Chapter 2
Six Summers Ago
My feet hit the asphalt in time with the bass as gravity and momentum send me charging down the hill. I’m on a mission: it’s Friday night, I’m home at last, and I can’t wait to see my friends.
Amy told me that Dan’s band is in residence at Seaglass, and from the sounds of it, tonight’s set is already under way.
It’s amazing to think that I was in Florence this morning and a month before that I was graduating from my BA Hons in Sculpture at the Edinburgh College of Art.
For four years, I trod cobbled streets between historic buildings and fell asleep to the hustle and bustle of a busy, vibrant city.
And now here I am in St. Agnes, where the only sounds filling the air are coming from the crashing waves, the sea breeze cooling my sun-scorched skin, and the band playing at Seaglass.
Bounding up the external stairs in time to a frenetic drum crescendo, I round the corner to find a packed balcony, cigarette and vape smoke rolling like sea mist across bobbing heads.
A squeal rings out and the crowd parts around Rach as she bulldozes her way toward me. A moment later, we’re in each other’s arms.
“Where have you been?” she yells right in my face as the song comes to an end and the band launches into another.
“There was traffic coming back from the airport and then my parents wanted me to have a family dinner—I haven’t even had time for a shower!”
“You look fine! Come on, you’ve got catching up to do!”
She yanks me through the nearest set of French doors and makes a beeline for the bar.
Her hand is gritty with sand and she looks as though she’s come straight from the beach.
Knowing Rach, she probably has. Her auburn hair is pulled into a low ponytail and the strands falling loose around her neck are damp from the sea air.
I recognize the halter-neck tie of her army-green tankini protruding from her oversize white T-shirt and her trademark baggy board shorts. Classic Rach attire.
I thought I’d gone for casual in jeans and a black top, but my friend takes the description to another level.
“I’ve never seen it this busy!” I exclaim as she squeezes herself into an impossibly tiny gap at the bar.
“I think Dan invited half of Cornwall. Loads of people from school are here.”
I glance toward the band and my eyes alight on Dan Cole, the broad, blond lead guitarist who was the most popular boy in our class at secondary school.
Amy used to have a crush on him, but he had a steady girlfriend until his first year at uni, and from what I’ve heard, he’s been sowing his wild oats ever since.
The bassist, Tarek, and the drummer, Chris, were also in our year, as was the band’s frontman, Kieran, but he’s missing. My eyes snag on the new guy.
His dark, disheveled hair is falling forward into downcast eyes and his slim hips are jutting off to the side as he cradles the mic between his hands, his lips pressed to the metal.
His voice is good: low and deep, but still musical.
“Who’s that?” I ask.
“You remember Finn, he was in our art class.”
“No way.”
The Finn we went to school with was really shy. He always wore beanie hats that he’d pull down so low you could barely see his eyes. I don’t remember him being part of Dan’s crowd back then. I don’t remember him being part of anyone’s crowd. From what I recall, he was a bit of a loner.
This Finn is next-level hot in black jeans and a loose black chunky-knit jumper that’s riddled with holes—very carelessly sexy rock star.
Suddenly he hollers the lyrics “I’m lonely,” followed by a beat of silence from the band that ripples through the crowd. His sharp intake of breath can be heard over the microphone as he launches into the next line and the guitar riff repeats.
The hairs on the back of my neck have stood up . . .