observant! johnny sinclair who notices when your smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes. everyone else laughs, keeps talking—but johnny’s watching. tucked into the corner of the room with a drink in hand, eyebrows drawn together slightly. he doesn’t call you out, but he’s got his eye on you.
observant! johnny sinclair who picks up on the tiny shifts. you wore your hair different? he clocked it before you said a word. you’re fidgeting with the necklace you only pull on when you’re nervous? he’s carefully watching you twist it between your fingers.
observant! johnny sinclair who sees the way you shrink a little when people interrupt you. so he always makes sure you get to finish your sentence. doesn’t matter if someone cuts you off—he’ll circle it back: “wait, what were you saying?” and then he listens. fully.
observant! johnny sinclair who always spots you in a crowd first. doesn’t matter how many people are at the bonfire, or how dim the boathouse lighting is—his eyes find you like it’s instinct. he’ll be in mid-conversation and go still for just a second, eyes only on you.
observant! johnny sinclair who notices the books on your nightstand, the ones you keep picking up but never finish. he likes to tease you, just to watch the way your face scrunches up when he picks up a half-read book and says, “didn’t peg you as a quitter.” you roll your eyes as he holds up a book of his own. “never read it,” he says, when you raise an eyebrow at him, “but the lady at the bookstore said it was popular, and it sounded like something you’d get.”
observant! johnny sinclair who remembers the smallest details and pretends it’s no big deal. he brings up something you mentioned offhand two months ago like it’s no big deal. he turns his head to you when he hears a song play that you once said made you sad. he brings you tea on a rainy day saying, “chamomile for this weather, right?” he says it like it’s nothing. but it’s everything.
observant! johnny sinclair who watches the way you look at people. especially when you’re trying not to be obvious. he sees your glances, your tucked-away hopes. and maybe, just maybe, he’s hoping one day you’ll look at him like that.
JOHNNY SINCLAIR X READER
WORD COUNT:1241
REQUEST: OPEN
The first crack of thunder jolted you awake.
For a second, you just lay there in the dark, blinking at the ceiling while rain hammered softly against the windows. Then another rumble rolled across the sky, low and deep enough to make the glass in the frame vibrate.
A tiny voice beside you whispered, “Mama?”
You turned immediately, heart softening all at once. Your child was curled up under the blanket at the edge of the bed, eyes wide in the dark, little fists clutching the sheet.
“Hey, sweetheart,” you said quietly, brushing their hair back from their forehead. “It’s okay.”
Another flash of lightning lit the room for half a second. Your child squeaked and scooted closer, practically climbing into your side.
Before you could say anything else, Johnny’s arm reached across the mattress from behind you, warm and steady. He had been asleep only a moment ago, but he was awake now, voice still rough with sleep.
“I think,” he murmured, “that this is officially pirate weather.”
Your child blinked at him. “Pirate weather?”
Johnny propped himself up on one elbow, hair a mess, face half-hidden in the pillow, and somehow still managed to look like he had just been waiting for this exact moment. “Absolutely. Thunder means there’s a storm at sea. And storms at sea mean pirates.”
Your child’s eyes widened a little. “Real pirates?”
“The best kind,” Johnny said solemnly. “The kind who are brave and dramatic and probably very bad at sharing treasure.”
A small smile tugged at your child’s mouth, but another roll of thunder made them burrow into your side again.
Johnny reached over and lightly tapped your child’s blanket. “Captain,” he said, “you are currently aboard the finest ship in all the seven seas.”
Your child peeked out from the blanket. “This is a bed.”
“This,” Johnny corrected, “is the deck of the Sea Biscuit.”
You let out a sleepy laugh despite yourself. “The Sea Biscuit?”
“It’s a very serious vessel,” he said, glancing at you with mock offense. “Don’t disrespect her.”
Another thunderclap crackled overhead, and your child gasped. Johnny immediately lifted one hand and pointed dramatically toward the window.
“Ah. Cannon fire.”
Your child stared. “Cannon fire?”
“Yes,” Johnny said, nodding as if explaining the most normal thing in the world. “The enemy ships are trying to scare us. But they can’t. Because we have a captain.”
He put a hand to his chest and then, with exaggerated ceremony, lowered his voice. “Captain, report. Are we afraid?”
Your child hesitated, then nodded a little.
Johnny’s expression softened instantly. The joking was still there, but his voice gentled around the edges. “That’s all right,” he said. “Brave doesn’t mean not scared. Brave means you stay on the ship anyway.”
Your child looked at him very seriously. “You’re brave?”
Johnny’s eyes flicked to you for one second, then back to your child. “Only on my good days.”
That earned a tiny laugh, small but real, and you felt your shoulders relax a little. The storm outside was still loud, but Johnny had somehow built a whole other world inside the room, one that was safe and strange and bright enough to push the fear back a little.
“Okay,” your child said after a moment. “What happens now?”
Johnny smiled. “Now we sail through the storm. But first, we need to check the crew.”
He pointed to you. “First mate?”
You yawned. “Slightly overworked first mate.”
“Excellent,” he said. “Any reports?”
You squeezed your child closer. “The crew is tired. One of them is scared of thunder.”
Johnny gasped and put a hand over his heart. “A thunderphobic sailor. Tragic. We’ll have to protect them immediately.”
Your child giggled now, the sound small but growing warmer as the storm carried on outside.
Johnny shifted carefully, reaching over to your bedside table. His hand found the small lamp and turned it on, leaving the room in a soft golden glow instead of darkness. The shadows retreated.
“There,” he said. “Much better. No ghost pirates with the lights on.”
Your child leaned against his arm, calmer now. “Are there ghost pirates?”
“Of course there are,” Johnny said. “But they’re not very scary. Mostly just rude.”
You snorted into the blanket, and he glanced at you with a grin that said he absolutely knew what he was doing.
He kept going, building the story piece by piece, speaking with that same easy rhythm he used when he was trying to make all of you laugh.
“The captain,” he announced, “must steer the ship through the storm. The waves are enormous. The crew is nervous. The moon is hiding. And somewhere out there, hidden beyond the rain, is the island of the Golden Blanket.”
Your child looked up, fascinated. “The Golden Blanket?”
“The only place in the world where stormy nights become sleepy nights,” he said. “But it can only be found by the bravest captain.”
Your child sat up straighter, the fear easing out of their face in tiny pieces. “I can be captain.”
Johnny’s smile turned proud and warm. “I knew you could.”
He made a grand sweeping gesture toward the ceiling. “Captain, what is your first command?”
Your child thought seriously for a second. Then they said, “Go faster.”
Johnny laughed. “A bold choice.”
He lowered his voice, pretending to grip an invisible wheel. “Then it is done.”
The three of you stayed like that for a while, huddled together under the blanket while Johnny narrated the imaginary voyage like the world’s most committed storyteller. Every thunderclap became a wave. Every flash of lightning became a lighthouse in the distance. Every burst of wind against the windows became the sea itself trying and failing to catch you.
At some point, your child’s eyelids started to droop.
You noticed first, because they were leaning more and more heavily against your side. Their breathing had slowed. Their small hand had loosened on the blanket.
Johnny noticed too. He lowered his voice even more, turning the story softer, gentler.
“And the captain,” he said, “after steering the ship through the storm, reached the island of the Golden Blanket. There, the captain found a warm bed, a safe room, and the best crew in the whole world.”
Your child’s eyes fluttered open. “Did they win?”
Johnny brushed your child’s hair back from their face. “They always win, because they’re never alone.”
That did it.
Your child gave one last sleepy smile and curled fully into the blankets. A minute later, their breathing evened out completely, the tension gone from their shoulders, their face soft in sleep.
You looked at Johnny, and he gave you a quiet smile in return, one full of that private, tired affection that made your chest ache.
“Pirates,” you whispered.
Johnny shrugged, though he looked pleased. “Worked, didn’t it?”
You leaned over and kissed his cheek, careful not to disturb the sleeping child between you. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And yet,” he said, settling back against the pillows, “I am a hero.”
You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling when you did it.
Outside, the storm kept going, all thunder and rain and wind. Inside, your child slept peacefully, one hand still tangled in the blanket like they were holding on to the ship.
Johnny reached for your hand under the covers and squeezed it once, soft and certain.
“Goodnight, Captain,” he whispered.
And for the first time that night, the thunder sounded far away.
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.
!!! WE WERE LIARS AND FAMILY OF LIARS SPOILERS !!!!
Whats your favourite horror movie?
Oh idk, probably the fact that we know now from Rosemary that if ghosts want to leave Beechwood Island, they can do so in a variety of ways, but Mirren, Gat and Johnny all wanted to swim away-
So they could be cool again and wouldn’t be burning-
Could you make a Johnny Sinclair story where the reader has mental health and anxiety attacks and Johnny helps her??
When the Room Gets Too Loud
JOHNNY SINCLAIR X READER
WORD COUNT:1576
REQUEST: OPEN
It started with the feeling that something was wrong.
Not dramatically wrong. Not the kind of wrong you could point to and explain. Just a creeping, invisible wrongness that settled into your chest while you were standing in the kitchen, staring at the half-made cup of tea on the counter.
Your hands were shaking.
You stared at them for a second, confused, as if they belonged to someone else.
The kettle was still humming. The refrigerator made its low mechanical sound. Outside, a car passed on the street. A neighbor’s dog barked once. Every little noise seemed to catch in your head and repeat itself, louder and louder, until the world felt too full of sound, too bright, too close.
You swallowed hard.
Your pulse was starting to race.
No, you told yourself. Not now.
But your breathing had already changed. Shallow. Fast. Your chest felt tight, like there wasn’t enough room inside your ribs. You pressed one hand against the counter, trying to anchor yourself, trying to remember the breathing exercise Johnny had done with you before.
In for four. Hold for four. Out for four.
You tried.
It didn’t work.
Your throat tightened as panic surged in a wave that felt impossible and humiliating all at once. You hated this part most, the way it could sneak up on you even after a good day. Even after laughing. Even after feeling normal for hours.
You heard the front door open.
Johnny’s voice floated in from the hall. “I’m home,”
Then he stopped.
You closed your eyes tightly, as if that could stop everything collapsing around you.
The sound of his footsteps changed immediately. Faster now. Closer.
“Hey,” he said, suddenly right there in the doorway. His voice was gentle, careful, like he had walked into a room full of broken glass. “Hey, look at me.”
You tried to answer, but the words caught in your throat.
Johnny didn’t ask again. He just came closer slowly, stopping in front of you so you didn’t have to move. His face softened the second he saw yours. Whatever he had been thinking when he came home disappeared completely.
“Okay,” he said quietly. “You’re safe. I’m here.”
You shook your head once, breath stuttering. “I can’t,” you managed, though the sentence collapsed halfway through.
“I know,” he said. “That’s all right. You don’t have to.”
He set his keys down somewhere behind him, then reached out but didn’t touch you yet, giving you the choice. “Can I?”
You nodded, barely.
His hands came to your upper arms, warm and steady. Not restraining. Not pushing. Just there. Grounding. He guided you away from the kitchen counter and toward the living room, one slow step at a time, like he had all the time in the world.
The room felt hazy. Far away and too close at once.
Johnny sat down on the couch and tugged you gently with him until you were beside him. Then he took one of your hands in both of his and held it against his chest.
“Feel that?” he asked.
You nodded weakly.
“My heart’s beating like I just ran a marathon,” he said. “Which is rude, because I did not run a marathon. This is all on you.”
A shaky, broken sound left you that might have been a laugh if it had more room.
“That’s it,” he murmured, seeing it. “You can laugh. Or not. Either is fine.”
You shut your eyes again, trying to keep the tears from spilling over. “I hate this.”
“I know,” he said immediately. No hesitation. No correction. No trying to fix the feeling with a pep talk. Just simple truth. “I know you do.”
Your breath was still too fast. Johnny noticed the moment your fingers curled tighter around his hand.
“Okay,” he said softly. “We are going to do one thing at a time.”
He shifted slightly so you could see him better. “Can you tell me five things you can see?”
You blinked at him.
He kept his voice low. “I’ll do it with you.”
His gaze flicked around the room. “The lamp. The blanket. Your tea on the table. The stupid plant that I keep forgetting to water. And your face.”
Even now, even like this, he made that last one sound like the most important thing in the room.
You swallowed. Your breathing was still ragged, but it had slowed a fraction.
“The couch,” you whispered.
Johnny nodded. “Good. Keep going.”
“Your shirt.”
“Excellent choice.”
“The window.”
“The carpet.”
You exhaled shakily.
“There,” Johnny said, the corner of his mouth lifting just a little. “You’re doing it.”
Your body was still trembling, but the panic had begun to loosen its grip by inches. Johnny never rushed you. He simply stayed close, one hand rubbing slow circles over your knuckles.
“Four things you can feel,” he said.
You looked down at your own hands, at his hands wrapped around them. “Your hands.”
“Good.”
“The couch.”
“Good.”
“The blanket.”
“Good.”
You hesitated. “My heart.”
Johnny’s expression changed, softening into something almost unbearably tender. “Yeah. I know.”
He waited a second, then asked, “Three things you can hear?”
You listened, really listened.
“Your voice,” you said.
“That’s one.”
“The clock.”
“Great.”
“Traffic outside.”
Johnny nodded. “Two things you can smell.”
You laughed weakly because the tea had gone cold on the counter and you could still smell its faint sweetness.
“Tea,” you murmured.
“And?”
“Your laundry detergent.”
That pulled a real smile from him. “I knew my smell would save the day.”
You snorted once, then immediately had to close your eyes because the panic still lurked at the edges, but it was softer now, less overwhelming.
“One thing you can taste,” he said.
You swallowed. “Tea.”
Johnny squeezed your hand. “There you go.”
The room was still the same room, but you were returning to it. Piece by piece, breath by breath.
Johnny rested his forehead against yours. “You’re here,” he whispered. “You’re with me. This is passing, okay? It feels awful, but it is passing.”
Your eyes stung.
“I thought I was fine,” you admitted, voice small.
“You don’t have to be fine every second,” he said. “You don’t have to earn being cared for when this happens.”
That made your throat tighten all over again, but in a different way this time. You looked at him, really looked at him, and the fear in your chest loosened enough for something else to take its place.
Relief. Love. Exhaustion.
“Can I have water?” you asked quietly.
Johnny immediately stood. “Yes. Absolutely. Best request all night.”
He disappeared into the kitchen and came back with a glass before you could even manage to wipe your eyes properly. He handed it to you and sat back down at your side.
You drank slowly, the cold water soothing your throat.
“Do you want the lights lower?” he asked.
You nodded.
He got up again, dimmed the lamp, and returned, slipping back beside you like he had never left.
For a while, neither of you spoke.
He kept one hand on your back, rubbing slow, steady circles between your shoulder blades. His touch was a message all by itself: stay, breathe, rest, I’m here.
Eventually your breathing settled enough that the tightness in your chest felt more like soreness than panic. Your hands still trembled, but less. The room no longer felt sharp-edged and hostile. It just felt like home again.
Johnny kissed your temple gently. “There you are.”
You leaned into him, tired to the bone. “I’m sorry.”
His head snapped back just enough for him to look at you properly. “No.”
That single word was firm, but not harsh.
“No,” he repeated more softly. “Not one bit.”
You swallowed. “It’s just… embarrassing.”
Johnny’s expression turned thoughtful, then stubborn in that way you knew so well. “It’s not embarrassing to be hurting.”
You stared at him.
He brushed a strand of hair away from your face. “And it’s not embarrassing to need help. You’d never make me apologize for being sick, would you?”
“No,” you whispered.
“Exactly.” His thumb moved gently over your knuckles. “So don’t do that to yourself.”
Another quiet minute passed.
Then, because he knew you well enough to know when to lighten the air, he said, “For the record, you were very brave and also extremely annoying.”
Despite everything, you laughed.
“There it is,” he murmured, relieved and smiling at the sound.
You leaned against his shoulder, finally letting yourself be held properly. The shaking had mostly stopped now. The worst part had passed, like a storm moving off in the distance.
Johnny pressed a kiss to your hair.
“Next time,” he said, voice soft and steady, “we do the breathing sooner. And I am making you tea before your brain can start a coup.”
You huffed a quiet laugh. “My brain did not start a coup.”
“Your brain absolutely attempted a coup,” he said. “A very rude one.”
You closed your eyes, comforted more than you could say by the normalcy of his tone, the steadiness of his hands, the fact that he did not act frightened by your fear.
You were allowed to fall apart here.
He would still be here when you did.
And when you finally whispered, “Thank you,” Johnny only kissed your forehead again and said, “Always.”
Outside, the world kept moving. Cars passed. The clock ticked. The night went on.
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.”
boyfriend! johnny sinclair who is beyond whipped for you and doesn’t care who knows it. he’s the type to carry your bag, your water bottle, your sunglasses, and still say, “you sure you don’t need anything else, baby?” like you didn’t just hand him your entire existence.
boyfriend! johnny sinclair who always finds a way to touch you. not even in a clingy way—it’s instinct. a hand at the small of your back. fingers brushing yours as you pass him something. a knee knocking into yours under the table. like if he doesn’t remind you with his body that he’s yours, he might combust.
boyfriend! johnny sinclair who gets relentlessly mocked by the other Liars—cadence playfully shields her eyes every time you kiss. mirren fake gags every time he calls you “sweetheart”—but he never stops. gat calls him “a pathetic golden retriever.” he just grins and says, “jealousy doesn’t look good on you, gat. not my fault you can’t pull.”
boyfriend! johnny sinclair who will sit through things he hates just to be near you. beach yoga? he’s there. rom-com movie night? he brings snacks. bookstore browsing even though he reads one book a year? he’s the one carrying your stack. “whatever you’re into, i’m into,” he says. and he means it.
boyfriend! johnny sinclair who is the king of forehead kisses, hand-holding under the table, and possessive arm drapes around your shoulders when someone looks at you for even half a second too long. not in a jealous way. in a “this is mine and i’m proud of it” way.
boyfriend! johnny sinclair who teases you nonstop but turns to absolute mush the second you’re even the tiniest bit upset. affectionately teasing you is his olympic sport– and he’s a gold medalist. but if he sees he touched a subject you’re feeling particularly sensitive about one day, his heart drops from even your slightest frown. “hey, hey, no, don’t do that—you get sad, i get sad, and that’s a whole thing,” he whispers, pulling you into his chest. his apology is a whispered, “i’m sorry, i didn’t realize,” and a kiss on the forehead.
boyfriend! johnny sinclair who knows your coffee order, your sandwich order, your favorite clothing store on the vineyard, and the weird little face you make when you’re thinking really hard. he notices everything, stores it away, and uses it like it’s second nature—because to him, it is. you’re like a second part of him.
boyfriend! johnny sinclair who, though he lets you wear his clothes whenever you want, he can’t help but give you a hard time about it. but he is a weak man when it comes to you completely melts the second he actually sees you in his clothes.
it’s a lot of, “that sweater looks oddly familiar, hmm?” and “seems like no one loves my closet more than you do.” but his teasing is immediately followed it by: “that hoodie looks way better on you, for the record.” and when you give him a look and say “yeah?” he replies, “yeah. you’re ruining my life a little bit.”
because seeing you swallowed in something twice your size—sleeves past your hands, yet looking effortlessly at home just because it’s his? it drives him insane. in the best possible way.
boyfriend! johnny sinclair who would absolutely fight someone for you, no hesitation—but also proofreads your texts when you’re nervous, walks you home in the dark, holds your hand when you’re sad, and kisses your tears when you can’t hold them back. because that’s the real kind of protection.
boyfriend! johnny sinclair who is more than just your boyfriend—he’s your best friend. he’s the person who knows what kind of silence means you’re just tired, and what kind means something’s wrong. he’s the one who’ll sneak out with you at midnight just because you said you felt restless. the one who makes you laugh when your chest feels heavy. the one who says “talk to me,” and actually wants to hear it. you’re more than just connected to him, you’re comfortable with him. you don’t feel like you need to always look your best or feel your best, because he can handle every version of you. he wants to.
he wants to see you in your sleepy hoodie and messy hair.
he wants to hear your unfiltered rants about things no one else understands.
he wants to lie on the floor with you when the world feels too loud.
he wants to hear the stories you’ve never told anyone else.
boyfriend! johnny sinclair who doesn't just say "i love you"—he shows it a hundred different ways, every single day.
based on amiiiiireads request! thxx for the prompt, this was fun to write
secretly in love! johnny who gets weirdly tense when someone asks who you’re into. he tries to play it cool, leaning back with some snarky comment, but his jaw clenches. his hands go still. he listens even though he doesn’t want to know. hearing you fawn over some person who isn’t him make his chest go tight and he hates himself for it. but no one could ever tell what’s happening in his mind— he is a master of acting like he’s not slowly unraveling inside.
secretly in love! johnny who touches you without thinking. a hand on your back guiding you through a crowd. tugging you by the wrist when you’re about to trip. his knee brushing yours under the table. nothing inappropriate. nothing he can’t explain away with a simple “they’re my best friend”. just... proximity. presence. trying to be close without crossing the line.
secretly in love! johnny who keeps a photo of the two of you tucked in a book he never lends out. it’s from Summer Eleven—your hair windblown, your smile tilted just for him. he doesn’t look at it often. just... sometimes. when he needs a reminder of what the hell his heart is doing.
secretly in love! johnny who lives for the late-night conversations. the ones where your voice is soft and sleepy and you tell him things you wouldn’t say in the daylight. he wants to ask if you know how often he thinks about you. if you know that every little thing you do is another reason he’s already falling.
secretly in love! johnny who pretends to be annoyed when you steal his clothes, but secretly loves it. his hoodie hanging off your frame? that’s burned into his memory. you rolling your eyes and saying, “it smells like you”? that one sentence lives rent-free in his head.
secretly in love! johnny who tells everyone you’re his best friend, but it doesn’t feel like enough. because that word—friend—feels so small compared to what he actually feels. best friend doesn’t cover the way his chest aches when you leave the room. it doesn’t explain the way he dreams about kissing you and wakes up hating himself for it.
secretly in love! johnny who feels the words at the back of his throat every time you hug him a second too long. every time you fall asleep on his shoulder in the boathouse. every time your hand brushes his and you don’t pull away right away. he feels it—the i love you—rattling his ribs, begging to be let out.
secretly in love! johnny who almost says something—once. the night you’re both lying on the dock, stars scattered above you like someone ripped the sky open. your fingers brush. you don’t move. neither does he. his mouth opens, then shuts again.
