touch-starved!johnny sinclair who pretends he’s not. who jokes, who grins, who sprawls out like he doesn’t need anyone...but somehow he’s always finding his way back to you.
touch-starved! johnny sinclair who drapes himself over you without thinking. an arm around your shoulders, his head dropping into the crook of your neck, fingers absentmindedly tracing shapes on your arm. if you shift away, even just a little, he notices immediately, but doesn’t say anything. he just looks at you, soft and a little unsure, like did i do something wrong?
touch-starved! johnny sinclair who sleeps better when you’re there. tangled legs, your hand on his chest, his breathing finally evening out. if you try to leave the bed first, he tightens his grip, half-asleep, murmuring your name like it’s instinct.
touch-starved! johnny sinclair who always wants skin-to-skin contact. knees pressed together under the table. your feet on his lap. your fingers hooked through his belt loop. he doesn’t care who’s watching, he just needs to feel you there.
touch-starved! johnny sinclair who melts when you initiate it. you lace your fingers with his? he freezes for half a second, then squeezes back like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. you kiss his cheek? his smile goes soft and private, like the world’s just narrowed down to the two of you.
touch-starved! johnny sinclair who gets quiet when you hold his face in your hands. as much as he needs it, he's not used to this affection. his childhood was yelling matches and love shown through tight smiles and fake words. you entering his life shattered all that. suddenly his eyes are dropping, forehead resting against yours. no more jokes. no more bravado. just a boy who doesn’t know how to ask for comfort...but always takes it when you give it.
touch-starved!johnny sinclair who acts casual about it, but always finds an excuse to touch you. “c’mere, it’s cold,” even when it’s not. “no space, sit here,” patting the space between his legs. he frames it like convenience, like habit—never like need.
touch-starved! johnny sinclair who presses kisses into your hair, your temple, your shoulder. soft, absentminded, almost unconscious. he doesn't even realize he does it. he's not trying to start anything, he's just grounding himself.
touch-starved! johnny sinclair who lets you trace the scars and little marks on his skin. he doesn’t look at you while you do it, but his breathing goes slow and deep, like he’s finally safe enough to exist in his own body.
touch-starved! johnny sinclair who never pushes, never demands. he just lingers. just stays close. just hopes you won’t pull away. and when you don’t—when you pull him closer instead—he holds on like he’s been waiting his whole life for someone to do exactly that.
guys im alive. shocker! i havent posted in forever bc of winter travels but im so back (lets see how long this lasts).
content : fluffy, fluff, fluff, reader and johnny are sleeping together, established relationship, relationship is fairly new (not mentioned), reader has hair, cuddling !
summary : literally justreader and johnny getting out of bed in the morning—or lack thereof
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
it had been at least four hours since you’d both woken up for the first time at 7 a.m.
you’d whispered ‘good morning’s’ to one and other, smiling and even a little shy in that first-thing-in-the-morning way. then you’d tucked your head into his chest, draped your leg back over his hip and weaved your fingers through his hair.
he’d woken up first that time—barely seconds before you had, he watched you for a couple seconds before you started stirring, then you regained your senses that sleep had numbed, smelt his weird, expensive all in one shampoo, that supposedly smelt like coconut before he’d swam and surfed too much and it stared smelling like salt, sea and something else that you guessed was the scent of coconut fighting to not be rid of, you felt his arms, one slung over your waist lazily, his hand tucked just under the curve of your ribs, thumb rubbing soft circles into your skin, his other arm under you, being squashed by your weight for so long that having a blood supply may as well have been considered a luxury than a necessity, especially since he swears he’d rather have it fall off before moving it.
lastly, you heard his breathing, even and familiar and a little faster than you knew it to sound when he was asleep.
so, considering all of those things, you opened your eyes and there he was, a small smile on his lips, eyes half lidded, hair a tousled mess, eyebrows raising a little when his eyes met yours, like he’d wanted you to sleep forever and a little longer.
you whispered, ‘morning,’ and so did he. you said you felt gross, he told you that you looked perfect. you called him a lair. he called himself your boyfriend.
you smiled and scrunched your nose, before nestling your head into his chest. he kissed your hair and there was a little pillow talk, until your breathing fell back into that tired rhythm and so did his.
the next time, you woke up first and it was already a quarter past nine.
his lips were slightly parted, releasing small puffs of air every so often, a few damaged, bleached blonde stands of his hair fell onto his forehead, his arm still tight around your middle like he was afraid you’d take off at any given moment—even in his sleep.
your fingers parted through his hair, pushing back the hair that lay across his forehead, brushing it back, letting your finger nails gently scrape against his scalp in the way you knew he’d always loved so much.
then his breathing caught and his mouth closed—he waited a couple seconds, as if to see if you’d stop if he shifted, or woke up too fast—then his lips curled into a grin—a pleased, content grin. his eyes flickered open and met yours immediately.
he told you that it was considered creepy to watch people whilst they sleep. you denied all charges and claimed that he snored—he did a little. he called you a liar. you made ridiculous snorting noises that were supposed to mimic his snoring and called him a tractor.
he was adamant that you were lying. you teased him and he called you mean. you countered him by reminding him that he loved you. he agreed, without a second thought, pulled you back in and pressed dozens of kisses to your forehead.
you melted back into him instantly, your leg wrapping back over his hip, your foot pressing against the back of his thigh, letting out a little sigh as you did so. his head nudged its way into the crook of your neck, taking advantage of your hair laying against it, using it as a pillow and taking in the soft smell that he loved so much.
he suggested that the two of you stay like that all day and as much as you wanted to, you refused and said you had to be real people and that others would notice if the two of you disappeared all day. he told you that the world could survive without you guys for one day.
you called him clingy, although you were already pushing your arm up through the duvet to let your fingers drag through his hair like they’d never left. he called himself your boyfriend, yet again and then you announced that you’d both only stay in bed like that for five more minutes.
five minutes became ten and ten became fifteen then you’d both drifted back off to sleep—until it was just a couple minutes shy of eleven a.m and of course, he woke up first—after you explicitly told him not to let you sleep in all day.
he weighed out his options : wake you right then and face your fake-mad attitude, let you sleep for longer and face your real mad attitude or pretend that he was also asleep and let nature take its own course.
as tempting as the last option was, he knew he should wake you up.
so he did, and to his surprise you were hardly mad. all he got was a groan, but you were just as tired as him and you couldn’t be mad at him right after waking up, not when he already looked like he was bracing himself.
when you finally stared sitting up to push yourself out of bed to make yourself presentable, his arms tightened around your waist, keeping you stuck in place. you accused him of wanting you to look like a sleepy mess all day. he told you that that wasn’t true at all and the you looked cute that way anyways.
after johnny failed miserably at trying to convince you that you guys laying in bed for at least three days was ‘self care’, and people did it all the time, you managed to peel his arm off of you and slip out from under him.
he whined and called you a monster. you told him you’d take that over being lazy. he groaned.
when convincing him to get up wasn’t enough, you pressed the tiniest, quickest, barely-there kiss to his lips and told him he wasn’t getting anymore if he didn’t get up and brush his teeth.
he got up and stayed wrapped around you like a koala whilst you brushed your own teeth and washed your face, trying to occupy him with one hand combing through his hair as you sorted yourself out, his head stuffed in the curve of your neck.
overview : johnny throws a huge sinclair party, reader gets super drunk, and he very clumsily, but very sweetly, attempts to do her skincare for her before bed.
cw : literally just tooth rotting fluff divider creds to @cursed-carmine
windemere was loud in that definitely slightly-too-many-people, summer-slipping-through-our-fingers kind of way. music thudded against the wood floors, the windows fogged from heat, and someone in the kitchen was definitely lighting marshmallows on fire.
you were posted up in the living room, sitting cross-legged on the arm of the couch, talking to one of johnny's prestigious private school friends — will, or maybe wes? you couldn’t remember. you'd talked to so many people in the past few hours, and with alcohol now in your system, it was hard to keep track.
what mattered was that johnny, a few feet away, kept glancing over at you with that quiet smile he saved for just you. the one that said i see you. i like seeing you. and you smiled back, soft and tipsy, the perfect party girlfriend.
then, mirren appeared in front of you. she looked like trouble in glittery eyeliner and bare feet, holding a solo cup in each hand. "y/n. i neeeeed you," she giggled as she spoke. "come with me. we're making drinks."
"i already have one," you said, lifting your nearly-empty vodka cranberry.
mirren grinned. "no, no. i mean real drinks. science project drinks. we’re mixing everything."
you looked over at johnny, who had just slung an arm around one his friends in the kitchen, watching you from across the room. you shot him a mock-serious look. "your cousin’s trying to kill me."
"she probably will," he called back. "forward me a funeral playlist."
twenty minutes later, you were in the kitchen with four bottles, zero rules, and a rapidly fading sense of self-control.
"try this one," mirren said, handing you something neon green. "it's got malibu, gatorade, and maybe pickle juice? i blacked out halfway through." you laughed and took it from her hand without hesitation.
it burned going down, but you laughed so hard you nearly fell off the stool you were sitting on. johnny found you a little while after that, leaned against the fridge, cheeks flushed, slurring something about "the betrayal of pineapple juice."
"hey, party girl," he said, stepping between you and the counter like a shield. "how are we feeling?"
you squinted up at him like he was made of sunshine and concern. "so good. like. so good. i looove this kitchen. did you know that? i love it. and you. and this tile. it’s so coldyyyy."
he gently peeled the solo cup from your hand. "alrighty then, time for bed."
he practically had to carry you back to the main house, to which you protested the whole way. he brought you up to his room, ultimately deciding that you were gonna have to sleep with him tonight. not that either of you minded.
"you wanna sleep in your clothes or my clothes?" he asked, slipping your wedged heels off your feet for you as you lay on your back on the edge of his bed.
"mmmyours," you slurred. "but don't look at me while i change. that's dirty," you said, pointing your finger at him.
"whatever you say, killer," he responded, trying to stifle a laugh. he tossed you an old sweater and some comfy shorts from his drawer and went into the bathroom so you could change, per your request.
when he came back out, you were perched on the edge of his bed, staring up at him, like you were waiting for something.
"you ready for bed now?" he questioned, slightly confused as to why you weren't cozied up under his duvet already.
"no jonathan. i will literally die if i sleep with mascara on," you responded, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.
"of course, shoulda known. no mascara death on my watch," he plays along, picking you up by the waist and carrying you to his bathroom as you squeal.
he sits you down, and you squirm as your exposed thighs make contact with the cold granite countertop. he glances at your extensive skincare collection that you have set up on "your" side of his expansive bathroom counter.
"okay," he says, resting his hands on your thighs. "what's our first step?"
"ummmm micellar water. and those cotton pad thingies," you respond, to the best of your ability.
"k, your cellar water, cotton pads, got it," he mumbled, mostly to himself, searching through your numerous items.
you laugh like he's just told a fantastic joke. "micellar, johnny. not cellar."
"ohh," he says, retrieving the bottle and pouring some onto a cotton round, as he's seen you do many times before. "thanks for educating me. now close your eyes pretty girl."
"mhm," you respond blissfully as he gingerly glides the cotton pad across your eyes and face.
"this smells like wet cucumbers," he whispers, accidentally sending you into another giggle fit.
he carries on with the task once you've calmed down, continuing to be surprisingly gentle, his thumb grazing your cheekbone and free hand planted warmly on your knee to steady the both of you.
"do you have any idea what you're doing right now?" you murmur, smiling with your eyes still closed.
"oh no, none at all," he confirms. "figured if i go slow and look concerned enough, you'll think i'm competent."
"i do," you whisper back. "you're verrry convincing."
he gives you one of his signature smiles, "my greatest strength. that and my jawline."
you giggle lightly, still drunk, but growing tired now. "don't forget your abs, also."
"very right. and my abs, good one," he chuckles shamelessly.
"mkay, now that pink bottle," you move on, pointing lazily in the general direction of it.
"toner," he reads as he picks it up. he gives it a cautious sniff. "smells like your grandma's bathroom, but in a hot way."
"you're so weird," you say, shaking your head.
"and you love it," he replies simply, gently dabbing it across your forehead and cheeks. "there you are. toned. whatever that means."
you smile again sleepily, "last thing, moisturizer. the blue jar. not the orange one. i think."
he picks it up and smoothes it over your skin as he's done with the last two products, carefully and slowly, like you're made of glass. you relax into his touch, bathing in the comfortable silence of the moment.
"wait," you say as he turns to put it back, grabbing the jar from his hands. you reopen it and dip your fingertip in, accumulating a generous amount. you raise your hand to johnny's face and wordlessly swipe the cream across his features.
"thank you sweetheart. hey, if i wake up tomorrow and my skins glowing, i'm stealing this."
"no need," you tilt your head and smile up at him. "just ask, i'll make you a whole routine. done for tonight though, you may now kiss the princess."
"enticing offer, but the princess has booze breath," he jokes.
"still the prettiest princess in the bathroom," you pout. he bends down and pecks your lips as your arms find their usual place on the back of his neck. knowing what you want, he leans forward so you can loop your legs around his torso. he places his hands on the backs of your thighs and carries you back to his bed as you cling to him, only removing his hand once to flick the lights off.
you find your way under the covers immediately, curling into his side and sighing into his chest, relishing in his body heat.
"hey, you're like .... my favorite person," you mumble into his collarbone.
"you're mine too babe," he says simply, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "you alright?"
"mhm, 'cause you're here."
he smiles, genuinely, none of the party-boy charm, just johnny.
Synopsis: The day the Conklins were set to arrive, you took a boat out chasing peace and quiet before summer officially began... but the boat had other plans.
That’s how you ended up on Beachwood Island and how you met Johnny Sinclair, the boy who wasn’t supposed to be there, the one who survived the fire and vanished from everything.
And that meeting changed the course of your entire summer.
Johnny Sinclair x Fisher fem reader!!
AU where Johnny is the one who lived instead of Candace and Beachwood is a near cousins. TSITPXWWL AU
The Fisher summer house had come back to life in layers.
First came Susannah, already humming in the kitchen, barefoot, coffee mug in hand, calling out updates about beach towels and grocery lists. Then Conrad, stiff and quiet, acting like the creak of the stairs personally offended him. Then Jeremiah, loud, grinning, shirtless and so very dramatically announcing his presence like the main character in a teen movie no one else had auditioned for.
The morning had already bloomed by the time you padded into the kitchen, hair still damp from a quick shower and the hem of your sundress brushing against your knees.
Your mom was humming to herself at the stove, flipping blueberry pancakes like it was the most sacred ritual of summer. The kitchen smelled like syrup and lemon dish soap, and the windows were flung open, letting the breeze wander through.
“Good morning, sunshine,” she said, smiling over her shoulder. “You sleep okay?”
“Like a rock,” you replied, stealing a blueberry from the bowl on the counter.
“Like a witch,” Conrad muttered, wandering in shirtless and half-asleep. “I heard you pacing at like, midnight. Thought you were summoning something.”
“She was,” Jeremiah chimed in behind him. “The tragic spirits of her failed love life.
“Funny,” you said, not bothering to hide the smirk tugging at your lips, “especially coming from the guy who sobbed over his seventh-grade boyfriend.”
Jeremiah clutched his chest like you’d just stabbed him. “That was a real connection!”
You raised a brow. “It lasted four days.”
“Still counts.”
“And now that I think about it…” You paused dramatically, tapping your chin. “That was also your longest relationship, wasn’t it?”
Conrad cracked the ghost of a smirk as he leaned against the counter.
Your mom laughed, flipping another pancake. “You kids, must you always be like this? You bicker like it’s your love language.”
“It is,” you and Conrad said at the same time, then blinked at each other.
“Ew, we’re syncing,” you muttered. “I need to leave immediately.”
You poured yourself a glass of orange juice and reached for your tote bag.
“Where are you headed?” Susannah asked.
“Thinking I’ll head to town, rent one of those little skiff boats,” you said, tossing an apple into your bag. “I want to get out on the water, take some photos before the rest of the circus rolls in. Maybe read a little too.”
“Belly, Steven, and Laurel should be rolling in around one,” Susannah called as she turned off the stove, wiping her hands on a dish towel.
“I’ll be back before the circus starts,” you promised, slinging your bag over your shoulder and grabbing your sunglasses from the counter.
“Lather up, sunscreen queen!” Jeremiah yelled after you, dramatically cupping his hands around his mouth.
“Try not to fall in,” Conrad added, barely looking up from where he was nursing his coffee. “Though… honestly? Wouldn’t be the worst thing.”
Without turning around, you raised your middle finger high in the air and waltzed out the back door like you’d just won an award, the screen slamming lightly behind you.
You were grinning before your feet even hit the porch steps.
The sunlight hit you like a kiss as soon as you stepped outside, warm and syrup-thick, already starting to melt the edges of the morning. You took a deep breath, let the sea breeze sweep through your lungs, and jogged down the porch steps to where your bike was waiting in the grass like it always was.
The ride into town was easy, the kind of familiar that let your mind wander. The wheels hummed over the pavement, past dune fences and flowering bushes spilling over picket gates. You waved at a golden retriever sunbathing on someone’s front steps and dodged a couple of early joggers with an effortless “sorry!” tossed over your shoulder.
Cousins was still yawning itself awake when you pulled up beside the marina. The water glittered like a tray of spilt diamonds, and the air carried that sweet mix of salt and engine oil. You leaned your bike against the same old lamppost and headed down the creaky dock toward a weathered boathouse with peeling blue paint and a wind chime that never quite stopped singing.
And there she was, Mrs. Kersey, sitting on her usual stool by the window, a floppy sun hat drooping over one eye and a Styrofoam cup of sweet tea sweating in her hand and a crossword in the other.
You grinned. “Morning, Miss Kersey.”
“You’re late,” she said, not looking up from her crossword. “Already handed your boat off to some frat boys in salmon-colored shorts.”
You clutched your chest in mock horror. “The betrayal.”
“Guess that means you’ll have to go home and listen to your brothers bicker all morning.”
You groaned. “Please, no. I’ll do anything.”
She rolled her eyes and waved you toward the back. “It’s out there, same one as always.”
You lingered a second longer, propping your elbows on the counter. “You ever gonna let me pay you for it?”
Miss Kersey gave a snort. “For that dusty thing? Wouldn’t see daylight if it weren’t for you. You’re doing it a favor.”
“I’ll pretend I’m flattered.”
“You always do,” she muttered, but her mouth twitched.
You laughed and thanked her again, stepping out to the dock where your little old boat was tied up, bobbing gently on the water like it had been waiting too.
You tossed your bag in, climbed aboard, and pushed off with a practiced foot.
And just like that, you were off, drifting past the harbor, the houses shrinking behind you, the world softening around the edges.
You reached for your camera from the bottom of the bag, snapped a few frames of the coastline—Miss Kersey’s weathered dock, the sleepy buildings behind it, the strip of sand where some early risers were setting up umbrellas.
The boat continued to drift, like the current already knew where you wanted to go.
You paddled lazily for a while, just enough to steer yourself past the usual boat traffic, aiming toward that patch of coastline no one ever really claimed. The oars cutting soft ripples into the water, your dress bunched beneath you, and your bag tucked safe at your feet.
The sun sat warm on your shoulders, and the further you went, the quieter everything became. Just the hush of the wind, the lap of the waves, and the distant cry of gulls somewhere overhead.
Eventually, you let the oars fall beside you and reached into your tote for your camera. The good one, the battered but reliable one, with a strap that had once belonged to your mom. You lifted it, adjusted the settings by instinct, and started snapping.
Click.
The sun on the surface of the water, like spilt glitter.
Click.
Your bare legs stretched across the boat, the shadow of your fingers on the seat beside you.
Click.
A bird taking off, wings wide, water catching the light behind it like a trail of gold.
You let out a sigh and leaned back against the seat, camera resting in your lap, satisfied. This was the kind of quiet that didn’t last once summer really kicked in. The kind that made you feel small in the best way, drifting dot on the open water, untethered and unnoticed.
You reached into your tote bag, and first came your earbuds, old, wired ones with the cord twisted into a kind of permanent knot, and then your phone, cracked at the corner, salt-sticky from summers past. You thumbed through your music, squinting against the sun, and hit play on the Queen playlist you always came back to.
The boat rocked gently as the opening chords filled your head, the wind ruffling your hair in time with the music and Freddie Mercury in your bloodstream.
Then you pulled out your book, the spine cracked, corners curled, the pages worn soft from rereading. It smelled faintly of sunscreen and salt. You flipped to where you’d left off and let the words carry you.
You slid your legs over the edge, dipping your feet into the cool water. It sent a sharp little chill up your spine at first, but then it felt good. Your toes cut soft ripples into the surface as you leaned back, the slats at your back digging into your shoulder blades....
Your headphones were in, Queen humming in your ears (Somebody To Love, of course), and your book lay open on your lap, pages flickering a little in the breeze.
You had just closed your eyes, just for a minute, maybe five... or ten.
That’s when the cold crept higher.
You blinked awake and instinctively pulled your legs back in, frowning as the sudden shift made the boat rock beneath you. You sat up straighter.
Then you saw it, the water and not just freaking splashing, the damned water was pooling.
You stared at it. “…Shit.”
You tossed your book onto the bench beside you, yanked both headphones out, and lurched forward onto your knees, sloshing straight into the rising puddle. The water was colder now, up past your ankles, seeping into the floorboards like it belonged there.
“Oh, come on,” you hissed, scooping it out with your hands like that would do anything. It splashed right back in, mocking you.
Your tote bag was already damp at the bottom. You scrambled to pull it up onto the seat, heart hammering. You fished out your phone first (still dry, thank God), then your camera, holding it close like a lifeline. The strap was dripping, but the body was intact.
The book came last, waterlogged at the corners, but you shoved it back in the bag like you could pretend it hadn’t been bleeding ink just seconds ago.
The boat gave a low groan, like it knew it had betrayed you.
“I swear to God, Mrs Kersey, this stupid death trap—” you muttered, scooping another pathetic handful of water over the edge. It went nowhere.
Your knees were wet, your dress was soaked, and your dignity was gone, but you continued nonetheless.
Scooping water with your hands and throwing it off, muttering a nonstop string of curses under your breath, hair sticking to your face, salt on your lips.
The boat gave another ominous creak and dipped slightly lower.
“Fantastic,” you snapped. “Go ahead. Sink. Finish the job, you traitorous piece of—”
You saw it.
An island, a big, green and too quiet island.
You squinted, wiped your wet hair off your face, and blinked again, you recognized it, vaguely.... wasn't it;
“Beachwood.”
The private and very much off-limits island... and right now, you did not give a single fart about that because it was land. Solid, dry, beautiful land. And right now, you would kiss the sand if it meant getting out of that sinking boat.
You paddled with the best of your ability.
With arms that felt like jelly and a dress that clung to you like regret. Every stroke was fueled by pure adrenaline, mild rage, and the unshakable belief that this boat would sink out from under you if you gave it the chance.
The shore crept closer, maddeningly slow, like it was watching and laughing, making you curse out loud, at the boat, at the wind, at your fucking life choices.
But finally, the bow scraped against sand with a glorious, crunchy little thud.
You practically leapt out, dragging the cursed vessel just enough onto the beach so it wouldn’t float off and finish dying without you. Your feet sank into the wet shoreline, dress dripping, hair plastered to your neck, and your whole body screaming for rest.
But you made it.
You dropped your tote, fell backwards into the sand with a dramatic groan, and lay there for a full minute, breathing like you’d just finish a marathon and for a minute, you just stared at the sky.
What the actual fuck were you supposed to do now?
Call your mom? Conrad? Jeremiah? Right. Like those last two choices wouldn’t be humiliating.
It was definitely past one anyways. They were probably back at the house, catching up with Laurel, and Belly, and Steven. Sitting around the table, laughing, eating cold pasta salad and watermelon, completely unaware that you were currently trespassing on a private island.
Oh God.
You sat up fast.
OH GOD YOU WERE IN Beachwood.
Like, actual Beachwood.
You looked up at the island properly for the first time. The trees stretched thick and wild across the land, but there, perched high enough to see, close enough to make your stomach twist, was the house.
Big and distant... but not distant enough for your liking.
Oh… God.
You’d heard what happened here last summer. Everyone had, in that hushed, half-knowing kind of way. You’d already left Cousins when it happened. The news had spread like wildfire (no pun intended), but details were scarce.
Fire and deaths.
The house had burned, people had died, but no one really knew who or how or why. There was no press release, no statement, just whispers, rumors.
Because this wasn’t just any family, this was the Sinclair's. A family that didn’t do public.
Richer than half of Cousins Beach combined, or so the gossip always went, they hardly ever showed face in town. No backyard barbecues, no farmers’ market runs, no polite chitchat with your mom at the post office.
They had people for that.
Locals who worked the grounds came and went in quiet, unmarked cars. The kind of wealth that didn’t make noise because it didn’t have to.
And now here you were.
Soaked to the bone, dripping with sand and panic. Trespassing on their haunted, half-burned island like some dumbass summer cliché gone horribly wrong.
Your mouth went dry, this wasn’t just about getting out of a sinking boat anymore, this was about not getting arrested.
Shit shit shittttttt
Okay. Think.
You glanced at the boat.
Yeah, no. That was done, half-beached, half-dead and fully useless.
Swim for it? You can barely dog-paddle in a pool, let alone open water. Try again.
Calling your mom? Yeah, that was the plans, crew the embarrassment, you’d take the teasing, if it meant getting out of this mess. You reached into your tote, yanked your phone out and your heart stopped.
“No. No, no, no—”
Half the things inside were soaked. Absolutely drenched.
You dropped to your knees, panic clawing up your throat as you started pulling everything out, one waterlogged item at a time. Your book, ruined, the pages already wilting and curling like dead petals. Your towel, sopping wet, useless. Your phone, screen flickering, maybe, or maybe that was just wishful thinking.
And then your camera, your stomach turned.
“Oh, God,” you whispered.
It was dripping, actually dripping.
You turned it over, unscrewed the bottom, and popped the battery out with trembling fingers. Everything inside looked damp, too damp. You wanted to scream, but it caught in your chest instead, sharp and helpless.
Tears pricked at your eyes.
All those photos, of Cousins mornings, of the dock, of your brothers in all their goofy, golden-hour chaos, gone. You hadn’t backed them up. You hadn’t even thought about it.
You sat there, in the slowly sinking boat, salt on your lips and fire behind your eyes, clutching a waterlogged camera like it might still love you back.
OKAY. NO. No time for crying. No time for a breakdown. You could have a meltdown later, in the shower, maybe, or buried under your covers with headphones on full blast, but save and sound back home.
You stood up and spun in place, scanning the treeline, the rocky edges of the shore, the ominously expensive-looking house in the distance.
And tucked just off to the side, half-swallowed by trees, you saw a smaller building, worn, low-roofed, and vaguely familiar in the way all boathouses were.
Maybe… maybe someone was there, a caretaker or a groundskeeper.
Someone who could help you get back to town without asking too many questions. Someone who wouldn’t report you, or recognize you, or even speak a word of this to the Sinclairs.
Hope flares hard in your chest.
Please let there be a sympathetic local. Please let them have a working radio, an extra dinghy, a miraculous teleportation device—anything.
You yank your tote higher on your shoulder, give the half-dead rowboat one last glare (traitor), and start slogging up the sand. Every squelchy step leaves a puddle. Your dress clings like seaweed and your dignity? Long gone.
As you reach the boathouse, the wind rattles a loose plank, clack-clack-clack. Charming. You stop just outside the door, water still dripping off your elbows, and clear your throat.
“Hello?” you call, voice thin and unsteady. “Anyone here? I’m, uh… a little stranded—long story!”
Silence.
Your heart starts punching the inside of your ribs as you take a shaky breath, push the door open wider, and step into the dimness.
It smells like salt, old rope, engine grease, and the kind of wood that only exists near water, swollen, soft, and sun-warped. Light leaks in through crooked slats. Cobwebs cling to corners. A boat engine sits in pieces on a workbench, untouched.
You take another step.
“Hello?” you try again, louder this time, but still no answer.
You let out a groan so dramatic it could’ve won an award, clapping both hands over your face like maybe if you smothered yourself just hard enough, the universe would erase the last twenty minutes and teleport you back to Cousins with dry clothes and your sanity intact.
What were you supposed to do now?
Camp out in the creepy boathouse like some soggy cryptid? Wait until a Sinclair helicopter flew overhead and waved you off with a lawsuit?
You dragged your hands down your face and muttered under your breath, “Okay. No big deal. Just illegally marooned on a haunted billionaire island with no boat, and a bag full of soaked regrets. Totally fine.”
The wood creaked beneath your soaked shoes as you took another cautious step, peering around like a raccoon in someone’s garage, eyes wide, posture guilty, hoping to at least spot an old towel or something to dry you off.
You were about two seconds away from drying off with a boat tarp when a voice cut through the air behind you.
“You know this is private property, right?”
You screeched, a full-body, no-shame, startled-animal sound, as you whirled around and simultaneously tried to jump back from the unseen threat.
Which, unfortunately, resulted in your heel catching on a coil of rope, sending your soggy self down like a sack of wet laundry. You landed hard on your butt with a dramatic thud, bag still clutched to your chest, hair in your eyes, pride in shambles.
When you finally blinked up, there was a boy. Your age, maybe a little older. Tall, sun-dusted skin, blonde hair falling into his eyes like he didn’t care enough to fix it. Leaning casually against the doorframe, arms crossed, expression unreadable except for the clear fact that he was definitely judging you.
You, meanwhile, were sprawled in a puddle of your own chaos, dress clinging to your thighs, saltwater dripping from your elbows, hair half in your mouth, soggy bag clenched like a security blanket.
“What the hell, dude?” you snapped, still half on the ground, voice breathless and somewhere between offended and mortified.
He lifted a brow. “I was gonna ask you the same thing.”
“You don’t just sneak up on people like that!” you huffed, scrambling to your feet, brushing off sand that only smeared deeper into your soaked dress. “What’s wrong with you?”
He scoffed, unfolding his arms and gesturing pointedly in your direction. “What’s wrong with me? You’re the one sneaking around.”
“I wasn’t sneaking!” you snapped. “I—I was having a perfectly normal, peaceful morning. Took a boat out, was reading, taking some pictures, minding my own business, and then bam—my boat breaks down, water starts pouring in, half my stuff gets soaked, including, but not limited to my phone, so now I can’t even call anyone and it was either come here or try swimming for it, and newsflash, I’m not a good swimmer, okay?"
You gestured wildly toward your soaked dress, your dripping tote bag. “Do I look like someone who- who likes to be on other peoples properties?”
The boy with bright blue eyes just watched you.
You kept going, because now it was happening, the word-vomit spiral.
“I mean, it’s kind of ironic, right? I’ve been coming to Cousins every summer since I was, like, eight. You’d think I’d know how to swim better by now. But no, when I panic, I sink, like a rock. It’s actually kind of tragic if you think about it—”
“You always talk this much?” he cut in, not unkindly, more… curious. Bemused, if you will.
You blinked, suddenly aware of how hot your face felt, how hard you were breathing, and how thoroughly you’d just overshared with a total stranger.
“Okay,” you said, wiping wet hair from your eyes, “first of all—rude. And second, no. I don’t usually talk this much. I’m just—this is—look, I’m under a lot of stress, okey?”
You huffed, adjusting your bag like it would give you authority.
“Why don’t you just help me get off this island, alright? Preferably before the Richie Rich clan realizes I’m here and sues me into a tragic early grave. I really don’t have the emotional bandwidth for felony trespassing today.”
He stared at you, one brow lifted. “Richie Rich?”
You blinked at him. “Y’know… the 1994 movie? With Macaulay Culkin? Kid lives in a mansion the size of a shopping mall, owns a rollercoaster in his backyard, has a butler who’s basically a full-time therapist-slash-babysitter? Has a McDonald’s in his house?”
He kept looking at you.
You threw your hands up, a soggy, dramatic mess. “How have you never seen Richie Rich? It's, like, required viewing for anyone who’s ever looked at a yacht and felt poor.”
He just stared, unbothered, maybe even entertained, and you didn’t stop, of course, you didn’t.
“Anyway, point is—that’s the vibe I got when people talk about the Sinclairs. Y’know? Filthy rich, super mysterious, creepy old money energy," You gestured vaguely toward the trees. “I mean, Clairmont? Please. They probably have robots that wipe their countertops. You can’t even look in this direction from Cousins without someone whispering about ‘the Sinclairs’ like they’re some sort of old-money cult.”
The boy’s lips twitched, you didn’t notice.
“They never talk to anyone, like ever, unless it’s their staff or something. My brother once saw one of them at the marina and said she looked like she was allergic to the air. And don’t even get me started on the fire—like, what happened last summer? No news. No details. Just this ‘tragic accident’ and then silence, because God forbid the golden Sinclairs actually—”
“Don’t,” he said, flat.
Just one low word, but sharp enough to slice straight through your rant and to blink up at him.
His arms had dropped, hands shoved into his pockets, jaw tight. His whole body language had shifted, from vaguely bemused stranger to something much more closed off. Guarded, in a way, like a switch had flipped and you were suddenly, unmistakably, on the wrong side of it.
You swallowed, “…What?”
He shook his head slightly, looked away. “Maybe let’s skip the gossip next time. Especially when you don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Your stomach dropped, a cold wave of realization hit you square in the chest.
Oh no.
Oh no no no.
The sharp jaw, the sun-lightened hair, the quiet weight in his eyes, not just silence, but grief, tucked beneath the surface like something he’d been carrying too long.
And suddenly, your heart was crawling up your throat. “…You’re a Sin—”
"Johnny?" A woman’s voice called from outside, cutting clean through the tension. It sounded worried.
You froze.
“Johnny!” another voice followed, this one younger, a boy, loud and gaining fast.
You watched his jaw tighten, watched his whole body go still.
Of course, he was a Sinclair... And now there were witnesses.
Panic ricocheted inside your chest. You turned to him, wide-eyed, one breath away from begging.
“Please,” you whispered. “I can’t—I didn’t mean to—I didn’t know—”
But the footsteps were already too close. There was no hiding, no running, no burying yourself in the sand like a cartoon character.
A woman stepped into the doorway, tall, striking, her expression halfway between confusion and concern. She looked just enough like the boy in front of you that the connection was obvious. His mother. And right behind her, trailing in on sand-dusted sneakers, was a younger boy, messy-haired, sunburnt nose, eyes wide with curiosity.
Her gaze snapped to him first. “Johnny, what—”
And then she saw you. Soaked, disheveled and standing in their boathouse like the world’s saddest home intruder.
You gave her your best attempt at a smile. Something between please don’t call the cops and I swear I’m not dangerous.
“Hi…” you said, voice pitching up like it might shatter. “So sorry to, um… drop in.”
The woman blinked, clearly still processing the drowned rat standing in her boathouse. “Who are you?”
“Y/N Fisher, ma’am,” you said quickly, slapping on that same wide smile, though now it was visibly cracking at the edges. “I’m from Cousins. Been coming since I was eight! Love it here. Really big fan of the—uh, ocean.”
Her brows didn’t move, not one inch of relief.
You swallowed.
“So what happened was,” you rushed on, “I was just paddling around, you know? Taking pictures, reading, minding my business—when my boat just decided to quit on me. Fully mutinied. Started leaking out of nowhere and, long story short, I had to pick between sinking or, um…”
You gestured around helplessly. “…illegally trespassing. I chose trespassing. Which I now realize is not technically better, but in the moment, it felt like a survival situation. You get it, right?”
The young boy snorted, Johnny’s mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile.
His mother, however, was still just looking at you like someone who could shatter your entire world with a single phone call.
“Uh-huh,” she said slowly. “And you just ended up here.”
“Completely by accident, scout’s honor. Except I was never a scout. But, you know… same idea.” You gave a weak, strangled little laugh.
“I-I did try to call my mom,” you added quickly, holding up your bag like it might serve as evidence. “But my phone’s totally soaked. Like, dead. Not even a buzz. So I figured… boathouse? Human contact? Maybe a towel? Possibly avoid drowning or federal charges?”
Silence stretched for a second too long, and you thought, briefly, about running... But where? Into the trees? Off a cliff?
'Kill me,' you thought. 'Just kill me now.'
Johnny, behind you, finally cleared his throat.
“She’s not dangerous,” he said, tone bone-dry. “At least not unless you count aggressive rambling and falling over stuff.”
You nearly turned to glare at him again, but stopped yourself, probably because you were on thin ice and soaking wet and had zero legal ground to stand on.
Before his mom could respond, the smaller voice, his little brother, cut in, suddenly lighting up. “Wait! I know you! You’re the girl from the ice cream shop last summer, aren’t you?”
You blinked, caught completely off guard. “I—what?”
“Yeah! Scoops Ahoy!” he said, already animated. “You gave me your cone when mine fell. And then—and then I got lost ‘cause Johnny and Mom were getting sandwiches, and you stayed with me the whole time and helped me look for them.”
And just like that, the memory clicked into place.
You had spent a whole afternoon with some poor lost kid last summer. Mint-chip cone sacrificed. Sand in your shoes. Sitting with him on the boardwalk bench while you cracked dumb jokes to keep him from crying. You’d ended up walking the beach with him for a while, holding his hand and letting him chatter about shells and sharks and Space Jam, before a brown-skinned man with a frantic expression had come running up, scooped him into a hug, and thanked you over and over.
You’d never gotten his name, never thought you’d see the kid again.
“Oh. Right. Captain Waffles, wasn’t it?” you said slowly, the nickname tumbling out like muscle memory.
The boy’s face lit up. He nodded so hard his hair flopped into his eyes. “Yes! You remembered!"
You grinned despite yourself. “Hard to forget someone who insisted on being addressed like a breakfast superhero for three hours.”
“I still use that name on my Switch!” he beamed.
Johnny’s mom gave a small laugh, quiet, disbelieving. “You’re that girl.”
You lifted your hands helplessly. “Apparently?”
The boy turned to her, nodding fiercely. “She stayed with me the whole time I got lost, Mom. Remember?” Then he looked back at you with that open, bright-eyed sincerity only kids could pull off. “You said I could have your ice cream because heroes share. Remember?”
You laughed, the sound breaking through your embarrassment like sunlight. Despite being soaked, despite trespassing, despite standing knee-deep in mortification… something warm bloomed in your chest.
“Yeah,” you said softly. “I remember now.”
“I told them about you!” the boy burst out, practically bouncing in place. “I said you were the nicest girl ever. I kept looking for you again after that.”
Your breath caught a little, but you smiled anyway, a real one this time, small and surprised.
Johnny was also staring at you, but with a different expression. Eyebrows slightly raised, like he didn’t know what to do with this new information.
His mom looked down at her youngest, then back at you and for the first time, she actually smiled.
“Well,” she said, her voice lighter now, with just the faintest trace of amusement, “if you’re that girl, I suppose we can skip the part where I call security.”
You let out a breath that sounded embarrassingly close to a wheeze.
“God, thank you,” you said, pressing a hand to your chest like you might keel over. “Really appreciate the mercy.”
Behind you, Johnny muttered, deadpan, “Close call, though.”
You shot him a look over your shoulder, somewhere between seriously? and try me again, golden boy.
He didn’t flinch, just raised an eyebrow like he was waiting for you to say something back. You rolled your eyes and turned forward again, but not before he caught the hint of a smile tugging at your lips.
“C’mon,” his mom said, glancing between the two of you (and you really hoped she hadn’t caught the glare you’d just shot her son). She stepped aside, voice softening. “Let’s get you cleaned up. You’re trembling, dear.”
You hadn’t even realized it, but now that she said it… yeah. Your hands were shaking slightly, your dress clung to your skin like a second, soggy spine, and the adrenaline that had carried you this far was starting to wear off.
“Right,” you said with a weak laugh, hiking your bag up again. “Turns out trespassing and near-drowning is a pretty effective form of adrenaline release.”
His mother gave you a look, half-amused, half motherly. “Let’s try to avoid making it a habit.”
"Yes, ma'am." Your lips were pressed into a sheepish smile.
As you stepped onto the path, the boy, Captain Waffles, forever in your mind, trotted up beside you, practically bouncing.
You’d think you’d just parachuted in from space the way he looked at you. Like you were some kind of summer legend returned to life, he chattered nonstop, telling you everything from his Switch username to how many times he’d wiped out on his skateboard this week.
You listened, smiling, letting the familiar rhythm of a kid’s voice soften the aftershocks of panic still buzzing in your limbs.
As you walked, bag slung tight against your shoulder and your damp dress clinging stubbornly to your legs, you couldn’t help it, you started looking around. Casually or so you hoped.
Because you’d expected… something else.
This was the infamous Clairmont, wasn’t it? The island that had burned. That had haunted whispers and missing answers attached to its name. You’d half-prepared yourself for blackened trees, boarded windows, a scorched silence pressed into the dirt.
But the island was green, lush and quiet in that strange, careful way. If something had burned here, the island or more likely it's habitants had done an unnervingly good job of covering it up.
“We’re almost to Red Gate,” he announced proudly, cutting you out of your train of thought. “That’s what we call it.”
You followed his gaze to the house just coming into view.
It was big, but not showy. Set back into the trees, surrounded by quiet. The first thing you noticed was the red door, bold and worn, with a little chipping around the edges, as if it had been opened and closed a million times.
You didn’t know what you were expecting from the Sinclairs’ private island house, but it wasn’t… this. It felt lived-in. Real, like a place with history, like a place where people argued and laughed and slammed doors.
You had the weirdest urge to knock, even though you were already being let in.
Captain Waffles turned back, grinning. “That’s where we stay when we’re here. Me, Johnny, Ed, and mom. It’s got the best couch in the entire island.”
You raised your eyebrows. “The best couch? Bold claim. What are we talkin, nap levels? Or full-on ‘I could survive a zombie apocalypse as long as I have this couch’ levels?”
He laughed, bright and unfiltered, the kind that made your chest lighten a little.
“Both!” he said, practically skipping the last few steps to the porch. “It has a dent in the shape of Johnny’s butt from how much he hogs it lately.”
Behind you, you swore you heard a groan of pure older-sibling suffering. "Willy."
Ah. So that was his name.
Willy turned back toward his brother, completely unbothered. “It does, though!”
You bit back a grin. “Don’t worry, Willy. All the best couches have a butt dent. It means they’ve lived a full life.”
Another burst of laughter left the boy.
The red door creaked open, and you hovered awkwardly on the threshold.
You weren’t sure why it felt so big, stepping inside. Maybe because you weren’t supposed to be here or because this was a Sinclair house... or maybe because everything about it felt too quiet, too lived-in, too full of things that mattered to people who weren’t you.
You crossed the doorway like a thief in church.
Inside, the air was cooler. It smelled like linen and old wood, a faint trace of salt, and something warm, lemons, maybe, or the tail end of breakfast. The floors were wide-planked, scuffed with years of feet. The light was soft, filtered through gauzy curtains.
Cozy in a way you hadn’t expected.
You tried to make yourself small, shoulders tucked in, arms wrapped tight around your bag, thankfully now more dry than you had been in a while but still moist, for lack of better words.
Johnny stepped past you without looking and disappeared down the hall.
His mother (you still didn’t know her name, and that somehow made everything worse) turned slightly and called over her shoulder, calm but firm, “Willy, can you grab a towel for her? From the upstairs linen closet?”
“On it!” Willy chirped, taking off at full speed, feet thudding up the stairs like a kid on a mission.
You stood there in the entryway, hugging your damp self and trying very hard not to let your eyes dart around too much. But it was hard not to look. The mismatched framed photos on the walls. The stack of mail on the table. A pair of shoes kicked off haphazardly by the stairs.
Johnny’s mom turned back to you, offering a smile that was warm but just a little too practiced, like she’d hosted a hundred kids before and still hadn’t decided whether to treat you like one of them.
“Don’t just stand there, sweetheart. Come in, come in.” She motioned toward the living room, where the cushions were sunken just slightly from use. “You’re soaked. Make yourself comfortable—well, as comfortable as you can be when you’ve just been rescued from a sinking boat.”
You forced a smile, stepping gingerly inside, trying not to leave a trail behind you. “Sorry about the water.”
“Oh, please,” she waved it off. “This house has seen worse. Sand, blood, tears—you name it.”
That made you pause.
Not because of the mess, or the chaos she was describing, but because your mind had gone straight to the accident.... The blood. The tears. The silence that followed.
You didn’t mean to let it show, but something must’ve flickered across your face, because she glanced at you again, just a little too long, just sharp enough to notice.
Then, as if gently redirecting, she added, “Boys growing up around here. It's never quiet, and it’s never clean. You’re fine.”
You could tell by the slight shift in her tone, the way her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes, that it was a touchy subject. Something with weight behind it and you, soaked to the bone and feeling like an intruder, didn’t want to press on bruises you couldn’t see.
So you steered the conversation away, let out a soft huff of laughter, and said, “Wouldn’t I know. I’ve got two brothers, one older, one younger. It’s like living in the middle of a never-ending wrestling match.”
That earned a real smile from her, not big, but a little softer, a little less careful.
“Oh, the middle child and the only girl”, she said knowingly, as if that explained everything. “Poor thing. No wonder you ran off to sink yourself in the ocean.”
You grinned and shrugged. “It was either that or throw one of them in it.”
She laughed, and just like that, the tension cracked. Not gone, but gentler now, like maybe you could be a little more than the girl in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Footsteps pounded back down the stairs, and Willy appeared, holding a towel over his head like a victory flag.
“Mission accomplished!” he announced proudly, handing it to you with a grin.
You took the towel with both hands, dripping all over the floor despite your best effort not to. “Why, thank you, Captain Waffle. You’re a lifesaver.”
He puffed up with pride. “I am known for my heroic deeds.”
“Are you also known for naming yourself after breakfast?” you asked, raising a brow as you started patting down your hair.
“Obviously,” he said with a shrug, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Waffles are elite. Pancakes are just lazy waffles.”
You bit back a laugh as you wiped your forehead. “Can’t argue with logic like that.”
Willy hadn’t stopped talking.
He was sitting criss-cross on the rug across from you, narrating something about a swordfight he once staged with a garden rake and a traffic cone. You were perched on the edge of the armchair, towel wrapped around your shoulders like a sad, soggy superhero cape, doing your best to keep up.
“So then I told Johnny it wasn’t cheating, because technically the hose wasn’t loaded yet, and—” He stopped suddenly. “You’re not listening.”
“I am,” you said, smiling weakly. “There was a hose and a rake. Some kind of epic betrayal.”
He gave a dramatic sigh, but forgave you with the ease of a ten-year-old already onto the next story.
You were saved by the soft clink of a mug being set down.
Miss Sinclair, stepped into the room holding two mugs. One she handed to you.
“Tea,” she said. “Didn’t have hot chocolate, but it’s sweet. Figured you needed something warm.”
You took it with both hands, grateful for the heat seeping into your fingers. “Tea's perfect, thank you, Miss Sinclair.”
She gave the barest flicker of a smile and sat across from you on the edge of the sofa, one leg crossed over the other, mug resting neatly in her lap.
Willy, meanwhile, had taken over again, launching into a dramatic retelling of the time he “accidentally on purpose” fell off the dock and swam all the way to the buoy and back just to prove a point to someone named Noah. You weren’t sure who Noah was, but apparently, he was “a doubter” and also “probably jealous.”
You offered the occasional nod and hum, but your eyes kept drifting back to Miss Sinclair, quiet, composed, thought perhaps a bit bohemian, watching the scene unfold like she was used to this exact kind of chaos.
After a moment, she said gently, “The family boat can take you back to Cousins, but it might be a little while. The driver’s making some arrangements.”
You nodded, brushing a wet strand of hair off your face, the towel now resting across your lap like a safety net. “I don’t mind waiting. As long as I’m welcome.”
Her gaze didn’t waver. “You are.”
Before you could say anything else, Willy shot up from the floor like he’d been waiting for permission to explode.
"Yes! Let’s play a board game!” he shouted, already halfway to the hall. “I’ll get Johnny!”
You barely had time to open your mouth before he was gone, his voice echoing down the corridor. “JOHNNY! WE NEED YOU! IT’S IMPORTANT!”
You glanced back at her, Miss Sinclair, still nameless and caught the subtle twitch of her lip. Amusement, maybe, maybe exasperation. It was hard to tell with people like her.
“I’m sorry,” you said automatically, not even sure for what.
“Don’t be.” She sipped her tea, composed as ever. “He’s been… stuck here with nothing much to do, adrift in a way. Having you here, however unexpected, feels like a little joy I didn’t know he needed”
You blinked at that, surprised not just by the words, but by the softness behind them. It wasn’t warm exactly, but it wasn’t cold either, like she’d momentarily let the curtain slip.
You grinned at her, maybe a tad awkward from not really knowing what to say, “I’m glad I could help. Even if I did arrive by shipwreck.”
She actually laughed at that, just once, low and surprised, like it had snuck up on her.
Before anything else could be said, Johnny reappeared, wordless and resigned, setting the Monopoly box on the coffee table with the same energy someone might use to place a coffin and Willy trailing behind him like an overly enthusiastic shadow.
Willy plopped down on the floor. “Okay, ground rules,” he declared, fanning the colorful bills the way magicians fan cards. “No hoarding railroads, no making Mom bail you out, and the loser has to do a victory dance of shame.”
Johnny sat down wordlessly on the floor, starting to set up the board like this was just another Tuesday.
You followed, towel still loosely wrapped around you, settling cross-legged at the coffee table. The steam from your tea curled between you and the boy who had fished you out of the water like he hadn’t once planned on speaking to you again.
As Willy was handing out money with reckless abandon, Miss Sinclair rose from the sofa.
“I’ll leave you to it. Shout if you need snacks.” Her gaze met yours for a heartbeat: You good? The warmth behind it surprised you, so you nodded. She disappeared down the hall, soft footfalls fading into the house.
You curl your legs under you, the towel still damp around your waist, and reach for the dog token before Willy could claim it. He gasped like you’d stolen a sacred artefact.
“Oh, it’s on,” he whispered dramatically. “Roll for first!”
The dice tumbled. Johnny’s landed on a two; yours on double sixes. Willy whooped, announcing you the starting player and spinning the board so GO pointed your way.
“Lucky,” he muttered, mock-grumbling as he counted out your starter cash.
You moved the dog two spaces and landed on Baltic Avenue. You grimaced at the watery smudge still creeping along your sleeve. “Guess my luck’s turning around.”
“Don’t speak too soon,” Johnny said, voice low but finally aimed at you. “Baltic’s a money pit.”
You raised a brow. “You sound like you know from experience.”
He shrugged, eyes on the dice. “Some things you learn the hard way.”
Any silence pricked the air. Willy filled it by narrating every move like a sportscaster: “AND THE CROWD GOES WILD AS JOHNNY ROLLS A FOUR—ADVANCING TO THE MOST OVERRATED UTILITY ON THE BOARD!”
He was in full showman mode, and you played along, not because you were dying to dominate Monopoly, but because Willy’s enthusiasm was oddly contagious, and maybe, deep down, you figured the distraction was doing you good too.
“And I will build TWO houses on Boardwalk,” Willy declared, nearly knocking over your tea with the force of his slam. “Your move, shipwreck girl.”
You feigned deep contemplation. “I don’t know… I feel like I should consult my lawyer.”
Willy gasped. “There are no lawyers in Monopoly! Only the strong survive!”
You glanced over at Johnny, who was still half-slouched, but now watching you both with that almost-hidden flicker of amusement in his eyes.
A few rounds later, he finally spoke. “You can’t put hotels on Reading Railroad, dumbass.”
Willy froze mid-action. “You just cursed.”
“You’re breaking the entire economy,” Johnny said, snatching the tiny red hotel out of Willy’s hand and flicking it onto the pile. “It’s like watching capitalism cry.”
You raised an eyebrow. “So you are paying attention.”
He shrugged. “Didn’t say I wasn’t.”
A few circuits later, Willy built two houses on Baltic just to say he’d “gentrified the cheap side.” When Johnny landed there, he groaned, flopped backward, and called the whole game corrupt. But then Willy started chanting, “Cap-tain Waf-fle! Cap-tain Waf-fle!” and it was impossible not to laugh, especially when you joined the chant, beating a soft drumroll on the coffee table. Johnny’s shoulders shook, an actual laugh, quiet, rusty, like he’d forgotten the mechanics, but undeniably real.
He sat up straighter after that.
Then came the bidding war for the last railroad. Johnny, suddenly animated, slammed the thimble down as a “hand grenade bid.” You and Willy burst into dramatic screams. Miss Sinclair paused in the doorway, eyebrow raised, but the corner of her mouth lifted before she disappeared again, no doubt grateful the ghosts had been replaced by shrieking children.
By the hour mark, Johnny was leaning forward, elbows on knees, eyes sharp in a way that felt… alive. He ribbed Willy for buying houses on St. James instead of investing in utilities (“Diversify, Captain Waffle, come on!”). He side-whispered strategies to Willy, half conspiracies, half trash talk, and when you accused the two of collusion, Johnny actually grinned: broad, teeth showing.
He was... handsome.
The towel around your waist slipped sometime during all the commotion; you barely noticed. Your tea went cold; nobody cared. The living room echoed with dice rattles, triumphant shrieks, catastrophic groans and every time Johnny cracked another sarcastic jab, the air felt lighter.
When Willy finally bankrupt-spiraled on your hotel-heavy orange set, he collapsed backward, hands to heart, tongue lolling for dramatic death. Johnny applauded the performance.
“Guess the shipwreck girl’s pretty ruthless,” he said, eyes catching yours for half a breath.
“Guess the thimble isn’t as harmless as it looks,” you fired back.
He huffed a laugh, no brood in sight now, just a faint flush of adrenaline and amusement.
Willy popped upright, already resetting pieces. “Best two out of three?”
Miss Sinclair returned with a fresh pot of tea, arching a brow at Johnny’s now-animated state. He just shrugged, as if it were no big deal that a drenched stranger and an over-caffeinated ten-year-old had dragged him out of the fog, even if for a little while.
She then called your name, “The boat’s ready.”
You blinked, standing a little too fast. The towel slipped again, your legs stiff from sitting cross-legged too long. “Oh—right. Thank you.”
Willy let out a groan so loud you winced.
“Noooo,” he whined, flopping backward onto the rug again. “She just got here! Can’t she stay? Or—or come back tomorrow? Please?”
Miss Sinclair gave him a look. “Willy—”
“No, really! I was having fun!” He turned to you, eyes wide with genuine, kid-level heartbreak. “You will come back, right?”
You opened your mouth—probably to say something neutral and noncommittal—but then Miss Sinclair looked at you in that quiet, assessing way again and said, casually, like she hadn’t been planning it all along:
“Well, if you’re going to be around Cousins for the summer… maybe you’d consider watching him a few days a week? He’s got more energy than the rest of us combined and clearly adores you.”
You blinked. “I—uh…”
“She means babysitter,” Johnny said dryly, not looking up from the mess of Monopoly money he was now organizing by color.
“I know what she meant,” you shot back, too surprised to filter.
Miss Sinclair’s expression didn’t shift much, just the slightest arch of an eyebrow, like she’d already expected the sass. “I’ll pay you, of course. Something fair.”
"Please please pleaseee," Willy was all but throwing the most vicious puppy dog eyes you've ever seen, second only to Belly's.
You hesitated, thought you really wanted to say yes because you now needed money for a new camera and probably a new phone too, and shifted the towel more securely around your waist. “I… if the hours are flexible, I could.”
It felt rude to even suggest a condition, especially standing there in her house, still damp from the ocean and halfway into a board game coma but you had to.
“You see, my mom signed me up to be a debutante at the club this summer and—”
Johnny, who had just managed to fit the Monopoly lid back on the box, snorted. “A debutant?”
You turned to him, brows raised. “You say that like I admitted to ritual sacrifice.”
He leaned back against the couch, arms crossed, lips twitching. “No, it’s just... unexpected. You don’t seem the type.”
Heat prickles across your cheeks. “Yeah, shocker—I’m multidimensional.”
“That means what I think it means?” Willy asks, eyes huge. “Like, gowns and fancy dances and learning how to balance books on your head?”
You nodded. “Pretty much."
“The hours will be as flexible as you need,” Miss Sinclair said, as she drinks more tea. “You can work around rehearsals, fittings, whatever. We’ll make it fit.”
You exhale. “Okay, then—yes. I’d like that.”
Willy lit up again like a firework. “Yesss!! You can come tomorrow and we’ll play every game and maybe explore the other side of the island—wait, do you like treasure maps?!”
You laughed, genuinely caught off guard. “I guess I do now?”
Johnny shook his head, but this time when he looked at you, the smirk stayed a little longer. “You’re gonna regret this.”
You met his eyes. “Probably. But not as much as you’re gonna regret landing on my hotels next time.”
He chuckled and rolled his eyes before standing up, brushing imaginary dust from his jeans like the last hour hadn’t completely betrayed his broody mystique.
“You talk a big game for someone who mortgaged half their properties to buy a single orange set,” he said, tossing the thimble back into the box with casual aim.
“That single orange set ended your capitalist empire, and you know it,” you called after him.
Willy scrambled up between you both, arms flapping like wings. “Okay! New plan! Tomorrow we play Life or Clue or Battleship. Ooh, pirate Battleship—”
“Slow down, Captain Waffle,” you said, ruffling his hair.
“I’m serious,” he insisted. “I’m gonna draw up a whole schedule. Color-coded and everything.”
“Oh god,” Johnny muttered from the doorway, but you caught the smile before he could hide it.
Miss Sinclair watched the exchange between you and her sons with that ever-intrigued but measured expression. “We’ll send the boat for you around ten. If that works?”
You nodded, heart still strangely buoyant. “Ten works.”
She extended a hand, firm, businesslike, but not cold. “Thank you.”
“Thank you, Miss Sinclair. Actually,” you added, a little breathless, like the whole day was still catching up to you.
Her eyes crinkled slightly at the edges, just enough to register as something warmer than polite approval. Then she stepped back, nodding once.
Behind you, Willy was already listing tomorrow’s itinerary at lightning speed (“First we battle, then we snack, then we craft weapons—not real ones, I promise, Mom—then maybe make Johnny wear a crown—”), and Johnny was pretending not to hear a word of it, arms crossed and expression unreadable.
But when you turned to go, he said, offhandedly, “Try not to trash any more boats tonight, debutant.”
“Do try to watch more movies, Richie,” you called, dragging the name out just enough to make it sting playfully.
That caught him. His head tilted slightly, and there it was, that barely-there smirk, the one he probably didn’t even know he was wearing.
And you left that house dripping in the low late afternoon sun, exhausted, still a little sunburned and a lot overwhelmed, but lighter, somehow.
By the time you reached Cousins, the sky was blushing into gold, and the beach was alive again, towels scattered, the faint scent of grilled something in the air, and your bike still chained up exactly where you left it, as if the day hadn’t completely unraveled and reassembled your world.
You biked back fast, wind drying your curls and kicking up little streaks of sand on your calves. Your heart beat a little louder the closer you got to the house.
You flung the front door open with a bang, footsteps echoing through the sun-warmed hallway as you stepped into the kitchen, your mom, your brothers, Lauren, Steven and Belly. The room was warm, loud, chaotic in that Fisher-summer kind of way, with someone opening a bottle of soda too fast and Steven yelling about something on the stove.
As soon as you stepped inside, the screen door banging shut behind you, your mom turned from the kitchen sink, eyes going wide as she took in your rumpled clothes, tangled hair, and the towel still clinging to your waist like a badge of shame.
“Y/N Fisher, where in God’s name were you? I was two seconds away from calling the sheriff.”
The whole kitchen fell silent. Belly looked up from her drink. Steven froze mid–chip bite. Lauren paused mid-sentence. Your brothers turned in unison like they were part of a synchronized panic team.
"Don't tell me you actually fell in the water?" Said Conrad, that even in his mocking, there was relief to see you home.
You just grinned, stepping fully into the chaos like it was your stage. “You all won’t believe what just happened to me.”
| content - fluff, reader has hair long enough to fall over her face, author attempting to ramble poetically, reader has dimples cause i said so (sry), as i warned before incredibly self indulgent, tiny jokes about jumping off the boat
| wc - 2.05k
| a/n: yall idk what this is. i had a thought and just assumed i'd be able to execute it but I was kinda drowning a bit (pun intended). enjoy this if it's good tell me if its bad. okay bye!! ps. i tried to make the reader pic at the top more ambiguous racially so it can be used for anyone hopefully i hit the mark 😭
From the deck of the ship the sea at night seemed impossibly infinite. A haunting expanse that has a way of making you feel like everything beyond it may as well be nonexistent. It’s that desire to feel inconsequential that led to you where you are now; looking far too pensive considering the lavish cruise ship you’re going to be staying on for the next week and a half.
Caught up in your rumination you failed to notice the light footfalls heading your way.
Johnny Sinclair; salt, swagger, and reckless abandon. And absolutely dreading this fucking trip already. God forbid he lives out his teen years to the fullest extent (read: almost getting arrested far past the reasonable rich boy limit), and now he’s being detained in the middle of the Mediterranean. He stomps out onto the deck and stops short when he sees that someone had the same idea as him.
He stands there for a beat, just observing. You lean against the railing, head on your forearms, looking awfully pitiful. Sprawled out in a picture of entrancing beauty and it’d be a crying shame to keep that observation to himself.
He settles himself next to you and you finally take note of his presence, turning and offering a stiff but kind smile.
“You okay?” He asks, dipping his head to catch your expression more clearly (and if he also tries to catalog the way your eyes look in the moonlight, that's no one's business but his own).
“Yeah, I'm okay,” You say in mild confusion before coming to the conclusion that standing against the railing of a ship and looking out at the sea as longingly as you were would look a bit concerning to any normal person. You give another strange smile before turning back to the water hoping he’ll take the hint that you’re not trying to swim with the fishes and leave you alone.
You’ve never been that lucky.
“You sure? ‘Cause you kinda look like you just watched someone drown your puppy,” Johnny says, his voice pitching up a bit in that charmingly aggravating way only he can achieve, “Not that I blame you! This isn’t exactly the party boat of the century,” he grins as he watches you unsuccessfully suppress a smile, your dimples betraying you.
“I am fine, thank you.” You say finally letting a smile slip as you turn to look at him fully. Gods, he’s fucking gorgeous you think. Curly blonde hair, soft blue eyes, and a smile sharp as glass. Despite the mischief that rolled off him in waves he seemed kind. Maybe indulging him wouldn’t kill you, “Just thinking.”
He winces playfully, “Yikes. That’s never a good idea, why would you go and do that?” that one pulls a little chuckle from you. Damn it, how are you supposed to be mysterious and nonchalant in these conditions?!
“Trust me it’s not by choice. But if it makes you feel better I’m not thinking of anything too depressing,”
He nods solemnly putting a hand to his chest, “That does make me feel way better thank you,” his grin gives him away but you find you don’t mind this little back and forth, “And may I ask what these ‘not too depressing’ things are, mysterious pretty girl I do not know the name of?”
You tell him your name wrapped in a laugh and he rewards you with his own. Johnny. Cute. He looks at you expectantly and you remember that he had originally asked you a question, “Just thinking about how the ocean makes me feel… small. Like it could go on forever and ever and I’d never see the end of it. Puts things into perspective,”
He's silent for a beat, following your gaze to the sprawling blue, before he blows air past his lips harshly looking at you with teasing wide eyes, “not too depressing my ass,”
You laugh before trying to plead your case, “Wait! Wait, okay! I am also thinking about whether mermaids are real!” you say in a matter-of-fact tone.
Johnny stares at you both amused and dumbfounded, “What!?” He says through a laugh, squinting at you incredulously, “Mermaids.”
“Yes! Mermaids. Gods, I always wanted to be a mermaid when I was younger. Honestly being out here reminds me of those youtube videos- you know? Like, top ten mermaid sights (REAL!),” you put your hands in little claw shapes to mimic parentheses and Johnny nods along with an ever-growing grin, “Yeah. I used to watch those all the time. I think I’d be kinda pissed if mermaids were real at this point,”
“What?! You just said you wanted to be one!” He chuckles and you point at him emphatically,
“Exactly! If they have existed this whole time and I’ve been making potions in my bathroom to become one of them– to no avail, mind you,” Johnny mumbles a little ‘mind you’ mocking you teasingly as he nods sarcastically but you pay him no mind, “Yeah, I’m gonna be pissed. Like come on guys, you could’ve invited me,” You pout playfully.
“They absolutely should've, how dare they!” Johnny says with mock outrage barely able to keep a straight face as he stares at your wobbling pout. ‘Cute’ he thinks.
“If you had a tail what color would it be?” You ask him, turning your body so your back is bent over the railing, head lolling towards Johnny.
He stares at you, all wide eyed and magical, and can’t help but be pulled into your glittering orbit, “I don’t know, what color do you think it’d be?”
“Answering a question with a question, not slick,” he just grins and you stare at him contemplatively, “I don’t think it’d be just one color. It’d be iridescent or– OOH maybe it’d be one of those optical illusions where it looks like it’s one flat color on one side and then when you turn a certain way it’s, like, iridescent! More specifically lots of oranges and yellows, like fire.”
“You’ve given this a lot of thought,” He says, a soft smirk on his face and wonder in his eyes.
“Well yes, in the 20 minutes I’ve known you I feel like I’ve got a good grasp of your general vibe,” You say jokingly, tilting your head back further on the rail and playing with your hair.
“Shocking, considering you’ve done most of the talking,” He cackles at the loud gasp that comes from you,
“I have not! You’ve just been interrogating me–”
“Interrogating!” He gasps indignantly.
“Yes! Interrogating,” You nod. “But since I am so kind and lovely I will let it slide. Speak now, Jack!”
“Jack?! My name is Johnny,” He says, stretching out the syllables.
You knew that, of course you knew that. At this point it seems like you’d be hard pressed to forget anything about this boy the ocean gave you, “I know,” you say cheekily and continue on as he just looks at you adoringly questioningly, “Like the Titanic you know?”
“The one where he dies in the end? That one? The one where the kid drowns never to be seen again? That Titanic?” Johnny deadpans, holding back a smile at the way you start giggling uncontrollably trying to defend yourself.
“No, no, no! I meant, like, without all the drowning and dying and stuff obviously,” You say with your hands in front of you as if pleading for mercy, shoulders shaking.
“Obviously,” He responds dryly, grabbing one of your hands and examining the rings on it casually. As if that didn’t just make your heart rate spike up twenty beats, “So I’m Jack, huh?”
Caught between competently answering the question and staring at him like you’ve just been hypnotized you go with the former as to preserve your dignity. ‘Get it together he is just a boy’ you try to remind yourself but he is such a pretty boy and he kind of looks like Claire Holt and between his sharp toothed smile and raspy voice you’re starting to get a little light-headed,
“Yeah. I mean you kind of look like him. All sandy haired and ocean eyes and shit,” trying and failing abysmally to act normal. Jesus H. Christ.
“Ocean eyes! Okay Billie Eyelash,” He clicks his tongue and pops his hip sassily in jest.
You laugh and push at his shoulder with the hand he’s not still holding (still minorly hyperventilating), rolling your eyes, “Shut up! You know what I mean–”
“Do I?”
“Hush,”
He raises his hands in surrender before taking a moment to think, “So what color would your tail be?” he’s looking you in the eye or attempting to anyway. You’re far too focused on the way he’s taken to rubbing his thumb over your rings and “accidently” brushing your knuckles in the process.
“Uh- I don’t know. What do you think my tail color would be?” You say with an impish smile, echoing his previous sentiments.
“Using my own words against me. Clever,” He points at you with an eyebrow raised, grin wide as can be, “Hm… I think– it’d be blue.”
“Like the ocean,” You say wryly. “Inspired,” Wincing as he flicks you lightly on the head.
“No, not like the ocean dumbass,” Your jaw drops as a laugh slips but he pushes on, “Like a lighter blue, the type they use at baby showers and shit. All bright and sparkly and pretty,” He shrugs, looking almost sheepish.
“Baby blue?” He snaps and points at you in confirmation.
“Yes! That one but like more mermaid-y and whimsical,” He makes vague flapping motions with his hands and it’s so endearing you resign yourself to making a wedding pinterest board when you get back to your room.
“Whimiscal… I like that. And I do like mermaid-y baby blue so thank you,” You say placing a hand on his bicep. You resist the urge to squeeze to see how built he actually is and make a promise to yourself that your teeth will be sunk into at least one of his muscles before the trip ends.
He nods at you smugly before you both look out at the water again in comfortable silence.
You turn to look at him observing the way his face falls into a peaceful yet slightly melancholic state and can't help but think that, although you don’t particularly enjoy the thought of him being sad, he looks extra pretty when his eyes go all soft like that.
“What brought you out here then?” You ask, leaning your head back again and playing with your hair.
He startles slightly at the question but a mask of indifference quickly slides into place as he shrugs and leans his arms against the railing.
You stay quiet for a beat before letting out a theatrical sigh and turning your head towards him again, “You know what’s so great about these cruise ships?”
“All you can eat buffet?” He says peeking at you from the corner of his eye.
“No– well yes but no. It’s that nothing you do here really matters.” He looks at you more clearly then, raising his brow in inquisition. “You can meet your best friends here, party, drink, fall in love, and kiss strangers, but at the end of it all it won’t really matter cause you’ll likely never see anyone you meet here ever again,”
That makes both of their stomachs churn a bit for reasons unknown and remain untold.
“So what’s your goal here, little mermaid?” He asks, brushing away a curl you let fall on your face.
“Hm?” Sparkling eyes turning to skate across his face.
“You gonna make best friends? Or fall in love with strangers?” He murmurs and it feels like even the waves stilled for this moment.
You stare at each other for 3 distinct heartbeats before your brain even considers conjuringing up a reply, “I… haven’t decided yet.” You whisper back and you’re not even sure he heard you or if the breeze decided to steal that lie for itself.
You find your answer in the hum of his response,
“Maybe I can help you find out.”
And if you both stayed up talking till the sun let you see the waves in his eyes more clearly, then that’s no one's business but you, Johnny, and the sea.
JOHNNY SINCLAIR X READER
WORD COUNT:5601
REQUEST: OPEN
Here you are again.
The island rises from the water like it’s been holding its breath all year, waiting for you. The ferry engine shudders, gulls wheel, and your suitcase bumps your shin as you watch Beechwood come into focus: the weathered dock, the shingled roofs crouched against the wind, the pines leaning as if eavesdropping. You count the scrape-scrape of the ferry on the pilings because counting is how you don’t think. One-two-three. You have counted every year. You tell yourself it is habit. You tell yourself it is respect.
Carrie is on the dock in her navy sweater, arms folded. She has new silver at her temples and an old smile.
“You came,” she calls, and her voice carries over the water. “Of course you did.”
“I always do,” you say, stepping onto the planks, feeling them move under you like a heartbeat.
She hugs you too tight. “You smell like city,” she says into your hair. Then, softer, “You smell like summer.”
“Hi, Carrie.”
“Don’t get formal with me, sweetheart. You know you’re mine.” She pulls back, studies your face the way people study paintings for meanings they brought with them. “You’re thinner.”
“So are you.”
“Liar,” she says, pleased. “Come on. The golf cart’s dying, like always. We’ll see if it remembers you.”
It does. The cart complains up the sandy track, the island flickering by in slices: the blackberry bramble Johnny once swore was full of snakes, the broken-backed deck chair, the rope swing you both outgrew and then didn’t. The wind has that clean salt smell that grabs you under the ribs. You swallow hard. You do not cry on the ride in. You never cry until later, after the rituals,hello to the boathouse, hello to the shallow, dangerous stairs, hello to the place where the main house used to be.
“Stop,” you say when the clearing opens like a wound.
Carrie stops. She doesn’t look at you. “Every year I think: plant something. A tree. A bush. A sign: don’t look. And then I do nothing.” She smiles without humor. “Our family has always been better at doing nothing than doing the right thing.”
You get out. The foundation is still there, concrete rectangles like a child’s idea of a maze. There are rusted nails in the dirt, melted glass pebbles, a metal hinge fused into a shape like an apology. The sea talks to itself along the rocks. You put your fingertips on the concrete and feel heat that isn’t there. You say, quietly, “Hi.”
Carrie’s hand finds your shoulder. “You’ll stay at Red Gate,” she says. “Like always. Sheets are clean. I had the quilts aired out.”
“Thank you.”
“You hungry? I made soup. It’s nothing. But you have to eat.”
You look at the ruins again. “I will later.”
“I’ll bring it by,” she says, which means she will, and it will be too salty, and she will stand in your doorway and pretend she’s not checking whether your eyes are red. “You know…” She trails off, bites her lip. “He loved that you always came back.”
“Carrie.”
She shakes her head, brisk again. “I’m just saying what I always say. It makes me feel,” She stops. “Never mind. You know where I am.”
You do. You know where everything is. That’s the problem.
Red Gate waits at the end of the sandy path, the little gate flaking its bright paint, the shingles faded to driftwood, the porch steps worn by a thousand summers. The gate creaks when you push it with your hip. It sounds like a house remembering your name.
Red Gate smells like lemon oil and old paperbacks. The blue quilt is on the bed in the guest room, the one with the frayed edge where Johnny used to hook his fingers while you talked about nothing. You stand in the doorway and the room stands there too, innocent. Your suitcase sits obediently on the floor. Your breath is the only noise.
“Okay,” you tell the house. “Be kind.”
You unpack slowly. Swimsuit, sweater, the photo of you and Carrie at some long-ago Labor Day, both of you laughing at something not in frame. The ring Johnny gave you that last summer,garnet, oval, caught in a silver setting like a drop of blood in a web. You wear it on a chain now. You touch it and the chain goes cold.
“Don’t,” you tell yourself out loud, which is ridiculous, but better than saying his name. Saying his name opens doors.
At dusk you take the path down through the red-painted gate to the little beach. The tide is halfway in, making sounds like someone whispering in the next room. The water is darker than you remember, or else your memory has bleached everything but him.
You step in up to your ankles. You say, “Johnny.”
The wind picks up. That could be coincidence. It often is.
“Johnny,” you say again, and you feel foolish, a woman talking to air, a woman who returns every year like a migrating bird with a broken compass. “I’m here.”
A gull screams. A wave breaks. The far buoy nods like a person. Then nothing else happens, except your heart doing its terrible work.
The first night, you dream of him. That is normal. It’s almost a relief.
He stands in the Red Gate kitchen, barefoot, hair damp, knotting a dish towel like a little-boy sailor. He grins when he sees you. “You took forever,” he says.
“Traffic,” you say. You don’t look at the windows, because windows sometimes show fires.
“Hold still.” He leans in, brushes a speck of sugar from your cheek with his thumb. He tastes it, like he always did, theatrical, delighted with very small things. “Powdered donut,” he decides. “High cuisine.”
“You’re mocking me.”
“Always,” he says cheerfully, like he’s rehearsed it, like he will always be fine. His eyes are ridiculous, bright as if the ocean climbed into them and stayed. “Swim?”
“Now?”
“Now now,” he says. “Before you remember something and ruin it.”
That line is pure Johnny, and it hurts like good music. You go with him down the back steps, into the night still slick with heat. The beach is the beach you remember, not the beach that exists. The moon is indecently full. He runs into the surf and you follow, both of you yelping when the cold bites you under the ribs. He ducks under, comes up combing his hair back, face turned toward you like you are the thing people write poems about.
“Hi,” he says, like he didn’t say hi already. It feels new anyway.
“Hi,” you say back, laughing.
“They told me no,” he says, a little breathless. “Mirren and Gat, you know how they are, with their rules. They said it would be cruel for me to,”
“Don’t say it,” you say quickly. “Don’t say anything you can’t unsay.”
He tilts his head, and his mouth makes the shape of your name. He moves closer. The water makes your skin hypersensitive, like the world is too much. He touches your wrist. You feel his pulse like a bird, frantic. He slides his hand into yours under the water and it is so stupidly ordinary, so human, that a calm comes over you like warmth.
“You always come back,” he murmurs.
“I promised,” you say.
He looks at you like you’ve told a joke and he’s the only one who gets it. “You always did that.”
“What?”
“Keep your promises.”
You wake up with your cheek pillowed on your forearm and a mark on your wrist where his thumb might have been. You tell yourself dreams can leave marks if you sleep wrong.
Carrie appears at noon with a pot of chowder and a tin of biscuits she calls scones. She stands in your doorway with her sunglasses on her head like a crown. “Eat,” she orders.
“My queen,” you say, faintly, because it’s the joke and you both know the script.
She smiles. “Only if you eat.”
You do. When you finish, she sits at the foot of your bed like a teenager. “Do you want to walk later?” she asks. “Or,no. I’m not going to pretend I don’t know why you like the little beach better. I can keep to the front, if that’s easier. I can… exist somewhere else.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
She shrugs and looks around the room and the past. “First summer without him,” she says, and her voice goes husky. “You remember? You wouldn’t come out of here for hours. I would stand in the kitchen and imagine… I would imagine you and he were planning your getaway. He always wanted to ‘steal you,’ he said. Like a pirate. God, he was ridiculous.”
“Yes,” you say, because your throat is full.
“He loved you,” Carrie says, and that is not new information, it is the sun and the tide and the foolish gulls and the reason you’re not decent with anyone else. She says it like she says it every year. But then she adds, voice smaller, “I used to think,Don’t be angry with me for saying this,I used to think you’d be my daughter-in-law. That there would be a day with flowers that smelled too sweet, and everyone would pretend the family wasn’t awful for just one afternoon, and you and I would stand and fix his tie while he made faces in the mirror,” She stops, waves a hand at her face like she can erase what it just did. “Well. Then I thought it was cruel to wish that out loud. But I suppose I still do. Wish.”
“I know.” You put your hand over hers. It’s the closest description of the hole you carry around: not just a missing boyfriend but the missing of everything after. “You raised him good,” you say uselessly.
“That’s debatable.” She studies your fingers. “You’ve never brought anyone here. Not once.”
“I know.” You keep your voice steady. “Johnny hated sharing the island.”
“Mm.” She looks at you for a long time, like she’s trying to make a decision. “Sweetheart,” she says softly. “Do you,when you’re here,do you… talk to him?”
You consider lying, because it would be merciful. But Carrie Sinclair has learned truths the ugly way, and you don’t know how to give her pretty ones. You nod, barely.
Her eyes shine and then don’t. “Good,” she says, surprising you. “If anyone could find a way to visit, he would. He would talk his way past God and the coast guard both.” She puts her knuckles against her mouth for a second. “Tell him I said… Tell him I still yell at him in the car sometimes, when the radio plays those stupid songs he loved.”
“Okay.”
“And if he says anything back, don’t tell me,” she adds quickly. “Not yet. I’m not brave enough.” She pats your knee and gets up, businesslike because that’s how she survives. “Leftovers in the icebox. Come up for dinner. I’ll make fish. Or ruin it. You can laugh at me.”
“Deal,” you say.
After she leaves you stand in the kitchen and listen to the wood creak. “She misses you,” you say to the empty house, or to the not-empty house, or to yourself. “We both do.” You open the back door. The wind comes in like a person. “If you’re here,” you say, “you’re late.”
“I was sulking,” says a voice behind you.
You don’t jump. You should. You turn slowly. He’s leaning against the doorframe like he owns time. He’s older than in the photos, but only because you’ve grown older and are projecting it onto him. He’s wet-haired again, like he’s always just come from the ocean. He’s wearing the T-shirt he liked with the dumb lobster on it. Your breath becomes a million pieces.
“You’re sulking?” you say, eyebrows up, heart in your throat. “Over what?”
“That you said my mother ‘raised me good.’ Grammar, darling.” He pushes off the doorframe, grinning. “Besides the grammar, it’s true, obviously.”
“Obviously.” You can’t help it; you close the distance and reach for him. Your hand stops an inch from his chest because you remember not remembering and you need to be sure. “Can I,?”
“Yes,” he says, no teasing. His face changes when he says it, grows gentler around the mouth. “Please.”
Your palm meets warmth. Not ice, not nothing: warmth. The very human rise of breath under skin. You skitter to his shoulder, trace the notch of bone you used to put your mouth on. You let out a sound that isn’t pretty.
“Proof,” he says quietly, closing his eyes.
“Proof,” you say, and then you don’t think. You curl your fingers in his shirt and kiss him, and he kisses you back like he learned there isn’t a lot of time. The kiss is too much and exactly enough and full of all the things you didn’t say on a night he did not live to hear them. When you pull back, his pupils are blown and he’s laughing breathlessly into your mouth.
“Hi,” he says, like a fool.
“Hi.” Your hands are shaking. “You can’t just,You can’t show up like a,like weather.”
“That’s literally what I am,” he says. “Weather. Tide. Bad habit.”
“I hate you,” you say, because it’s what you always said when you meant the opposite.
“Liar,” he says, stupidly fond.
You lean your forehead against his chest. “Where do you go when you go?”
“A question for philosophers.”
“Johnny.”
He swallows. You hear it, strange detail, the human sound of it. “When I go,” he says, “I’m still here, but ajar. Like a door. Like you could push and it would swing, but you don’t. You stand there and decide if it’s rude to enter. That’s where I am. In the deciding.”
“That’s nonsense.”
“It is.” He lifts your chin with a finger. “But it’s true.”
You study him. His eyelashes clump in the damp. His mouth is the mouth that told you jokes you tried not to laugh at. “Are you,” You can’t say the word.
“Dead?” he says, not flinching. “I was. I am. I’m also here. The island is a terrible boundary; it can’t decide either.”
“So you haunt me because of geography.”
“I haunt you because I’m in love with you,” he says simply. “And because you keep your promises and come back.”
You sit, hard, on the kitchen bench. “You sound like me.”
“I always did.” He drops onto the floor with his back against your knees. “Tell me a thing.”
“What kind of thing?”
“Anything from the year. A small thing. Your favorite coffee shop closed? Your neighbor got a weird cat? Your hair did that thing where it won’t lie flat on Tuesdays?”
“You don’t know about my hair,” you say, faint, half-laughing.
“I know everything.” He turns his head and rests his cheek against your thigh like he used to when he wanted you to forgive him quickly. “Tell me.”
So you do. You talk about nothing for a long time. The pie you ruined at Thanksgiving. The time you accidentally wore two different shoes to work and pretended it was a trend. How you stood at a bus stop and watched a little girl give a pigeon a French fry and felt this sudden, ridiculous swell of joy so big you had to sit down. He listens like this is news bulletins from a country he longs for. He laughs in the right places. He makes you tell the French fry story twice.
Then he speaks, soft. “Tell me the hard things.”
You stare at the wall. “I don’t date,” you say, and it surprises you to say it like a confession. “Sometimes I try. I go to dinner. I laugh. And then I come home and think, I forgot to tell Johnny about the man who slurped his soup like a cartoon. And I realize I didn’t forget. I saved it for you.”
He is very quiet. Then: “That’s not a hard thing,” he says gently. “That’s an ordinary thing with a bruise on it.”
“Fine. The hard thing is that I don’t want to stop coming here. People think that means I don’t want to heal. But what if this is healing? What if you are the bandage and not the wound?”
“That’s very poetic.”
“Shut up.”
“I’m agreeing with you.” He twists to look up at you. “I want you to come. I want to see you. And I… am not supposed to ask you to stay.”
“Who says.”
“The committee,” he deadpans.
“Mirren and Gat?”
“They have a quorum. They bring snacks. They say things like, ‘This is unhealthy, Johnny.’ And I say, ‘Obviously.’ And then I break the rules anyway because I’m a Sinclair and that’s our family sport.”
You laugh wetly and wipe your face with the heel of your hand. “Your mother says to stop haunting the radio.”
“I’ll try,” he says, guiltily delighted. “But if Hozier comes on and I don’t sing, am I even a specter?”
“Don’t make me tell Carrie you said ‘specter.’”
“She’ll be proud I read something. Also: Tell her I miss her cooking and that she should never attempt risotto again.”
“I’m not getting between you and your mother’s risotto,” you say. “That’s a death wish.”
“Little late for that,” he murmurs, which is awful and he knows it, and he squeezes your hand when you flinch. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” you say. “We always made terrible jokes.”
“True.” He looks at the window where the afternoon has arranged itself into something luminous. “Walk with me?”
You blink. “We can do that?”
“Apparently,” he says. “There are loopholes. Come on. Before Mirren sends a thunderclap as a warning.”
You go. On the path, the light makes everything tender. He opens the red-painted gate for you with a mock bow. He points out turtles like he invented them. You argue about whether the clouds look like a dinosaur or a teapot. You sound like yourselves and also like actors who studied you for weeks and got the rhythm right.
At the clearing he stops. The ruins sit square and stubborn in the grass. The place where the kitchen was is a rectangle of weeds. He doesn’t step closer. He tucks his hands in his pockets like a boy called into the principal’s office.
“I keep thinking if I stand there,” he says conversationally, “it will reverse. That the concrete will unpour. That the nail heads will pull themselves out of the floor like teeth unbiting. That we will be idiots in the hall with wet towels and silly grins, planning a future like we owned the calendar.”
You say nothing.
He sighs. “I know. That’s not how anything works.”
You go to him, take his face between your hands. “Let’s not be here,” you say. “Let’s be every other place. The porch steps. The boathouse. The stupid swing. Red Gate.”
He kisses your palms like he agrees. “Deal.”
That night Carrie makes fish that is, in fact, ruined, and you and she eat it anyway and lie to each other about it. After dishes she pours you tea and sits across from you at the Red Gate table like a treaty negotiation is about to occur.
“Are you sleeping?” she asks.
“Like a log,” you lie, because your dreams are raucous, like beach parties.
“Good,” she says, and looks relieved in a way that hurts. “Staying how long this year?”
“Two weeks,” you say, and she nods like it’s a business matter and not your heart opening at the hinges.
“Stay three,” she says impulsively. “Stay all of August. Let the city forget you exist.”
“I can’t,”
“You can,” she says, then catches herself. “I mean, of course you have a job and a life and,and I’m meddling.”
“You are.”
“Sorry.” She smiles a little. “You know, I still keep his room the same.” She says it like a confession, like she expects you to scold her. “I know. It’s foolish.”
“It isn’t.”
“Sometimes I talk in there,” she admits. “I read out loud. I tell him about plastic in the ocean and the price of milk and how the dog across the street barks at snow. I tell him you’re coming. I tell him you did your hair different. I tell him he would have hated it.” She laughs, then presses her fingers to her eyes. “He would have loved it. He would have loved everything.”
“He did,” you say, and your voice breaks on the did like a wave. “He really did.”
She reaches across the table and grabs your hand with both of hers so hard it almost hurts. “If you see him,” she says, fierce with borrowed courage, “tell him I forgive him for everything that isn’t his fault.”
You nod. You cannot promise anything else.
On the fifth day the wind is mean, and the sky lowers itself to the roof like it wants to listen. You and Johnny play gin rummy on the floor like you’re sixteen, and he is so bad at it that you suspect cheating in reverse.
“You’re throwing the game,” you accuse.
“I would never,” he says, haloed by late afternoon.
“You absolutely would.”
“I would,” he admits. “I like the way you look when you win. It’s very… sharp.”
“Sharp?”
“Triumphant. Like you climbed a mast and planted a flag.”
You roll your eyes and arrange your cards. “We should fight,” you say impulsively. “We never do.”
He snorts. “We fought all the time.”
“We bickered.” You meet his gaze. “We never fought about this.”
“This,” he repeats. The cards go still in his hands. “About me being a dead boy?”
“About you asking me to let you go,” you say, because the words have sat in your mouth all week, unspooled and hot. “About me refusing.”
He looks at you like you just opened the right door. “Oh,” he says softly. “That.”
“Don’t ask,” you say. “Don’t be noble. I don’t want noble. I want selfish. I want you to haunt me at the grocery store and in the dentist chair and when I’m choosing laundry detergent. I want you to be the voice when I can’t decide between two terrible dresses. I want you in my head like a glorious, infuriating chorus.”
He laughs, a startled sound, and then sobers. “I want that too,” he says. “You know I do.”
“Then why do I hear you pulling back?”
“Because…” He puts his cards facedown. “Because sometimes I see you look at the door when a phone pings. Because sometimes you tell a story and switch out ‘we’ for ‘I,’ and that’s wrong. Because sometimes in the morning you rub your wrist like it aches. Because I don’t want to be the reason you never,” He cuts himself off. “I’m so tired of being the reason.”
"The fire..." you started to say.
“I know. I also know I was there.” He leans forward, elbows on knees, eyes very blue and very sad. “I want every life you could possibly have, and I only get this one with you on the island. It feels greedy to keep it. And yet,” He looks at your mouth as if it’s his favorite view. “And yet.”
“Johnny,” you say, and then you can’t speak because crying has shut your throat with glue. You sit there like a fool with water on your face. He moves to you, ridiculous, tender, pressing his forehead to yours.
“Hey,” he whispers. “We were always going to have a stupid fight about nothing.”
“This isn’t nothing.”
“I know.” He closes his eyes. “Okay. Compromise.”
“What kind of compromise exists between leaving and staying?”
“A messy one,” he says. “Promise me that when you’re in the city, you’ll try. You’ll let someone make you coffee. You’ll kiss somebody terrible and laugh about it later. You’ll wear a dress you don’t buy for a wedding you’re not invited to. You’ll do a thing that feels like a betrayal and then tell me about it in too much detail so I can be jealous.”
You let out an incredulous sound. “That’s your compromise?”
“And in exchange,” he says, “I won’t stop coming. Not this year. Not while you ask. Not while you stand at the water and say my name like a blessing and a curse.” He swallows. “I’ll be selfish with you just a little longer.”
You cover your face with your hands. “This is a stupid deal,” you say, voice wrecked.
“The best kind,” he says, pulling your hands down and kissing the tips of your fingers like you’re made of something worth worshiping.
On the tenth night the rain stops after midnight, and everything drips like applause. You and Johnny walk to the boathouse because the boathouse is a church and you are devout. You sit on the steps and watch clouds move.
“Remember when we thought we’d live in a tiny apartment with a window onto an alley and pretend the alley was the ocean?” he says.
“We were poor at fantasies.”
“We were rich in other ways,” he says. “I learned to fix a sink on YouTube for you. That’s love.”
“You clogged the sink with kale.”
“Health is dangerous,” he says solemnly. Then, quieter, “What will you do tomorrow?”
“Swim. Eat something green so you don’t haunt me about kale. Try not to think about leaving.”
“Don’t,” he says immediately. “Don’t think about leaving until the boat comes. Pretend the island is the only map.”
“Okay.”
“And tell my mother,” he adds, “that I hear her. That I know she reads to me. That she should read something trashy. That I forgive her for the things she thinks need forgiving.”
“I’ll tell her,” you say. You don’t say: She will believe me or she will not, but she will like that I said it.
He leans his shoulder against yours. “Tell me another ordinary thing from the city.”
You look out at the black water. “I bought an ugly lamp from a yard sale,” you say. “It makes the whole room softer, like evening has a personality.”
“You always were good at choosing light,” he says.
“And I planted basil. It died.”
“You murdered an herb in cold blood,” he says gravely. “I am scandalized.”
“My landlady says I am a serial killer. Of plants.”
He laughs, warm. “I am glad you have a landlady who says things like that.”
“I’m glad you’re here to hear it,” you say, even though glad feels like an indecently small word.
He hums and then is quiet for a long time. The quiet feels heavy, like a coat you could wear.
“What,” you say finally, nudging him.
“Nothing,” he lies.
“Johnny.”
He breathes out. “Sometimes I think I’m selfish for wanting you to come,” he says. “Sometimes I think I’m selfish for asking you to try to have that other life. I am selfish in both directions. That is very me.”
“You’re human,” you say. “Which is funny.”
“Isn’t it?” He laughs, then shivers, and you realize the night has turned cold. You tuck your sweater around his shoulders like that could do anything. He makes a face. “That’s very cinematic,” he says. “The girl gives the boy her sweater. The boy is a ghost. The sweater is a metaphor.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“Marry me,” he says, without thinking, the way you say pass the salt. And then he slaps a hand over his mouth, eyes huge. “I didn’t,”
You stare at him. Rain ticks from the eaves like a clock.
“Okay,” you say, and he looks stricken and luminous and ridiculous all at once. You add, because you need to cut the wire before it explodes, “Okay as in I hear you. Not okay as in,You know.”
He lets his hand drop. “I know.” His smile is devastated and then repaired. “I just,I had to say it once, out loud. To know what it sounded like.” He looks out at the water. “It sounds like a bell.”
“It does,” you say, and you sit there with him and listen to the bell until it’s only the sea again.
On your last morning, the island is in a mood. The wind knocks at the windows like a friend who doesn’t know how to be polite. You stand on the sand with your toes gripping the cold, like you could anchor yourself. Johnny stands inches away, his hands in his pockets the way he does when he thinks he’ll be brave if his fingers can’t fidget.
“I hate this part,” he says.
“I know.”
“I hate that it feels like a trick every time we get away with this. Like we’re going to be caught and given detention by God.”
“Maybe God likes lovers,” you say.
“Maybe God is Carrie with better lighting,” he says, and you snort damply and elbow him in the ribs.
“Your mother will make me pack you a sandwich,” you say. “If I tell her.”
“Tell her I want roast beef,” he says, automatic, then winces. “That was… unkind.”
“It was human,” you say again, and he nods, grateful for the excuse.
The ferry moves like a beetle on the horizon. Your body recognizes the shape of it and begins to shake, as if it knows what your brain is hiding.
“Okay,” he says. He turns to you, and there it is, the way he looks at you like traffic lights turn green out of respect. “Okay. The deal. You’ll try.”
“I’ll try,” you say, and the promise tastes like salt.
“And you’ll come back,” he says softly.
“I always do.”
He nods, once. He steps in, and you do too, and he kisses you with his eyes open, like he doesn’t want to miss a frame. He tastes like rain and something you will never be able to name. When he pulls back he rests his forehead against yours a second that lasts all morning.
“Say it,” he whispers.
“Johnny,” you say, and the wind takes it. “Johnny. Johnny.”
“Good.” He smiles, lopsided, boyish. “I like the way my name sounds in your mouth.”
“Ego,” you say, wiping your face with your sleeve.
“Sinclair,” he says back, which is the joke and the truth.
You walk up to the house together, back through the red-painted gate. Carrie stands on the porch with a mug that says WORLD’S OKAYEST CHEF. Her mouth trembles when she sees you. She hands you a paper bag that is too heavy to be just snacks.
“I put the scones in there,” she says. “And also the good jam. And also the terrible risotto I tried to make into rice balls. Don’t laugh.”
“I would never,” you say.
“Liar,” she says, loving you.
You hesitate. “Carrie,” you say, and you are shaking again, but not from cold. “He hears you. When you read. He wants you to read trash next time.”
She closes her eyes, then opens them, fierce and wet. “I can do that.” She frames your face in her hands. “You are my girl,” she says, as she has said every year, which means you are not hers and you are and both are true. “Be safe out there.”
“I will,” you lie.
She studies you, then looks past your shoulder at nothing. “And you,” she says, to the air in a voice that belongs in a church. “Come to me in a dream when you can. I’ll make us tea.”
The wind goes gentle, just for a second. You don’t look back, because you are afraid of what you’ll see, or not see.
When you reach the dock, you stand very still. The ferry is at the pier. The rope groans. The island is patient.
“Okay,” you say under your breath. “Okay.”
And then, because you are a woman who keeps her promises, you go to the edge of the dock and look at the place where the water changes color and say, very softly, “I’ll try, but I’ll be back.” The buoy nods. The gulls wheel. The sea says something in its quiet language.
On the crossing you hold the paper bag and breathe the smell of jam and lemons and steam and time. You watch the island shrink without actually shrinking. In the glass behind your reflection there is a boy leaning against the railing as if he has never been afraid of falling.
He doesn’t speak. You don’t either. You lift your hand. He lifts his. Your palms meet on the ghost of a window.
You say nothing. You understand everything.
When the city rises like a new problem at the horizon, you take out your phone and type a text into a note you keep just for him.
“Ordinary thing: a woman on the ferry has a hat shaped like a strawberry. She looks like she could juggle summers. I think you’d like her courage.”
You save it. You tuck the phone away. You touch the ring at your throat. You stand in the wind and let it take your hair in its hands. You think of Carrie at Red Gate reading trashy novels out loud to air that is not empty. You think of risotto that is rice balls that is love, and the red gate that swings when someone you love comes home.
You think of a committee of ghosts arguing over rules and you grin, mean and alive.
“See you,” you whisper toward the line where water meets sky. “Soon.”
synopsis: emmaline’s grandparents are friends of harris sinclair and there aren’t many people who can make that claim. it only takes one trip to beechwood island after for one summer for a little girl’s life to change forever through love and laughter and pain and suffering and all that’s in between. the sinclairs have a way of destroying lives as well as making them feel like pure sunshine
warnings:
a/n: this is going to be 5 part series, I hope you all enjoy and I’m so sorry for not writing in so long, I’ve had so much on my plate but I miss it and you all very much and thank you again for all your support!! <33. BTW this is unedited so feel free to tell me if there’s massive mistakes
taglist: @goldi-1-graysons-version @whispyedits let me know if you wanted to be added or removed or fill out this form
~ SUMMER 9 ~
I didn’t know as much as I thought I did in Summer 9. I was the smartest in my class at school and prided myself far too much for it. I suppose it wasn’t exactly my fault. Who was a little girl to question her belief in the showering of praise from all the people she trusted the very most?
In Summer 9 of my short life, I was smart academically but I didn’t yet know that the love I saw on movie screen and plastered over the pages of books wasn’t real, I didn’t know that people could be l cruel enough to manipulate you into getting what they wanted and I didn’t know how fatal revenge could taste after you inhaled too many of its fumes.
But I did know some things.
I knew my grandfather had a lot of money. The kind of money that clothed me in classy designer brands and took me to fancy dinners I’d spend revising forks for, that provided me with lavish birthday gifts and an inordinate amount of opportunity. My education, my holidays, my house, it was all a luxury.
I used to adore my grandfather. He adored me too. He was fond of telling me the story of how I used to sit on his lap when I was smaller than his pinky finger as he’d read to me. Of course I didn’t believe I was actually ever small than his pinky finger, I was too clever to fool for that.
He used to read me those big, thick, old, dusty classics. And he’d have to pause every second sentence to explain what was happening but he never once minded, he just loved to see that sparkle in my eyes. He’d always let me have a sweet from his secret tin after dinner, even if my mother forbade it. He’d tell me I was special and that I had a great future ahead, he’d take me places. Places now I realise we’re far too beautiful for a little girl to appreciate fully.
But I remember most of all loving his voice, it was smooth and calm. Nothing like my dad’s, that always seemed to hollow and cold, distant as if he was standing in the room next door all the time, trying to avoid me. Adults often think children don’t notice things like that, but I always did.
I was a lonely child, despite being surrounded by every material thing I could desire. Sure, I had friends, but they’d never be allowed into my house, to spend anytime outside the six blissful hours that allowed me to feel like a normal school kid.
It was only much later down the line that I learnt that it was my mother’s fear of people using me that hid me away from the real world. She’d been used and now she lived in fear. For the longest time I’d known my mother was an anxious woman and it’d bled into me too. I was an anxious girl. Always a little fidgeting too often, breathing a little too fast, thinking a little too much.
I was always so hell bent on being good. A good daughter, a good student, a good example. Something people could be proud of, someone students could be compared to, a worthy daughter that my mother could brag to her friends about. I wanted to sparkle.
But the praise I craved was always from the one person who would always hang me dry, leaving me hollow. So I became quiet, unusually quiet. My father always seemed quiet and I thought he might like it better if I was more like him. I didn’t know then he’d never be the father I needed him to be, no matter how hard I fought for it.
I didn’t have an unfortunate childhood, someone with as much money as opportunity I had would never dare say they did. But when, one summer, my mother lost her husband and lost her mind with him so my grandfather wanted to send me away to a little island where the sun was always shining, I didn’t argue. I got on the boat and kept my mouth shut.
I didn’t cry when my dad died, I cried with the weight of the guilt that I had for not crying. At the funeral adults crooned that I was a strong little girl, putting on my brave face, just how he would’ve wanted. They didn’t know that I was somehow emotionally numb to what was supposed to be one of the most horrible experiences of my life. Losing a parent has been likened to losing an arm or leg, you feel incomplete, hollow even. But I didn’t lose a parent. I don’t even know if I lost anything at all.
My dad was there physically but he never felt there. He was always a ghost, so the day his body didn’t show up at the breakfast table it felt no different. When he stayed at the house it was never for long anyway, everything mostly felt the same apart from my mum.
She went crazy. A level of insanity no child should have to witness. She was wracked with the most harrowing grief, locking herself away, not eating, screaming in the late hours of the night, ripping her hair out, indulging in the world of drugs and alcohol. I knew she wasn’t right but who else could I tell. I was a nine year old girl whose father just died and mother never revealed her true self to the public. On the outside she looked so porcelain perfect, no one would have believed me if I’d tried.
It was a blessing, summer 9.
My grandfather picked me up on a Tuesday. I’d done all the packing myself so nearly everything I owned was crammed into two little suitcases, too heavy for me to wheel down the driveway so he hand to carry it instead. My grandfather always smelt of coffee and old books. Familiarity, peace and order.
I remembered the journey to Beechwood so vividly. I was sandwiched between my grandparents on the boat over, dressed in a striped blue and white pinafore with ruffled sleeves with a puffy white shirt beneath. I’d complained so much about it but it was grandmother’s choice and no one told that woman no.
My grandfather was telling me on the journey over how I’d met the man who owned the island when I was a baby. I asked him how a man could own a whole island and he only laughed. Then he pulled out a photograph to show me.
My grandfather was in it and looked a little younger than now and was sat next to another older looking man. An infantilised version of myself was tucked snugly in the crook of one arm, in a bundle of blankets. The other man had a baby too, but she was sat up on the knee closest to my grandfather, tufts of blonde hair sprouting from her head. She looked sugary sweet as she shot the camera a gummy smile. On his other knee sat another little girl, she looked only a little older than the baby, nine months maybe. She had rosy round cheeks and the deepest brown eyes.
But what caught my eye was the baby-faced boy sat on my grandfathers leg. I was the only grandchild of my generation, my father had been an only child and my mother had only given him me. So who was this strange boy with white blonde hair and cheeky smile.
“Who’s that?” I pointed, eyebrows pinched together in tight confusion.
“That’s Harris’s grandson,” my grandfather explained, “Jonathan.”
“Why is he sat on your leg then?” I asked.
“Because Harris had three grandchildren and only two legs,” he chuckled in reply.
I giggled, the pointed again, “so who are the others.”
“Her name is Mirren,” he explained indicating to the smaller baby girl, “and this girl is Cadence, the eldest Sinclair granddaughter.”
“Like me?” I wondered aloud, the ghost of pride haunting my tone.
He nodded with a strong smile, “like you.”
“Why are we altogether?” I said.
“I went to visit him nine years ago with you,” he replied, there something sad about the way he said it, “your mother and father stayed here, they needed a break for a little bit. So I took you and I met his grandchildren when he met mine.”
“How come I’ve never met them since?” I questioned curiously, my vivid imagination already running wild with what-if scenarios.
“We haven’t visited and neither have they,” my grandfather replied matter-o-factly, “we’re all very busy. But that’s why we’re going this year, so you can.”
“They won’t even remember me,” I sighed, “will they?”
“No but they means you get to meet them all over again, make some lovely friends, doesn’t that sound fun?” he said cheerily.
I nodded but didn’t believe in the action, but I’d learnt sometimes you just had to blindly agree. It saved so much trouble and I didn’t like trouble.
That was the boat ride I ate jam sandwiches and filled in crosswords with my grandfather, the boat ride when my grandmother plaited my hair in six different ways and scolded me for putting my elbows on the table, the boat ride that I didn’t know would end up taking me to a magical place far far away and change the course of my life entirely.
***
The island was from the pages of a storybook, bright and synthetically perfect. Golden sand and turquoise oceans, jagged rocks and clear skies. The sun seemed to never stop shining.
I was helped off of the boat and onto a dock, a long wooden walkway that seemed to have been waiting for our arrival. My grandfather took my small hand into his as I shrunk behind him, some sort of fear stirring in the pit of my stomach with my jam sandwiches. My grandmother shot me a warning look causing my to shroud myself with my grandfather even further, tucking my body behind his leg and arm but still clinging on to his hand.
“There’s nothing to be afraid of,” he said gently, “these are good people.”
“What if they hate me?” I whispered.
“Don’t be ridiculous Emmaline, shoulders back and chin up, you’re brave and you’re brilliant and you’re a Campbell and you’re going to let them know it,” my grandmother scolded
“I agree,” he nodded, “they’ll love you Emmy, don’t you worry.”
But I was worried. I had a gnawing anxiety in my belly that I just couldn’t shake. I didn’t know who these kids were or what they’d like, if they’d even let me in to their group. If my own dad didn’t even love me enough to look at me how could these kids?
My grandfather guided me forwards but I still shied away, slightly behind him. I fiddled with the hem of my dress, the repeated motion of stroking the fabric somewhat helping my racing heart.
A man dressed head to toe in an eye-aching white was walking down the dock, here to meet us. He looked old, wrinkles adorning his skin and white crowning his head but his eyes looked young and bright.
“Harris!” my grandfather called with a glowing grin.
My grandfather was usually serious man, he only seemed to glow when me or my grandmother were around. It always made me feel special. Maybe this man was special too.
“You’re looking well Charlie boy,” the man called Harris replied, entertaining a short embrace with his long lost friend.
“Not as good as you,” my grandfather stepped back with a nod.
“You never did,” Harris winked, something cheeky and boyish in the action which felt oxymoronic given his age.
My grandfather laughed heartily as my grandmother shook her head. Perhaps it was amusement or disapproval or something in between.
“Always the same Harris,” she tusked.
“Rosamund,” he acknowledged her graciously.
She kissed his cheeks with an airy gentleness, “it’s good to see you again.”
“And this must be little Emmaline,” Harris met my eyes and I flushed.
“Don’t be shy,” my grandfather coaxed, guiding me forwards once again.
I did as we’d practiced out of the boat. I smiled sweetly, extended my perfected poised hand and asked, “how do you do?” as perfectly as I could.
Harris beamed warmly, taking my hand and kissing it gently, “I’m very well thank you,” he nodded, “and you sweet girl?”
“I’m good too,” I said again, my cheeks warm with embarrassment and my hand retreated to my side. I hadn’t expected a question back. I hadn’t practiced for it.
“She’s a gem, Charles, really, so polite,” he mentioned to my grandfather as if suddenly I wasn’t there. I found that adults did that often and if you listened and stayed as silent as they thought you were, you could learn a lot, “much more polite than any of my grandchildren,” he rolled his eyes, looking of into the distance, “they’re probably off somewhere wreaking havoc, maybe Emmaline will sort them out this summer.”
My grandfather chuckled, following Harris’s eyeline, “How’s Tipper doing?”
“I’m not dying Charles,” came another voice, it was sharper, more astute.
I turned to see another woman. She looked younger than my grandmother, but had perfectly styled platinum hair and was dressed in a fashionable crisp pantsuit. She looked as though she could take over the world with a flick of her fingertips.
“Tipper!” my grandfather greeted her, “I’m very aware you’re not dying and far from it.”
“Then don’t speak of me as if I am,” she instructed regimentally, turning to my grandmother, “I don’t know how you survive with him.”
“I could say the same about you and Harris,” she replied, a rare twinkle in her eyes.
“I cannot for the life of me understand why we left it this long,” my grandmother replied.
She leaned in and whispered, loud enough for us all to hear, “I blame the men.”
“As do I,” her partner in crime agreed.
“Is this Emmaline?” Tipper asked, her hand over her heart as she caught my eye, “isn’t she pretty Rosamund, got that strong chin from you.”
I fingertips grazed my chin, as I took to cowering behind my grandfather.
“That’s about the only thing,” my grandmother scoffed, “she’s mostly her mother.”
“I don’t know I see some of George in her,” Harris said, “god bless his soul.”
My grandparents bowed their heads and I felt compelled to do so too.
“How’s she handling things?” Tipper asked as if I couldn’t hear the words coming out of her mouth under my hair.
“Well,” my grandmother replied swiftly and stiffly, “of course she was upset when appropriate but she didn’t crumble. Don’t be fooled by her dainty looks, she’s stronger than anyone thinks.”
I didn’t crumble because I didn’t lose part of my foundation. I lost a piece that had always disappeared anyway.
“A weapon in its own power,” Harris said.
A weapon. It was funny, I’d never thought of myself as a weapon. Not until much later on in my life anyway.
“We couldn’t even imagine what it was like to lose your Georgie, he was always such a good man,” Tipper said sympathetically.
“A good man lost,” my grandfather nodded, “but remembered.”
“We don’t need to dwell on it,” my grandmother said, whisking the conversation in a new direction. She was shifting the focus which meant she was hiding something. Adults did that a lot too.
“Why don’t you come with me Emmaline,” Tipper asked, extending her smooth hand, “let’s go and find the Liars.”
Liars? I didn’t want to meet any Liars. I lived with too many already. This was meant to be an escape.
“Go on,” my grandfather encouraged. His voice was soft and steady.
With trust, I shyly stepped out and took Tipper’s hand. It was somehow softer than it looked. I didn’t really want to go anywhere with this strange woman but I told myself that my grandfather’s judgement was just.
It was awkward at first, I didn’t know whether to speak or not. Tipper had this air about her that made you feel small, like she was the queen of entire world and you weren’t even a peasant. So I just followed, matching my leg strides to her long paced one, silently taking in the scenery.
It was surely the prettiest thing I’d ever laid eyes on. The sand stretched out like a gold-spun sheet with endless reams of sparkling jewels scattered throughout. The ocean was wild and free, crashing into rocks with something perfect about its incoordination. Its surface glistened, daring us to jump. The sun glorified it all, illuminating the art of perfection that lay beneath it, almost as if it were showing it off. I couldn’t wait until sunset, it was probably breathtaking.
“Do you like the island?” Tipper asked.
It took me a few minutes to register what she’d said and come up with an appropriate reply.
“I do,” I nodded, “I think it’s very pretty.”
“I’ve always thought so too,” she agreed.
“It’s quiet,” I mentioned, “I like that.”
Tipped hummed in reply, “it’s different, being in a beautiful place with people and being in one without. It makes you really see it, appreciate it, feel it.”
I agreed with her. When I was little I was lucky enough to get to visit expensive places but the people always took away from it. Loud and rude and bustling. No one stopped to take it all in and those who did couldn’t truly feel it because there was always some sort of human distraction.
“Who are the liars?” I changed the subject, the smooth down the curiosity that was nagging at me.
“My grandchildren,” she replied.
A simple answer but not the one I wanted, I pushed further, venturing out more than I usually would with a stranger, “why are they called the liars?”
“Because they like to lie,” she smiled, “and make mischief of this island. I’m sure they’ll like you.”
“I’m not very good at lying,” I shrugged, unsure of how else to a reply.
That was a lie in itself. I lied nearly every day, not that I realised it yet. It took me years to recognise that pretending and acting are just synonyms for lying.
“Doesn’t mean you can’t be a liar,” Tipper told me, her eyes wise, her voice even.
She reminded me of a siren, she was calm and smooth and hypnotic.
“I suppose so,” I said as we came to an about stop in the middle of nowhere, “what are we doing?”
“Looking for liars,” she said wistfully, “there are always clues. They haven’t quite mastered tidying up a crime scene.”
I glanced around catching something in my peripheral, my eyes trailed sandy footprints, outlines of the bottom of shoes, multiple pairs all up the pathway leading to a house labelled Clairmont.
“There,” I said, “they’ve gone to Clairmont.”
“Seems we have a detective in the making,” she said, “let’s go.”
A detective who still couldn’t work out the mystery of why her father couldn’t just love her.
I followed Tipper down the now sandy path and into the house where it seemed the Liars had abandoned their shoes at the foot of the stairs.
I paused listening to see if they’d migrated downstairs but I couldn’t hear any voices. We climbed up the first flight of stairs, I took the left wing and Tipper took the write but neither came to any avail. Then we checked the second floor, another long hallway of empty rooms. Finally we got to a small unconventional spiral staircase, our last option.
“What’s up there?” I asked.
“The attic,” Tipper replied.
We paused upon hearing voices.
“I can’t find it Johnny!”
“Then keep looking.”
“But we’ve been here for ages!”
“Even I’m bored, can’t we just go and swim or something?”
“No.”
“We’re not even allowed to swim without an adult, you know how strict the mothers are about that.”
“I don’t know why it’s just the sea, what’s the worst that could happen?”
“If we haven’t found it within the next ten minutes then I’m leaving.”
“You have no determination.”
“I’ve had determination for a whole hour, that’s long enough.”
I climbed the spiral staircase, inches behind Tipper, until we reached a strong oak door. She didn’t hesitate or eavesdrop, just turned the handle and walked in.
We found them.
Four children looked up with guilty eyes. One girl was lying on the floor in a starfish shape, flat on her belly. She was lazily sorting through a pile of objects, often getting distracted by sparkly ones. There was another girl too, her eyes darted across bookshelves with expert precision, she knew what she was looking for. Her fingers trailed the oddly shaped ornaments as she scanned their decoration and size. The first boy I noticed was tucked just behind a sort of chest-looking wooden box, his knees almost touched his chest and he scrunched up. The piles of books beside him concealed the fact that he was actually reading one. But I could see, just about. The final boy was messily looking through great sacks of things, tossing unnecessary items behind him with little regard. He was focussed on some sort of self assigned mission it seemed.
Tipped folded her arms, shifting weight onto her hip with a sharp eyebrow raise making her look powerful, “What are you four doing here?”
“Grandad asked us to look for his golf clubs,” the blonde boy said smoothly, instantly.
I believed him in seconds.
“Oh really?” Tipper said, her tone standing on a thin line between amusement and scolding, “because he never mentioned golfing to me.”
“Must’ve slipped his mind,” the girl on the floor smiled, resting her chin in her palms, her dazzling blue eyes, hypnotic like Tipper’s.
“Hmmm,” she continued, “it’s funny because you grandfather doesn’t even keep his golflclubs in here.”
“Are you sure?” the other girl asked, moving away from the bookshelf, “because I’m pretty sure we found them.”
Her eyes searched as she pointed to the other side of the room.
“I don’t see anything,” Tipper pursed her lips.
A dark haired boy quickly stood up grabbing a dusty old bag, metal clinked within. Surely they hadn’t pulled the lie off that well.
He thrust it towards Tipper. She took out one metal stick. It wasn’t a golf club just a metal pole sort of thing, maybe used for building. I couldn’t work it out.
“Nice try, Liars,” she smiled, I wasn’t sure if it was a nice smile or a smile of warning, I knew both, “but these aren’t golf clubs.”
“They aren’t?” the girl asked, brown eyes doubling in size, “I was sure they were.”
“Looks like a golf club to me,” the other girl nodded, going back to her pile of trinkets on the floor, pocketing what looked to be a paintbrush.
“Who’s that?” the blonde boy pointed at me, wrinkling his nose.
I shrunk away, not wanting to be noticed. I liked watching. I was an observer, an outsider, a spectator.
“This is Emmaline, a friend’s granddaughter,” Tipper explained, stepping away from covering me, “and she‘s come to spend the summer at Beechwood.”
“Why?” he asked, not looking too happy about that fact.
“Johnny!” the girl on her floor whacked his leg.
“What!” he growled, sending her a warning look, “I’m asking!”
“It sounds rude and my mommy-“
“Not this again Mirren,” he rolled his eyes, “I’m asking a question there’s nothing wrong with that.”
“You’re getting sidetracked and making Emmaline uncomfortable,” the other girl said, before turning to me, “Hi, I’m Cadence.”
“Hi,” I smiled shyly.
“And I’m Mirren,” the shorter girl burst, rushing up off of her belly and forwards to join her cousin, “how did you get your hair like that?”
She admired my plait, making me play with the end subconsciously.
“My grandmother did it for me,” I replied quietly.
“It’s so pretty,” she complimented with a sugary sweet smile.
“Thank you,” I flushed.
“I’ll leave you to it,” Tipper said turning to leave.
“You still didn’t answer my question!” the blonde guy shouted after her.
“If it helps I don’t know why I’m here either,” I told him.
“That doesn’t help,” he scowled, his blazing blue eyes nearly setting me on fire.
“Johnny stop it,” Cadence growled at him
“Just because you’re the oldest doesn’t mean you get to tell me what to do,” he sneered back, arms folded.
“Actually,” she said, straightening a little with an air of importance about her, “that’s exactly what it means.”
They began to argue, a painful back and forth giving me the perfect opportunity to shrink away behind a large piece of furniture. I’d never had siblings or cousins but I’d been told it was common to argue, so I labelled it as normal. I slid further in, behind more furtinute when I bumped into something.
“My name is Gat,” the something said.
“Sorry,” I replied quickly, embarrassed, “I didn’t know you were here.”
“Oh don’t worry,” he said kindly, “that’s okay.”
I was aware Mirren was now involved in Cadence and her cousin’s back and forth.
“They’re not usually like this I promise,” Gat told me probably sensing my hyper awareness or tension, “it just takes getting used to.”
“It’s okay,” I shrugged.
“So,” he began, placing a well worn copy of a classic I recognised on the wooden floor, “do you live with your grandpa?”
I shook my head, “no, he just brought me. I’m not sure why.”
I knew why. I heard the child psychiatrist suggest a holiday, a break, a change of scenery to take my mind off of everything, to fix me. My mother hadn’t left the house in months and wasn’t stable enough to, so my grandparents stepped in. But I wasn’t exactly going to push all of that onto a kid if just met, so kept it short and sweet. It was easier.
“I live with just my mom,” I explained.
“You don’t have a dad?” he said, looking worried.
The question should’ve stung, hurt, burnt even. I should’ve been choked by a wave of grief, my voice should’ve gone shaky, I should’ve looked away to reminisce.
Instead I held his gaze and gave a numb reply, “not anymore.”
He smiled sadly, brown eyes deep with chocolate melancholy, “me neither.”
“Really?” I asked, perking up.
He nodded, looking upset. That’s how I should be acting, like I had salt in my wounds, like the thought of him could bring a tear to my eye. I supposed I just wasn’t normal.
“Do you know how to play hang man?” I asked, not wanting to dwell on our conversation or my thoughts for much longer.
“Of course,” he replied, eyebrows pinched with confusion.
I grabbed the old crinkled sheet of unused paper and a random feather quill lying about the place.
“Let’s play then,” I grinned.
I went first. Cross legged, I tapped the tip of the feather on my chin. It tickled very slightly. I carefully chose my word, somewhere between easy and impossible. I could sense Gat was clever and I didn’t want him to guess the word too quickly.
_ _ _ _ _
5 stroke decorated the page, small and neat. I signalled for him to guess, leaning back. He took his time, he wasn’t like some other kids I’d played with. He was careful and considerate.
“A,” he finally decided.
A common vowel. Smart. I would’ve guessed it too.
“Yep!” I popped the ‘P’ and jotted it down.
_ _ _ A _
His eyes narrowed, as he went through possibilities silently in his head, “I?”
“No,” I replied with a smug sort of smile as I drew one line of shame to mark the start of a hang man.
I never realised what morbid games we teach our children until I grew up. A simple word game tainted with the drawing of a dead man, murdered by now a banned punishment.
“O,” Gat guessed again.
“Yes,” I huffed, slotting the letter into my spaces, “you’re good at this.”
“I just have a strategy,” he shrugged casually.
“Which is?” I asked.
“It wouldn’t be a good strategy if I told everyone,” he grinned boyishly causing my eyes to roll left.
He soon whittled me down to only having two letters left and a half-drawn hang man. He still had a few guesses left and I was certain he’d guess the whole word soon enough.
O _ _ A N
He tapped his chin thoughtfully, as if the letters needed deep analysis.
“What are you weighing up,” I asked in my childish curiosity
“Options,” he mused, pursing his lips, a tell of his concentration.
“You want to guess all of it?” I raised an eyebrow.
“Yes but I’m not sure if it’s worth giving up the extra letters if I’m wrong,” he winced.
“Sometimes you just have to take a risk,” I shrugged, the words resonating with me a little more than I would’ve liked. If only I’d just been taking about a harmless game.
“I guess sometimes you do,” he nodded confidently, “okay, then your word is ocean.”
“Correct!” I giggled, filling in the rest of the spaces, “see, you should’ve gone for it earlier, I know you knew it before, you’re better than you think!”
“I guess but-“
The voices I’d been tuning out suddenly swarmed back in interrupting whatever Gat had to say. The game had ended and reality was starting to seap back in.
“I don’t want her in The Liar,” the boy insisted stubbornly.
I peaked over the top of the chair that had been sheltering me. His face was scrunched up, his expression clearly disgruntled and annoyed. He was probably used to getting his way. I should know, I was a rich kid too after all.
“Only because you’ll be outnumbered,” Mirren shot back, arms folded.
“We don’t even know her!” he fought back.
“We would be getting to know her now, if you hadn’t started this argument over nothing,” Cadence said.
“Don’t talk about her like she’s not here,” Gat said, standing up, “she’s one of us.”
I felt the impulse to stand up beside him.
“No,” Johnny scowled, “there’s only four liars.”
He held up a hand with four fingers, jabbing them into the air in some act a protest. But I was too used to the feeling of rejection that it didn’t hurt anymore.
“There’s room for more,” Mirren pressed.
“It won’t be the same,” he countered.
A grin spread across Cadence’s lips, “I think you’re just scared,” she teased him.
“I’m not scared,” he said defensively raising his voice. People raised their voices when they felt unheard or defenceless in any other way. “I just don’t like her,” he snapped, making direct eye contact with me.
I held his gaze hoping my silent message got to him.
You can’t hurt someone who knows what real pain feels like.
“You have no good reason,” Gat defended me, angling his body in-front of mine. I felt touched he could want to be this sweet so someone he’s only just met. I made a mental note that day that Gat was far too trusting for the real world.
“I don’t have to have a reason,” he insisted, like a boy who had been taught all the wrong values to be all the right things.
“That’s true,” I said slowly, “but maybe if you got the chance to know me you might feel differently.”
“Doubt it,” he grumbled, not daring to meet my eye again bringing me a slight sense of satisfaction.
“You’re not the leader Johnny, the Liars don’t have a leader,” Mirren chastised him, “and it’s three against one.”
“So you’re ganging up on me for someone you don’t even know,” he scrunched up his nose, distastefully, “what if she’d a thief?”
“I can assure you my grandfather has far too much money so I don’t need to steal,” I replied swiftly, coolly.
He walked up to me, puffing out his chest to make himself look bigger. I was a threat and he was refusing to admit it to himself.
“You can’t just come here and act like you own Beechwood,” he sneered, body too close to mine for my liking.
“I haven’t,” I replied bluntly, my deadpan tone flat and unbothered, “I was brought here by your grandmother who invited my grandparents and me to stay.”
“You’ve already got them under your spell,” he countered, thrusting a hand out to point at his cousins, “what are you, some witch?”
“Just drop it, we can’t waste our summer arguing,” Mirren groaned, “she’s a Liar now, get over it.”
“I don’t like her,” Johnny glowered, his face inches from mine, his stance vicious, his voice spiteful.
But I saw him for who he really was. Hurt people hurt people. I’d learnt that too.
“Well I like her,” Cady shrugged airily, “she’s one of us Johnny,”
One of us. How funny it was to be part of something that felt so big. And for the first time in all my summers of existing, I felt wanted. At least by some.
***
We were staying in the guesthouse built on the island, named Lockheart. I liked it. I found it funny how all the houses here had strange names, but it made them seem more personal, like they weren’t just houses.
It was a cosy house. The walls were a different colour and wallpaper in every room, there were picture frames and trinkets on shelves. The banisters twisted and turned, the furniture was mismatched, the bedrooms bursting with personality. A large bookshelf sat in the living space with well worn hardbacks sat in disorganised chaos. It was like everything not deemed perfect enough had been slung together to form a house for guests the Sinclairs never intended to have. But one man’s trash was certainly another man’s treasure because the moment I stepped in, I adored the quirks. My mismatched wardrobe and vanity, my multicoloured pillows, the three beanbags piled onto of each other in the corner, the view of the beach from my window and the star shaped lamp at my bedside. It was all glorious. It felt like I had my own palace.
My room at home was a military base. Everything was seamless to hide the cracks of the people that lived within its applauded foundation. My bed frame matched the wooden floors which matched the wardrobe, the bedside table, the desk and vanity. Everything was colour coded meticulously, so much so sometimes it seemed like some sort of optical illusion. I often wondered if that was how I fell asleep at night, my mind entranced by this forged perfection and I was cold out. Lockheart couldn’t have been further from my home and I couldn’t have loved it anymore for it.
Over the next few weeks the tension between Johnny and I didn’t ease. He’d look at me through narrowed slits of his eyes over the dinner table. He seemed to track my every movement when I was trying to have a good time with the Liars.He was smart about it, always played the right smile when the adults were watching but behind their backs I was target to his deadly stares. Not that I was intimidated, he had no idea what I was used to back home, he was nothing. But strangely enough, he didn’t say another word to me. Despite the looks it was like he didn’t realise I even existed.
My grandparents only stayed for two weeks. And over those two weeks I spent time with the Liars, though Johnny always seemed to make a point about them not really being Liars if I was around. We built sandcastles and played hide and seek, raced each other to the shore and back and hit balls with tennis rackets until our hands were sore.
It was the epitome of summer, like a dream I wouldn’t have dared to have dreamt. It took me so far away from my real life back home that I almost forgot I was a different girl in some far off land with a dead dad and mad mum.
Summer 9 made me forget, finally freed me of the gilded cage I’d been trapped in for so long but I couldn’t tell whether that was good or not.
I liked the Liars. I liked feeling part of something bigger than myself. I liked having friends that made me smile and braided my hair and cared what I had to say. I was having the summer of my life, of any young girls life. There was a sense of freedom, wild reckless abandon. I didn’t have to conscious or upright or on guard.
On the eve that marked our 2 week mark stay on the island my grandfather sat me down and explained I had a choice to make. He had to leave the island unexpectedly with my grandmother, I could either accompany them or spend the rest of the summer here.
The next morning they left on a boat and I waved goodbye from the dock. I’d tasted freedom and it was syrupy sweet, an addiction, a guilty pleade fast falling into necessity. And I sure as hell wasnt ready to give it up.
***
Tipper suggested I move in with Penny and Cadence, not wanting me to be alone so I transferred most of my belongings to Windemere by noon.
Windemere was quaint, an air of polished precision about parts of it that made it seem also sterile. It reminded me of Penny, uptight, orderly, stern. Penny was a white couch, a fresh manicure, a cashmere coat. She was perfected and sleek. She scared me.
Even the furniture seemed scared to be too comfortable. I remember the first night I slept on the mattress in the spare room, it was almost rigid and made my back sore.
What made up for the lack of Lockheart which I very much was kissing was Cadence. She was a good house mate, although so difficult to wake up in the mornings. Penny was usually out on a run when I awoke so I got Cady up almost every day but that girl was one deep sleeper. No matter how many times I said their name she’d barely budge. Actually she wouldn’t even respond, not a twitch or flinch. Though as much as her sleep habits contributed to my morning burdens, we became close in a way I didn’t know was possible for me. We spent so much time together, learning all of the stupid meaningless little things about each other; favourite ice-cream flavours and dream wedding dresses. I liked sharing clothes with her, sometimes we’d switch out jewellery or dresses or shoes or bags, it was like a fashion show every morning.
Cadence was talent and sparkle and fire. She was the big sister I never knew I needed, a missing piece in the giant jigsaw puzzle of my heart. We’d sneak into each other’s rooms most nights for company, a fairytale story or to trade some schoolgirl gossip from our real lives. We’d fall asleep mid-conversation sometimes, no idea where we’d left off by the next morning. She was a good talker but an even better listener. Cady made me feel seen and heard for the first time in a long time, she made me feel understood despite the fact I didn’t disclose anything about my home life to her. It got to a point where her presence calmed me, soothed the restlessness in my soul, made me forget,about the real world.
***
But the real world had always had a way of seeping back into my head, drowning my light with ebony memories. It was the worst at night, especially when Cady was asleep. She’d seen me have a nightmare once, I’d been talking in my sleep apparently, jerking around. She told me she hadn’t understood what I’d been dreaming about but suspected it was a monster. She was right, a monster with a human face. From then on I made sure she fell asleep first so she’d never see that again.
I’d had trouble with sleep for many years now and no matter how many sleep doctors and child hypnotherapists they took me, nothing worked. I still had nightmares, my body still wasn’t resting properly. It made me feel like a broken toy no one could fix. I’d sit in sterile rooms on uncomfortable couches, knowing exactly what words I’d hear next; sorry we just can’t help her, we’ve tried everything. My father hated being told no.
I shuddered seeing his face in my mind. I rolled over and found Cady sound asleep, her blond hair splayed about the pillow, collecting in a halo. She was an angel who deserved to be saved. If Icarus fell to the flames then she would rise from them, I was sure. I tiptoed from the room in my slippers and pyjamas, feelong a familiar ache to find my grandfather and curl into his arms. He always knew what to say in the late ours of night to soothe the blaring buzzing in my head and calm me enough to sleep. But I was reminded he wasn’t here as I stared at the empty dark hallways.
Some kids my age would be scared of hallways like these, spooked by non existent demons made up by their mind, but my demon lived with me. I knew I had nothing to be afraid of. I made it down the staircase, going to turn into the kitchen for a glass of water when the front door called to me. Its sturdy frame and metallic door handle cried out my name and I didn’t even think about it. I was there and then I’d left.
The night’s air was crisp and cool. There was a breeze that ran empty fingers through my hair and kissed my rosy cheeks. I walked with no idea where my feet might take me until I ended up inside Lockhart, in my grandfather’s bedroom. It smelt like old books and coffee. Before I knew it I’d kicked off my slippers and had clambered onto his side of the bed, letting myself fall into his makeshift embrace. I don’t remember my body moving or any signal between my brain and limbs in that moment. It was so automatic and instinctual that I had no power.
My chest hurt and my throat throbbed in a steady rhythm. I inhaled his sense, grieving the absence of my grandparents, grieving the sense of loneliness is grown used to, grieving the love I’d never been given enough of. My body began to grow heavy, my eyes tired. I fought sleep with a rusty sword and a weak swing.
Everything was changing. I’d lost one parent and now the other was slipping away. I’d been invited here but not wholeheartedly welcomed. The juxtaposition of it all sent me spiralling.
But before I could immerse myself into that mental state, I heard a rustling. Not uncommon, it must’ve been the wind so I remained curled up, invisibly wasting away. My body wilting, shedding, bending, breaking.
Until I heard footsteps. I jolted upright, panic seizing my throat. No one was calling my name, they weren’t here looking for me. Someone was in this house.
There was a wince worthy clang and I shuddered, not knowing whether I should dare to move or not. My fingers shook violently and my teeth chattered despite there being no draft or chill, the window was closed. There was a loud thump on the other side of the wall and I scrambled up. The worst possibilities flew to my mind as I flung open my grandfather’s beside draw, feeling around for something to defend myself with. One of his great, old Dickens original hardbacks sat proudly in the middle. I snatched it up, my arm muscles protesting. Biting my lip, I braced myself as I slowly crept down the hallway. Towards the belly of the beast.
The door was ajar. I pressed my body up against the wooden oak and tried to peak in but my victim was behind the door. My palms were sweating, the book was slipping, my heart was pounding. I could hear mystery person looking through draws and boxes, grunting in frustration when they didn’t find what they wanted. I said a silent prayer and slipped in, holding the book above my head in as a defence mechanism.
“Are you seriously threatening me with a book?” came an incredulous voice, “reading isn’t scary you know.”
Shocked to see Johnny Sinclair, crouching in my former bedroom, one hand still in a drawer I hadn’t quite taken all of my things out of yet, I almost dropped my weapon.
“I was going to throw it at you,” I grumbled, lowering it as my cheeks flushed with embarrassment.
“But you haven’t,” he pointed out, dusting invisible dirt off of his hands as he stood up
“I thought you were an intruder,” I shrugged, hugging the hook to my chest, “that’s all.”
“On a private island?” he sniggered, raising his eyebrows.
“I don’t know!” I protested, “I just heard something and panicked.”
“Why have you been crying?”
The question was so out of context I nearly gave myself whiplash. My fingers instinctively tentatively touched my cheek. I hadn’t even noticed, but my face sure was damp. And all of the sudden I felt very very stupid.
“What are you doing here?” I countered, ignoring his question completely. He didn’t need to know, I didn’t want to admit it.
“Well I didn’t think anyone was going to be in here,” he scoffed, shutting the drawer with his foot.
I shifted my weight onto my hip taking the stance of an annoyed mother, “that’s doesn’t explain it.”
“I was taking a look around,” he replied.
He wasn’t. That much was obvious. Someone taking a look around did so calmly, he was rushing, frantic, searching. But if I hadn’t known all of that I would’ve believed him in a heartbeat. No wonder he was a Liar.
I narrowed my eyes, “It’s not your house,” I said, my tone clipped and sharp.
“And news flash, it’s not yours either!” he shot back.
“Whatever,” I rolled my eyes, annoying yhat technically he was right, “just get out and don’t come back, I want to be left alone.”
“I’m pretty sure you’re not meant to be here alone,” Johnny replied, his voice laced with the most aggravating kind of amusement. I wanted to rip the smirk off of his face and throw him out of the window.
“Neither are you!” I burst.
“Yeah well,” he shrugged leaning back on a wall with a laissez-faire attitude, “why were you crying?”
“Why’d you care?” I snapped, all my guard up: the ice walls, the metallic spikes, barbed wire, the fortress weapons.
His face softened and for a second I forgot how intimidating it looked when he was angry and realised for the first time that he was just a kid like me, “I’m not a monster you know,” he said slowly, almost fearfully.
“Really?” I seethed, “because this is the first semi-nice conversation I’ve ever hard with you.”
He fell silent, looked solemn. I almost felt guilty until my brain flagged up all the times he’d made me feel unwanted or stupid.
He dared to meet my eyes and for a moment the two of us just stared. I’d never realised quite how alluringly blue his eyes were. They sparkled like the sapphires on an ancient broach both our families would fight at an auction for. There was something about them that nearly made my heart ache, I wanted sink and drown in there depths, as if they had a siren song’s hold over me.
Johnny held out his hand to me, “Come with me.”
“Why should I tru-“
“Just do it,” he cut me off abruptly, then his voice softened, “I promise you won’t regret it.”
Everything in my head was telling me to walk out but nothing on my heart listened. I don’t know what it was within me but I just went. His palm was warm and slightly sticky with sweat in mine. But I held it anyway. I held it and I trusted it. He guided me gently towards a spiral of stairs I’d never dared to go up after my grandfather told me not to when we first arrived. I stopped my the foot, hesitating to move any further.
“I’m not allowed,” I backed away, but his palm was already pressed against my back as if an escape wasn’t possible.
“You are now,” he smirked, looking proud of himself, “it’s dark, everyone’s asleep and no one’s going to find out. Don’t tell me you aren’t curious.”
I was. And it annoyed me that he knew I was. Shaking myself from any aspect of his grasp I trudged in front and up the stairs, taking one step at a time up the dizzying spiral. It was only when I reached the door did I stop. Something in me paralysed and I suddenly felt so alone. It wasn’t until Johnny leant over me, his chest brushing my back that something shifted and I felt that burning surge of courage, a fearlessness that had never been me.
He took the lead, a position he seemed natural in, stepping out in front of me to reach the handle and open the door. A cool breeze kissed my damp cheeks and aching eyes, making, my hair dance in wispy movements. I let my feet guide my body as they inched onto the surface beneath me. It was hard and concrete but I was too busy to notice, my eyes pinned to the sky. The night engulfed every part of me and I wanted to fall to my knees before it. Every fraction of pain in my entity dispersed, evaporated into the sweet air and burnt into the gems in the sky twinkling at me.
I’d never been on the roof of a building for but something about it was freeing. I wasn’t caged in by a gate or constrained by claustrophobic walls. If I wanted to I could fall, if I chose to I could sit precariously on the edge, if I was stupid enough I could jump. It was dangerously delightful and my brain was soaking up the adrenaline rush with a crazed greediness. Like I child who’s never tasted chocolate put in the centre of a sweet shop and told to do whatever they pleased. It had been a good ten minute before I even noticed Johnny laying out a plaid blanket that I hadn’t realised he’d carried up with us.
“What are you doing?” I asked incredulously, when I finally glanced his way.
He patted the blanket beside him, “come.”
I did. I just did.
I laid down next to him, close but not too much so. Our limbs seemed to repel each other, never touching, but always coming close enough to. In my eye-line were the stars. They were beautiful and I adored them much more than I wanted to let on to Johnny. Sparkling dots decorating the ebony sky, a world of light on a sea of darkness. Each seemed to smile or wink and glint extra bright when my eyes skimmed over and over and over them.
“I come here sometimes,” Johnny admitted quietly, the sentence born of a long sterile silence between us, “when you look at the world from this point of view it seems less… scary I guess.”
I was quiet.
He was choosing to open up. His words felt raw and real, as if this was Johnny and the boy I’d met two weeks ago was a different person entirely. There was an emotion other than hate in his voice, his face was relaxed and feature gentle. I saw him. Really saw him. It felt vulnerable. Then I felt vulnerable. And it hit me, he was asking a cryptic question by letting me in, hoping I’d do the same. And to his surprise as well as my own, I found the words finding their way past the lips I’d sworn I’d press shut.
“I miss my home,” I sniffed, a white lie, “and my grandparents, that’s why I’m upset.”
It felt ironic, lying to a liar. I wondered if he knew my tricks and could see through them.
I wasn’t ready to be honest yet. I wasn’t ready to be transparent, he didn’t get the right to read me, to understand me and my head after how he’d treated me. My trust still wobbled on feeble legs, like a foal trying to walk for the first time. How did I know this wasn’t some sort of ploy to get me to open up, to then use that as power against me. I was young but not naive. I’d learnt how valuable trust was, thanks to my parents.
“I miss home too sometimes,” Johnny told me, “but we have so much fun on Beechwood you kind of just… forget.”
This wasn’t Johnny. Not the one I knew. That stark contrast was unnerving. How could a boy so young be practiced in so many masks, how could he completely flip his demeanour and personality.
I stared at him, “why are you being nice to me?”
“Because you’re upset,” he shrugged, as if it were obvious. The dried tears on my tears felt as though they were pulling my skin taut.
“But you hate me,” I blurted out before my brain had time to filter my mouth.
“I don’t hate you,” he said, “I think you’re smart and funny.”
I narrowed my eyes at him, shooting a quizzical look in his direction, “really?”
He grinned and nodded, “way more funny than Gat or Cady.”
“What about Mirren?” I asked curiously.
“Well she’s my favourite so you can’t be better than her,” he said.
I glanced over and met his eyes, “Is it because you want to marry her?”
He laughed, “ew no! She’s my cousin!”
“In the olden days they used to marry their cousins,” I pointed out.
“We’re not in the olden days,” he replied with a swift eye roll.
I sighed. Not even knowing I needed to. Pent up emotion was making my chest so tight and that release was bliss.
“My grandparents left now,” I murmured, more to myself than anyone else, “it’s just me.”
“You’ve got the liars,” Johnny pointed out.
“You didn’t even want me to be in the liars,” I shot back, a low blow I was more than willing to shoot.
“I did,” he replied, sitting up.
I followed, crossing my legs, “no you didn’t.”
“I was testing you,” he shrugged.
My eyebrows shot up and eyes widened, blazing with a fiery annoyance, “Testing me?”
He nodded, “my grandad does it to me sometimes. I wanted to see if you would be a good enough liar and you passed.”
He said that as if it were the most normal thing in the world. Maybe it was his normal. Maybe he lived with the kind of mind that thought everything was a game or test or competition. Maybe he just presumed everyone saw the world like that too.
“Why were you so mean to me for so long then?” I asked, something clipped in my tone.
He looked apologetic, almost guilty, “I’m sorry.”
“That didn’t answer the question,” I said quietly.
“I didn’t mean to be so rude,” he blew out a breath, ignoring my eye contact and laying back, “but I guess once I started I didn’t know how to stop, it’s like there wasn’t an off switch and it felt weird if I was suddenly nice.”
“I wouldn’t have minded,” I quipped sharply.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, “if it makes you feel any better Gat hasn’t stopped scolding me for it.”
I laughed airily, lowering my back down too to join him lying on the blanket again, “he’s sweet.”
“Honestly he sounds like my mom,” Johnny wrinkled his nose.
“Maybe you deserved it,” I stuck my tongue out playfully.
He grinned back but grew serious as he admitted, “I do.”
We stumbled into a silence, not inherently uncomfortable but like there were things hanging in the air waiting to be said. I began counting stars, something about them fascinated me. Where I lived the nights were never this clear and when they were I wouldn’t be allowed out to catch a glimpse of something so beautiful. I was a girl with every materialistic thing in the world who just wanted to look at the stars. How ironic was that.
Johnny cleared his throat, sending a jolt through my spine, awakening me from my trance of adoration.
“My dad,” he began shakily, “not Ed, my real dad,” he paused, “sometimes he was a bad guy and I think I get my bad parts from him.”
“We all have bad parts all of our own,” I shrugged from the naiveness of my nine year old brain, “it’s just a choice to act on them I think.”
I’d met Ed. He was just as lovely as Gat. Sweet and pure and insightful and understanding. I couldn’t imagine Johnny with another father figure especially not like the one he was describing.
I didn’t know then, if it was right to call my dad a bad guy too. He’d not done anything bad but that was the problem. He’d not done anything. But I had a feeling Johnny’s bad was different to my bad.
“I guess,” he said trailing off, “I just get scared I’ll get as bad as him, like when I was horrible to you, it didn’t feel like part of me, it was like a whole different Johnny.”
“Then,” I said slowly, gently, “I look forward to meeting the better version of Johnny.”
Hope glittered in his eyes and radiated the blood that pulsed beneath his face, “does that mean you forgive me?”
I nodded, “I forgive you.”
I had always forgiven too easily. It was only when forgiving someone exhausted me that I forced myself to stop.
“You’re a real nice person you know,” Johnny told me with a soft smile.
“Thank you,” I replied, my cheeks flushing involuntarily.
“I wouldn’t have forgiven me,” he admitted, eyes tracing the stars now.
I watched him with a fascination. He was confusing and bold and kind and daring. He was a mix of all of the worst and best parts of people, a combination of humanity.
“Everyone deserves a second chance,” I said quietly, “but third chances are the things I don’t give.”
“Smart,” he shot a wolffish grin my way, then paused, “so we start over tomorrow.”
“Like I’m meeting you for the very first time,” I nodded.
We didn’t say much more as both our eyes drifted to the bejewelled night sky, letting it allure us closer to a world of dreams. I was just drifting off to sleep, my cheek pressed against Johnny’s shoulder, when he shook my gently awake and helped me sneak back into Windemere. I was guilty of clambering to a window and watching him get back to his own home before I finally got back into bed and fell straight to sleep.
***
I came down to breakfast the next day dressed in a sweet pink skirt and white blouse that Penny had set out for me. I greeted Gat as I sat at the table with Cady but didn’t say a word to Johnny, after all I ‘didn’t know him.’ I took a sip of water from my glass and caught his eyes.
“Hi,” Johnny grinned up at me, offering a hand to shake across the spread, “my name is Johnny.”
“I’m Emma,” I said, flashing a dazzling smile of my own right back at him.
Gat stated at us with a very weird look slapped across his face before slowly leaning towards Cady, “is it just me or this weird?” he whispered.
She nodded, with wide eyes. Her fork was still, jabbed into a pile of pancakes, “very,” she muttered.
Gat turned his attention to us, “What are you guys doing?”
“Meeting for the first time of course,” Johnny replied cheerily.
I laughed, taking a bite from my plate.
“I’m not even gonna ask,” Cady shook her head digging her fork into a perfect cube of cantaloupe.
He looked at me like I was the only one in the room, like Cady and Gat hadn’t just questioned us, “do you have a favourite colour?” he asked.
“Purple,” I replied, pink-cheeked and cheery eyed, “but not a dark purple, the light dainty kind, how about you?”
“Red.”
He was sure. Sharp. Confident and Bold. Johnny Sinclair was the colour red. A colour of complexities and complications and oxymorons and opposites. Johnny Sinclair was the colour red.
Before I had time to reply, Mirren arrived at the scene, rubbing her tired eyes as her mother fussed over Taft and the twins.
“What are we doing today then?” she yawned, plopping herself down beside me and helping herself to some pancakes until she was met from her mother’s warning stare across the table. Tentatively she put one back and replaced it with two spoons of fruit.
“I’m voting swimming,” Cady chimed in.
“No,” Mirren groaned, “swimming’s fun for like five minutes and then it’s cold and wet and horrible.”
“Come on Mir, where’s your sense of adventure?” Johnny teased, poking his tongue out.
“There’s nothing adventurous about taking a dip in the ocean,” she scowled in return.
“How about board games?” Gat suggested.
“The sun is shining, it’d be a waste,” Cady sighed.
“We could bring them outside,” he offered, looking too hopefully.
“Yawn!” Mirren sighed quashing his starry eyed dreams, “I want to do something exciting.”
“Hence swimming,” Johnny rolled his eyes.
“I’ve got an idea,” I said with a shy smile.
His eyes met mine and confidence surged through me, “go on,” he nodded, a bubbling encouragement.
“Why are you being so nice?” Mirren scrunched up her face towards him.
“It’s todays biggest mystery,” Gat told her.
“They’re acting odd,” Cady filled in, nodding towards Johnny and I.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I shrugged.
“Neither,” Johnny replied, amusement lacing his tone, “anyway Emma please continue.”
“This is so weird,” Mirren mumbled
“Okay so there’s this game I once played,” I began.
It was a lie, I’d never played it. Some characters in a book I’d finished a few days before I’d come to island had though and I liked to believe I lived through them vicariously.
“We each pick a random name, from something like a hat, so each one of us ends up with a name from someone else in the group,” I explained, “then we have to take an item that belongs to them without them noticing and hide it for as long as we can. It’s your job to figure out who stole your item and what item they stole but you only get two chances on confrontation, so if you fail on both you’re out. The last person left with their thievery unguessed is the winner.”
“That sounds so fun!” Mirren burst
“I’m in and I’ll warn you now I will come out victorious,” Cady grinned wickedly.
“We’ll see about that Cady because I’m in too,” Gay nodded, “sounds great Emma.”
“I like it too,” Johnny nodded in approval, “an expert plan from the newest member of The Liars.”
Mirren’s jaw dropped, “okay what in the world happened? Did you hit your head Johnny? Did the ground open up last night and we didn’t noticed? Have you been switched with a less evil twin? Did your mom yell at you or something?”
“Enough,” he chuckled wavering her off, “I’m making amends.”
“Somewhat,” I teased.
“Careful don’t test me,” he quipped.
***
I glanced at the name on my paper. Mirren. I smiled to myself. From weeks of observation I knew that Mirren’s mind was chaotic, wild, free. That would be translated in her space, things would be messy and therefore easily lost. That was my ticket to winning. All of us Liars slipped away in different directions so I took the opportunity to go to the back of Cuddledown and sneak in through the back door. I was thrilled to find nobody home and immediately snuck up into Mirren’s room in search of something.
It was different to how I’d imagine, instead on bubblegum pink the walls were a sterile white, the bedding was creaseless and all surfaces sparkling. The room looked hollow, furniture was all that gave it a touch of life and yet still it felt dead inside. My fingers grazed over items on her vanity, all neatly organised into colour coordinated rows. Everything on the surface level looked tidy, but I opened one drawer and Mirren’s messy mind spilled out. I began to notice that all of the energy and bubbly personality was hidden beneath the staged and seamless exterior. Her mom probably only took notice of how the room looked, not its contents, maybe she didn’t even bother looking in drawers, hence the cleanliness of the outside and the chaos of the inside.
I waded my way through drawers of keepsakes and trinkets, notebooks and journals, hair ties and clips when finally I found something perfect. Her art drawer. It was a state. A calamity of felt tip pens and coloured pencils, a riot of paintbrushes and oil pastels, a dispute of lead and blending stumps.
My eyes scanned everything before I touched any of it. I knew what I wanted. Carefully my fingers tentatively slipped against a cool, almost metallic object. I expect my slid it out attempting not to change any of the drawers original look despite my stolen good being under everything.
I fiddled about with a few of the other drawers, just to pull her from the scent, messing things about. Swapping items and leaving some turned upside down or on their sides. I left the room, smiling to myself knowing I’d purposely left her beside drawer open slightly as well. No on said anything about playing dirty.
I slipped out of Cuddledown unseen, glancing down at the little secret in my palm. A tube of blue paint. She’d never guess it.
***
I kept an eye out for anyone too suspicious but to my disappointment I didn’t run into any of the Liars on my way to Windemere. I was even more surprise when I didn’t find Cady already in there searching for her item and wondered where she might be.
Still, I was on a time crunch. I needed to work out what was stolen and who stole it as fast as I could. I wanted to be victorious.
I was an organised soul so I was almost certain I’d notice if anything was missing. I searched through all of my drawers two times over, under that one loose floorboard and beneath the bed but not a single thing was missing. I stalked through my wardrobe but it was almost as if it hadn’t even been touched.
A shiver ran down my spine.
Gat was my first hunch, he seemed as though he would be clever enough to take something without me noticing but I don’t know if he’d have the heart to go though with it, even if it were just a game.
Cady had the brains and the drive to win but how did she make everything so precise? She wasn’t conscientious enough and everything to eerily exact. Maybe it wasn’t a belonging from my room. I had books of mine in Clairemont, a dress or too in Cuddledown when I’d lent Mirren one. I made it my personal mission to search every inch of the island, because my room had just been too perfect for anyone to have tried to take anything from there.
In my rush, I managed to run smack into someone. The impact stole my balance and sent me falling backwards a little. I felt a hand grab my wrist and gently pull me back up to normal.
“Sorry,” I said quickly, regaining composure and smoothing out my dress.
“Don’t worry.”
The voice was familiar and sent an odd warmth I didn’t quite understand spilling all through the pit of my stomach.
“Found your culprit, sunshine?” Johnny asked breezily.
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” I smirked, “what’s with the ‘sunshine’?”
He tilted his head to the side, “you don’t like it?”
“I didn’t say that,” I bit my lip to hide a smile.
“You remind me of sunshine,” he said, almost shyly.
“Is that a good thing?” I wondered aloud.
“I like the sunshine,” he shrugged.
“Then I’m honoured,” I grinned, “what about you? Have you caught your thief?”
“Mhmmm,” he nodded, “Cady thought she was being slick with the tennis ball but she needs to work in her poker face.”
I internally groaned. He’d beaten me in finding his person which was incredibly annoying. I’d made up the day so surely I should be the best at it. Still, he had unintentionally given me a clue. Cady was not my thief so I could rule her out.
“You seem annoyed,” he narrowed his eyes.
“You would be mistaken for thinking so,” I replied swiftly, “anyways if you don’t mind, I’ve got things to do.”
I turned on my heels and walked away trying to find the next right direction. I didn’t know what exactly I was doing but I knew I needed to get away from Johnny.
Distractions weren’t for champions.
“Oh you’re definitely annoyed,” he called after me.
I rolled my eyes and shook my head and was even more determined to win.
***
I wracked my brain. I’d checked everywhere three times over, I’d been to Clairmont, Cuddledown, even Redgate. I’d asked Tipper and Bess, I’d even tried to recruit to twins to help me look. And still nothing. Whoever my thief was hadn’t stolen from my bedroom. I knew myself and where I placed all my things too well. Everything was organised, precise.
I was sat on the floor feelong all too sorry for myself when some sort of lightning bolt hit me and I raced to Lockheart . How could I have forgotten my room at Lockheart?
I bolted there, as fast as my legs could carry me and found that my earrings were missing from the jewellery box. The ones that were golden sun-shaped studs.
Then I knew.
***
Johnny. Of course it was Johnny.
Johnny who was outspoken and loud. Johnny who always seemed to have scraped knee or new bruise. Johnny who seemed invincible, like he’d never be afraid of anything at all.
Who else would he bold enough to dangle a clue right in front of my face just to amuse himself? Something between aggravation and admiration stirred inside of me. He was annoyingly smart. I didn’t particularly like people who were smart, because it meant they could outsmart me and I enjoyed, even from a young age feeling as though I had an intellectual upper hand.
On my way back from Lockheart, I saw the mess of blonde hair on the beach and bound in that direction, sneaking up behind him.
“Hey!” I playfully shoved his back, “hand my earrings over, you thief.”
I flattened out my hand in expectation as he turned.
“That’s a strong accusation to make,” he pursed his lips and raised his stupid eyebrows, “are you sure?”
“I know it’s you, so don’t even try your mind games with me,” I folded my arms, an unwavering steeliness in my eyes that told him I meant it.
“Well played,” he grinned producing the box, “sunshine.”
He winked. My heart skipped a little. And I didn’t understand why my stomach suddenly felt electric and acrobatic. I was taken by a spell of dizzy excitement that made colours dance and spun across my vision like some sort of merry-go-round on drugs.
“Look!” he suddenly shouted, “there’s Cady and Mirren! Race you!”
He started running as he said the words.
“Cheater!” I cried back, laughing and still bolting right after him, the midday sun kissing my skin.
We met in the middle of the lawn, breathless and rosy-cheeked. Gat had also appeared and so the five of us paused to deliberate.
“Who’s still left?” Cady asked.
“I’ve been guessed,” Johnny said.
Gat sighed, “me too.”
“I’m out as well,” Mirren groaned, “and I thought I played it so well!”
“Don’t worry Mir, me too!” Cady consoled her.
All eyes flicked to me, “wait so I’m the only one left…”
“You’re the winner,” Cady said.
My eyes darted and met Johnny’s. Something between disappointment, annoyance and admiration flicked across his features in fractions. Yet his face rested in a smirk, I wondered silently if that was his natural state, proud and overconfident.
“So you had mine!” Mirren exclaimed, eyes as wide of saucers, “what was it?”
I produced the paint tube from my pocket, almost a trophy of my triumph.
“Ugh that was so good! Never would’ve noticed,” she said, “I haven’t painted with this colour in ages.”
“Maybe it’s a sign you should,” I smiled, gently handing it back to he.
“Or we should,” Johnny had a glint of mischief in his eyes, as he plucked the tube from Mirren’s hands.
“I don’t like where this is going,” Gat winced.
“Agreed,” I piped up.
“Come on you two, it’s the summer,” Mirren teased, “shouldn’t we be having a little fun. What’s the plan Johnny?”
“And this is why Mirren is my favourite,” he smirked, “but I don’t have an exact plan yet, but I know drawn to the paint and making a mess of things, it’s calling out to me.”
“I have an idea,” Cady suddenly smiled.
“Goody two shoes, first Sinclair granddaughter Cadence has an idea?” Johnny raised his eyebrows, looking far too excited as his eyes sparkled brighter.
Not that I was paying attention.
Cady slapped him lightly, “shut up and listen. Here’s what I propose…”
***
Gat and I were worriers, over-thinkers, outsiders. We stumbled behind the line of Sinclair grandchildren, the three blondes bubbling with an excitement that soured in my stomach. I thought it was a bad idea but who was I to argue or even attempt to stop them. Maybe a small part of me just wanted to let go and be rebellious and then my senses took over.
Harris would be mad. Tipper would go crazy. The mothers would be horrified.
I think that’s why the Sinclair children were so excited. As Gat and I shared worried glances and sweating palms, they tingled with excitement and buzzed with adrenaline.
When we got into Clairmont the dogs were already there. Sat with their regal, beautiful coats of golden woven thread. And suddenly I felt awful all over again.
“Are you sure about this Cady?” I whispered hastily.
“Stop being such a worry guts, sunshine.” Johnny grinned, nudging me.
“He’s right, this is going to be fun!” Cady agreed handing me a paintbrush.
Gat sighed, accepting his paintbrush. And his fate. He glanced at me, feeling more like a mirror than a boy, “what could go wrong?”
“It’s time for a makeover,” Mirren squealed excitedly as she carefully streak some of the golden fur with blue paint.
“It won’t hurt them will it?” Gat asked, “the chemicals in the paint.”
Mirren shook her head, “Mummy only buys me the more premium 100% natural paints, don’t worry Gat.”
He nodded hesitantly taking his brush to the fur. He drew a smiley face making us all giggle. And then suddenly we were doodling all over the dogs. Johnny was leading me over to the second golden and before I knew it I was drawing polka dots all over one side of his golden coat.
Time felt endless.. The moment was priceless. We were infinite.
The dogs shook the wet paint off shattering blue all over our faces and clothes. We were going in so much trouble but for the first time I didn’t care. I was too busy laughing. So hard that my belly ached and my ribs protested.
And suddenly something cold and wet was smeared over my cheek. Looking to my left I caught a glimpse of the amusement painted all over Johnny’s face. His weapon of attack in form of a paintbrush. Without a second thought, I swiped right back at him getting it all over his neck and collar of his shirt.
Before he could retaliate, the dogs were suddenly up and bolting out of the room. We’d been silly enough to leave the door open.
“Oh no!” Cady yelled, taking off after them.
Then we were sprinting. Johnny’s sweaty hand was in mine, practically dragging me down the hallway. He was hot on Cady’s heels and quick to overtake her and pulling me with him, but not before the dog’s has run directly into Harris’s office. We came to abrupt halt at the door, all crashing into one another. Knees, elbows, heads, a muddle of body parts.
“This is bad,” Gat muttered as we stood.
Harris stood there deathly silent. And I so was sure for a moment this was how I would die. He looked between us for a long hard while, making intense eye contact.
“Children, come forwards and stand in a straight line.”
We began to move.
“Be quick about it!”
His voice was halfway between abrasive and jovial and sent my brain spiralling with confusion and conflict.
We stood in a single file, horizontal line as if in some sort of military arrangement. All five of us looked towards with straight, slightly guilt-ridden expressions on our blue splattered faces.
Harris folded his arms, everythung abiut his suddenly stern, “did you five do this?”
We looked at each other, all making a silent pact.
We were liars.
We shook our heads in the sort of unison that made this whole affair looked staged. We reminded ourselves not to giggle or break character until we’d left the room. We were covered head to toe in splatters of dark blue paint as were the beloved retrievers.
Harris sighed outwardly, “little liars,” he shook his head, lips quirking up into a funny sort of smile, “you can’t get away with it that easily, the paint all over the five of your gives it away. Next time you want to lie, make sure you’ve discarded all of the evidence.”
He tapped the side of his nose twice.
“Number one rule of being liars,” Tipper began, “is don’t get caught so as a little lesson for my little Liars, you will wash the paint off of my dogs and any other place you got dirty.”
We all nodded and guided the dogs out, bursting into laughing fits as soon as we thought Harris and Tipper could not longer hear us.
description: Johnny struggles to cope with his mom's addiction, but when he's on the beach late at night, he meets you, someone new, someone he doesn't need to hide his true self from.
warnings: addiction, drugs, domestic abuse, yelling, Johnnyxfem!OC, also, I changed a few things so the story fits the way I want it to be read, but overall, fluff!!
He couldn't pretend any longer. It was driving him insane, and everyone could see it. The first to notice was Gat. That morning, Johnny had been off. It was during breakfast at Clairmont, while Mirren told Cady about a guy named sexter, Gat started on about this book he had been reading, and he was in the middle of saying something about the plot when he noticed that Johnny didn't say anything. Which was weird for a multitude of reasons, one of the reasons being that Johnny hated learning, which made Gat wonder why he hadn't detested his rambling about the plot. Gat also noticed how orderly Johnny appeared; his white cardigan was neatly framed with all but one blue button done up, his shorts weren't wrinkling or untamed, but calm and swift. Gat wondered why he was so neatly put together for such a simple day, but nonetheless, that was the manner of the Sinclairs. Johnny finished eating and got up to walk on the beach when Tipper called out to him softly from the bench that sat on the porch.
"Johnny, be a dear and help me up to your grandfather's office," she said as she smiled with grace and genuineness.
"Of course," he said as he turned around and walked up the step. He offered her a hand and a gentle smile. She stood up, intertwining her arm in hers. As they walked through the doors of Clairmont, Tipper began to say something that Johnny barely caught the end of.
"There's someone I'd like you to meet. Her parents are good friends of Harris's, and their daughter plays tennis just like you do." Tipper said in a gentle, hushed manner, but not a whisper. As they got to the top of the steps, Johnny saw a man he didn't recognize leaving Harris's office. The man smiled at Tipper. She mirrored his smile and turned to Johnny.
"Dear, this is Anthony Knox," Tipper told as she gestured from Anthony to Johnny.
"Hi son, I'm Anthony. I've heard a lot about you," the man said as he held his hand out to Johnny.
"All good things I hope. I'm Johnathan, but you can call me Johnny," he said as he shook Anthony's hand.
"We should all talk in the office," Tipper said as she walked into the office and held one of the doors open for Johnny and Anthony. Johnny took light, slow steps into the office as Anthony entered behind him. Tipper shut the door and walked over to the chair behind Harris's desk.
"Johnny, Anthony is the COO for Knox Maple, and his wife is the CEO. She inherited her father's empire, and she graduated from Cornell at the top of her class. They have a daughter. We want to do a dual merge of the companies and create a media followership for Knox Maple." Tipper spoke, but Johnny felt like he wasn't hearing what she was saying until she brought up their daughter.
"So like an arranged marriage?" Johnny spoke in his moment of realization.
"Not exactly, more like a partnership. And as our partnership grows with their family, you and Korri can grow to like each other. You both want to attend Harvard and do great things, so why not do great things together?" Tipper said, as she had seemed genuinely pleased with her oration. But Johnny seemed confused. But her name had been stuck in his mind for those few seconds. Korri. A knock came from the two doors that Tipper had shut.
"Come in, dear," Tipper spoke in a delighted tone.
The door gently opened, and in walked Korri. She wore a light-washed jean skirt and a dark blue and light yellow striped shirt. She had dark brown eyes that virtually looked black in the shadows, but they emitted warmth. Her smile was as white as the snow on the awning of Mount Everest. She had chocolate brown braids, and the ends held the most effortless curls that bounced as she walked in.
"Korri, this is Johnny. Johnny, this is Korri." Tipper said as she and Korri's dad got up. He put his hand on Korri's shoulder and nodded at her. She gave him a half-hearted smile, and he walked out with Tipper. The door closed. Johnny sat in the chair across from Harris's desk with his hands in his hair. He stood up and walked close to Korri, but not too close. Keeping a comfortable amount of distance between them.
"So, I hear you played tennis?" Johnny declared as a wicked grin crept onto his face.
"Yeah, I do, I also do debate and run track,. And I read on my free time." Korri remarked. Johnny then opened the door and walked out before turning to Korri.
"So you're a nerd?" he said as he grinned brightly.
Korri rolled her eyes and turned to Johnny.
"You comin'?" he asked wickedly.
Korri followed him out, and Johnny turned the corner and picked up her bags from the floor outside of office.
"We're gonna drop your stuff off at Redgate, and then we'll go and introduce you to my mom and Ed. Then you'll meet Cady, Gat, and Mirren. But don't think you're escaping that match you owe me," he said as he smiled in her direction.
"Deal," Korri said as she returned his wicked grin. Although his eyes said something that opposed his grin, something genuine that he had been hiding from everyone on the island. Maybe Korri would find out.
Lmk if y'all would be interested in a part 2. Or maybe I could make this a series, idk lol. Anywho, I hope you enjoyed this. Let me know if you'd like more. See ya laterrrrrrrrr.
