’ve been a little kid. The artwork is just breath-taking, incredible, so rich in detail and so precise that it renders me speechless every time I’m here. We’re standing right across from the sea horses, my all-time favourite sculpture; it’s not even the best piece, but they have always been special to me, fighting through the waves in unison, determined to reach their destination.

“Share a fag?” Tristan holds one by the end, the tip pointing towards his mouth.

“I have my own,” I say and attempt to pull the pack from my pocket.

“That’s not the point of sharing.” Tristan grins a super goofy smile that pushes his cheeks up so far that his eyes become slits. He takes the cigarette between his lips and lights it, taking a pull and then hands it over to me.

“I didn’t know you smoke”, I say, just to say something, to not let that stupid void come up again.

“I don’t,” he says, his lips still spanning over his teeth.

“I see.” I watch the blue smoke dissolve into grey, then white and finally nothingness.

“I’ve never smoked a whole fag alone. Ever. So, I don’t really smoke. I share.”

I’m spluttering before I can hold it back. I was just about to inhale, and the fumes get stuck in my throat and burn in my lungs like a flash. I’m coughing and cackling at the same time, and I jerk around in a desperate attempt to catch some air. Tristan pats my back and laughs his arse off. That’s surely the most stupid thing I’ve ever heard.

TRISTAN

“You alright?” I ask him, amazed by Sky’s unexpected loss of self-control.

He hands me the fag back and nods, sliding his fingertips behind his sunglasses to wipe off a loose tear. There’s still a smile hovering on his lips.

“You’d know that about me, if you were from here,” I say.

I only realize my mistake when it’s too late and Sky’s face slams shut. “I mean, I know you’re from here, but... you didn’t go to high school here, did you?”

I’m racking my brain, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen him before. Even if I misjudged him and he was a year or two older than me, I must’ve seen him around. And I would’ve seen him. He’s not one to oversee.

“No.” He refocuses on the sculptures and those damned sunglasses make him even harder to read.

“Where did you go?” I’m just asking random questions, but he makes me feel as if I’m prying.

He takes a breath before he forces himself to continue. “I went to... Boarding School.”

I’m not going to inquire anymore, because he’s clearly uncomfortable talking about his personal life. So, I’m kind of surprised to hear him continue.

“It sucks. Basically, I’m a stranger in my own town because I’ve only ever been here during summer and Christmas.”

Plus, going to a fancy private school, isn’t something that would’ve made him popular here.

“Then why did you go?”

Sky scrutinizes me, as if he’s checking out if I’m trustworthy. I get that. People in our town, they talk. It’s their all-time favourite activity. And a family like Sky’s is even more prone to gossip.

“I guess you know a bit about my family. Am I right?” His eyes pierce me even though he is wearing glasses.

“Gran mentioned some things.” I feel my cheeks warm. My confession feels like an admission of guilt, like I just attested my inclination to gossip. “Listen, I don’t mean to be nosy. I was just asking.”

Sky turns around and leans against the banister with his buttocks.

“The father wants me to get a decent education. And since he’s paying, I don’t have a say. Never had.” He shrugs and his nervous fingers fiddle around with the wooden pendant around his neck.

I don’t know what to say.

The tower of ashes that has built up at the end of the cigarette falls down, just as a breeze from the sea hits me and splays them all over my jeans.

“Great,“ I mutter and try to brush them off. “Well, how was Boarding School?”

“Oh, well. It wasn’t all bad. The food was superb, I tell you.” He turns his head towards me and hints a smile.

“Ohh, food.” Now that he has mentioned it, my stomach twists and churns, even though I’ve just had ice cream.

“Oh, yeah.” Sky holds his belly and his expression is so needy that I laugh out. I check my mobile for the time. It’s only mid-afternoon.

“Hey, do you want to go grab a bite? I’m starving.”

“Chippy around the corner?” Sky suggests.

“Ok. Let’s go.”

SKY

“I’m sorry, but what on earth are you doing?”

“It’s called eating. You should try it. Very satisfying,” Tristan says. He’s holding a tiny, fiddly wooden fork between his thumb and index, the other fingers spread as far as possible from the centre of grease.

I take up my own pretend fork and mirror him. It’s ridiculous, he looks so queer, so posh - absolutely out of place.

“It’s still eating.” He carries on, absolutely untroubled by me mocking him, stabbing the fish and/ or chips and hauling them into his mouth with what seems a very unstable construction.

“You’re supposed to use your fingers.” I start on my own serving and almost moan from pure pleasure. There’s just nothing better than eating from hand to mouth.

“I can’t,” Tristan munches.

“You can’t… eat with your fingers? Why?”

“It freaks me out.”

He takes a paper towel and wipes his mouth. This is getting funnier by the second.

“I can’t have food on my hands. Sticky food. Or slimy food. It’s horrid. I don’t mind dirt or shampoo or anything else, but food on my hands freaks me out. Just the thought freaks me out.”

My chortle is much too loud for the tiny shop that’s used to sizzling oil, short orders and the rustling of newspapers being the only sounds.

“What about kebab?”

“Not a chance!” He shudders in disgust. “The sauce dripping everywhere, running down the side of your hand. Oh, eww.” His eyes are wide and he takes up the paper towel to wipe his perfectly clean hands.

“Crisps?”

“Tricky. It’s greed over disgust usually.”

“Knead dough or die?”

“I’m gone, man.” He grins.

“You’re weird.”

It’s the second time this afternoon that he has made me laugh. He basically made me laugh more often than I have during the past week; screw it, during the past month.

“I’m sorry if I was rude the other day.” I say it quickly before the words can cling to my palate again, too afraid to get out.

“It’s alright, mate.” Tristan finishes his last piece of cod. “I’ve been to the doctors yesterday, crept the shit out of me that guy.”

“How come?”

“I had another X-ray and he said he wasn’t sure if the bones’ ends still meet. Asked if I moved around a lot; if I still skated.” He fakes a caught expression. “Said if I wasn’t careful, I might have to get some plates and screws. Otherwise, it might stay crooked.”

“Oh, my.”

“Yeah.” He eyes his cast arm like it doesn’t belong to his body.

“You still have your board with you.”

“I can’t leave it at home!” he cries out. “It’s not its fault.”

I shake my head and purse my lips to keep me from smiling. I take extra care to enjoy my last piece of cod before I crunch up the paper and throw it into the bin. We grab our stuff and leave and I automatically breathe in deeply as the oil saturated air is replaced by a salty breeze. I miss the sea so much when I’m in Oxford.

“Listen, I have to check in with my Mum.” Tristan jerks his head around, roughly towards the direction of their inn. “Will you be at East Coast again tomorrow?”

“Sure.” Until I can go to work again I’m free to skate all day. “Are you coming?”

And there it is again, his super broad goofy smile.

“I’ll try to squeeze it in.”