Chapter Twenty-Four
Over an hour later, I was ambling down a busy, sunny boardwalk, a cloud of candyfloss in hand. “So this is Coney Island.”
“Indeed.” Elliot mumbled through a mouthful of sugar. “Drink it in.”
The air was fresh with the tang of the sea, mixed with sickly-sweet smells from the many food vendors dotted along the boardwalk. Screams of delighted children echoed from the amusement park, mingled with the roar of the rollercoaster and the shouts of various touts and street entertainers.
“So, is it the same?” he asked.
“As what?”
“Black Pool,” he said.
I grinned into my candyfloss. Although Coney Island had far more sunshine at this time of year than England did, there was still that same feeling in the air. That feeling of optimism, like this was the land of permanent holidays and happiness.
“Maybe a little,” I said.
“Am I forgiven for being a jerk about Ralf?” He squinted down at me through the sun.
“I’ll let you know.”
Elliot and I strolled down the boardwalk in silence, savoring our sweet treats and the sunshine on our faces. Every so often, his arm would brush mine or I’d catch him glancing down at me from his great height.
“So. Boxing,” I said eventually.
“Yeah.” He licked sticky strands of floss off his thumb.
How did he manage to make eating candyfloss look sexy? I asked a different question instead. “How did you get into that?”
“My dad,” he said. “We spar together a lot. But it’s the best way to clear your mind, you know? If you box, you need to be present in the moment. You can’t think about anything else. I like that. Plus, it’s a great way to keep in shape.”
“I’ll say.” My appreciative reaction slipped out before I could catch it and he glanced down at me in amusement.
My cheeks burned. “I mean, I’ve heard that!
” A target-practice stand caught my eye.
It was your basic fairground attraction, five dollars to get ten shots at various targets to win a variety of prizes.
“I bet I’m a better shot than you,” I said quickly, eager to turn attention away from my blatant ogling of his body.
“I bet you’re not,” he said as he shoveled his last piece of candyfloss into his mouth.
“I’m going to make you regret saying that,” I yelled as I charged over to the stand.
“You do realize this is America, right?” he called after me. “Some of us count our guns as an additional limb?”
“Oh, you scared?” I was already handing over my money.
He met my eye. “Absolutely fucking not.”
The proprietor handed over the rifles with a wry grin and pointed at a target positioned higher and further back than the others. “That’s the one to hit, kids.”
“What’s the big prize?” Elliot said, cockily.
The proprietor winked at him, gestured at me. “Don’t you already have it?”
To my surprise, Elliot didn’t correct the man; he simply slid his rifle onto his shoulder and took aim.
Not to be outdone, I followed suit. Despite our best efforts at shit-talking, two minutes later, we were out of ammunition with no prizes in hand.
As we handed our rifles back to the owner, I saw Elliot give a sad little smile and a shake of the head.
“What is it?” I asked him as we continued our stroll down the boardwalk.
“Target practice was always my mom’s favorite,” he said.
“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”
“No, it’s okay.” He lifted his shirtsleeve back to reveal the old tin bangle.
“The last time we vacationed here was probably the last time Mom was sober. We did the target practice game and I crapped out, but she won this godawful jewelry set that was meant for, like, five-year-old girls. I was bummed I didn’t win anything, so to make me laugh, she put all the jewelry she’d won on herself, right here on the boardwalk.
All these gaudy clips in her hair, plastic bead necklaces and bangles up to her elbow.
She looked crazy. And then she gave me this.
” He nudged the bangle with his finger. “Told me it was a consolation prize. We laughed so much.”
My heart hurt. That cheap tin bangle was one of the first things I’d noticed about him – after his unbelievable hotness that is – and I’d not once imagined that this was the story behind it. “Elliot,” was all I could say.
“Do you know why I still wear it?” He stopped walking and looked me in the eye. “It’s because it reminds me of a time when Mom was Mom. Not an invalid, not a drunk. It makes me … It’s the hope that maybe she’ll come back to me.”
I didn’t know what to say. I’d never had a proper relationship with my mother, so I didn’t know what I was missing out on with her.
But Elliot did. He’d experienced the sort of relationship every mother and son should have and then addiction had stolen it.
For him, there was a possibility he could have it once again and it stared him in the face every time he went home. I couldn’t imagine the torture.
He smiled nervously. “I’ve never told anyone that before.”
I was touched. “Thanks for trusting me with it.”
His eyes lingered on mine, and it sucked the breath out of me. But then he’d had that effect on me from the moment we’d met. It was like every cell in my body came alive around him, something that I instinctively knew meant more than a casual, endorphin-boosting hookup.
You’re leaving the country in a matter of weeks, a voice in my head cut in. Don’t start something you can’t finish.
I was torn between throwing myself into his arms and jumping on the next flight home.
Either way this was going to hurt. A brisk sea breeze swept down the boardwalk and a strand of my hair tugged loose from my messy bun.
Elliot leaned across, tucked it behind my ear.
The sensation of his rough skin gentle against my cheek sent a shiver down my spine.
“You okay in there?” he asked softly.
I nodded, then shook my head. “I don’t know what I am.”
“You know what might help?” He pointed behind me at the Cyclone rollercoaster, vintage but no less fearsome. A carriage of shrieking passengers roared past, so loud it hurt my ears.
“You cannot be serious,” I said.
“A little adrenaline is good for what ails you.”
“I’m sorry, do you want to see my candyfloss again?” I balked, shaking my head.
“I get it, you’re scared.” He stretched lazily. “It’s not for the weak.”
“I’m not scared.” I faked a casual shrug, even as my sugar-filled stomach churned with anxiety.
“Okay, then let’s go!” He lunged as if to head to the Cyclone.
I laughed. “Can we start small?”
“You wanna ride the horseys?” he said, gently mocking as he pointed further down the boardwalk at a traditional-looking carousel pumping out old-timey tinkling music.
“Yes, I wanna ride the fucking horseys,” I said.
We joined the carousel queue, where Elliot stood so closely behind me the edges of his shirt brushed my bare arms. We waited in silence for the ride, but I couldn’t have spoken even if I’d had anything to say.
My whole body was thrumming with an unfamiliar but thrilling energy, my stomach on permanent loop-the-loops.
It was like I wanted to be sick, but in a happy way.
Would spending time with Elliot always be like this?
The ride stopped and we shuffled forward, Elliot tapping payment as we passed through the ticket barrier.
I made a beeline for an elaborately carved horse with its front two legs in the air, while he started to climb on the horse next to it, an endeavor that soon proved tricky given his size.
I couldn’t control my laughter as he tried to wedge his large frame on the comparatively tiny horse.
“You’re being extremely rude,” he huffed. “This thing is miniature.”
“It’s meant for children,” I wheezed as he attempted to fold himself in two with the horse’s mane digging into his chest.
“Hey, dude.” The carousel operator appeared, looking incredibly bored. “You’re too big.”
“You’re booting me off?” Elliot yelped. “But I paid already.”
“You can stand next to her if you hold the pole,” the bored man said, thumbing at me. I looked around the carousel to see that some of the kids had boarded the ride with parents and those parents had opted to stand next to their children in the way the operator was suggesting.
“Fine.” Elliot grimaced as he began to extricate himself from his position. “I’ll look ridiculous either way.”
“You look very dignified.” I pulled out my phone.
“Do not document this,” Elliot ordered.
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I said blithely, just as I caught a stunning shot of him crumpled over the side of the spindly little horse.
“You’re a monster,” he declared, finally sliding to safety to grab the pole affixing my horse to the carousel.
“Hey, this was your idea,” I said as the traditional organ music began. “I was quite happy strolling down the boardwalk.”
“I thought it would be nice,” he said defensively.
“What’s your Instagram handle?” I tapped at my phone as if I was uploading the shot. “I’ll tag you.”
He grabbed my wrist with a savage grin. “Share that image and I will end you.”
“Okay, okay!” I made a show of putting my phone away. “Probably for the best. For one, I would never be able to come up with an adequate hashtag that quite captures the, ah, elegance of that moment.”
“Good job I don’t have any social media then,” he said, still holding on to me.
“Why not?” I asked, like I hadn’t already done a sweep of the internet.
Although I’d found lots of coverage of his Tribeca festival triumph, there was no social media presence, no website.
No clue as to the man behind the achingly gorgeous and glowingly reviewed The Song of You.
“Wait, don’t tell me. You want to remain mysterious. ”
“Yeah.” He narrowed his eyes and affected a cool-guy pose, instantly thrown off as the carousel jolted into life and sent him stumbling into the pole.
“Smooth.” I giggled.