Page 68 of One Night on the Island

I have something that feels much like a hangover, post-birthday blues mixed with post-ceremony relief shot through with anxiety about the changed landscape ahead.

We sit side by side on the low sea wall, our eyes watchful for the boat that’s going to take him away. It’s only Tuesday; the boat is making a rare out-of-sequence visit to deliver a haul of pumpkins, one for every household in the village, a long-standing annual tradition courtesy of Raff. They could probably have been sent over last Friday but I get the impression Raff made the arrangements for Mack’s benefit. Trust Raff to be the only one important enough to mess around with the schedule. Mack’s bags, stuffed to the seams, are on the damp sand at our feet. Only his camera remains unpacked, around his neck on its frayed leather strap as always. He has a slice of pale skin just there; I shouldn’t imagine it ever sees enough sunlight to match in. It will no doubt be the same when – if – he removes his wedding band. His skin is criss-crossed with tracks that tell his story.

‘I’m not going to cry,’ I say, knowing I probably am.

‘Man, I hate goodbyes,’ he says.

‘Everyone does,’ I say.

There are a million things I want to say, but all of the words feel trapped in my chest. It was written into the terms and conditions of our agreement that this has to end. There will be no Facebook friend requests or drunken late-night ‘miss you’ texts. These words right now matter more because they’re our last ones to each other.

‘Should we shake hands?’ he jokes, his smile too distressed.

I hold my hand out. ‘Why not.’

‘I was a broken, sad guy when I got here,’ he says, taking my hand and not letting go. ‘I don’t feel like that any more.’ He rubs his thumb back and forth over my knuckles as he speaks. ‘You fixed me.’

‘Jesus, Mack,’ I say, swiping the heel of my palm over my eyes. ‘Not yet.’ I’m so perilously close to crying it’s actually hurting my throat to speak. ‘What if I never feel like this again?’

I know. I sound as if I’ve stolen Jennifer Grey’s best line, telling Patrick Swayze that she’s scared of walking out of that room and never feeling the same way for anyone else again. She delivered hers with far more passion and far fewer snotty tears, though.

‘You told me the other night that you love me a little bit,’ he says. ‘I didn’t say it back at the time, and I should have, because your honesty deserved mine. I love you a little bit too.’ He kisses my forehead. ‘You are so entirely fucking lovable, Cleo Wilder.’

It’s such a Mack thing to say.

‘And you know something else?’ He saves me from having to pull myself together enough to reply. ‘A little bit might be better than a lot because this way we get to walk away remembering only the best of each other.’

‘Maybe a lifetime of micro-love affairs is the way forward,’ I smile, trying to put a brave face on it. ‘I might put that in my final piece, a bit of sign-off advice.’

‘It could be the next big thing in dating,’ he says, forlorn. ‘You could start a micro-love movement.’

‘You’ll be a legend in my head for ever,’ I say.

He looks away and the sound he makes in his chest tells me he’s finding this every bit as difficult as I am. I squeeze his hand. It feels as if we’re passing the ‘I’ll be the strong one now’ baton between us.

‘I borrowed you from Boston and you borrowed me from London. And now there are two little boys in Boston who need their superhero back.’

His kids’ faces come to me, Susie’s too – the image from Mack’s wallet he showed me on the very first day we met, in a misguided effort to prove it was safe for us to spend the night under the same roof. I can’t imagine that a man who wears novelty cufflinks and calls her schmaltzy names will hold his own for long against a man with magic eyes, whose kiss feels as if he’s giving you a piece of his soul. He’s going home, and unless the woman has rocks in her head or, like the Tin Man, is missing a heart, she’ll take one look at Mack and realize she made the biggest mistake of her entire life. In my head, I see his kids running to meet him at the airport and Susie meeting his eyes over their shining heads as he hugs them. It’s a love story. But it isn’t my love story. Mack and I have held on to each other and now it’s time to let go.

‘I think I see the boat,’ he says, standing.

I see it in the distance too, and it all feels horribly, lurchingly real. ‘Oh, Mack,’ I say, getting to my feet. ‘You’re really leaving.’

He turns and pulls me into his arms, the tightest of hugs, the hardest of goodbyes.

He holds my tear-streaked face in his hands. ‘You’re the micro-love of my life.’

I look into those wonderful, mismatched eyes and find them brimming with ‘another time, another place’ longing. ‘I micro-love you too,’ I say.

Our kiss is tear-salty and endless, bittersweet beautiful. I hear the boat’s engine idle as it draws near to the beach and I have to stop myself from clinging on, from begging him to stay, because I know he can’t. I even know that being alone is the right thing for me right now, but none of that matters because the thought of never seeing his face again is killing me.

‘I won’t call,’ he says against my hair.

‘And I won’t call,’ I say. ‘Oh, I have something for you,’ I add, remembering. I dig in my jeans pocket and press something small into his hand.

‘Chalk,’ he says, laughing and crying as he looks at it. ‘I’ll keep it for ever.’

‘I’ll think of you whenever I hear Springsteen,’ I say. And every other day of my life, I don’t say.

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