Page 91 of Blue in the Deep Blue Sea

“I know,” she whispered, burying her face against my neck. Her finger traced the lines of my tattoo. “I hate this, you know,” she murmured. “Because I know what it means.You came, you saw, and you conquered me.”

“It was a stupid decision when I turned eighteen.” I let out a quiet chuckle. “I wanted to feel all powerful, but the next day I realized I was just an idiot trying to play God.”

“Is that why you don’t have any other tattoos?” she asked.

“Yes.”

She closed her eyes. Within seconds, sleep pulled her under, as if asking those questions had taken the last of her strength.

I didn’t have the courage to tell her that some of what she’d said was true. We do carry our parents’ trauma. Whether wewant to or not, pieces of it find their way into us. And I didn’t know how to tell her that I already had a son.

Not even Gianni knew. And neither did my father.

Nikki came to me in 2001 to tell me she was pregnant after our one night stand. As much as I didn’t want it, as much as I tried to push that responsibility away, she wanted to keep the baby.

She changed a lot after that. She wasn’t wild anymore. She let me live my life while she stayed in London and raised our son.

She never wanted me to see him. Instead, every time I sent her money to support the life she’d built, she’d send me a photograph of him.

And now I couldn’t stop wondering if I even deserved more children. If I even wanted them.

The fear was that if Blue and I ever had a child, and if something would happen to me, and she’d be left alone, raising a little boy or girl who would remind her of me every single day. The thought of putting her through that hollowed me out.

Or worse, what if something happened to her? What if I was the one left behind with a little version of Blue?

We’d only end up ruining another life, just as we’d ruined our own.

Some truths were better left unspoken, no matter how much they weighed on you.

One day, I’d tell her about Nikki.

About our son.

And maybe she’d let us meet him.

Ever since we’d become stranded here, that thought had never really left me. And I hate to admit it, she would be a great mom.

23

SQUALO

Iwoke up in the middle of the night. She was sleeping peacefully beside me. The floor had left my back stiff, and as soon as I sat up, I had to round my shoulders, pressing a hand against the spot that hurt the most.

I got to my feet and quietly paced the room, careful not to wake her up. Normally, I’d get up for a smoke, but there were no cigarettes, and the nicotine cravings gnawed at me. I grabbed a bottle of water and slipped outside, easing the door shut behind me so she wouldn’t wake.

I sat in front of the lighthouse and looked up at the stars. Nothing surrounded us but the endless horizon. I sighed, unscrewed the bottle, and took a sip. Since when has life become this simple? There were no contracts waiting to be signed, no companies demanding my attention. I was detoxing from the alcohol, from the women, from everything that had consumed me. There were no fake friends hanging around for my money. My father wasn’t here. For the first time in a long while, I felt at peace.

In the rush of everyday life, we forget what it really means to live, and how much simpler everything once was. I couldn’t wrap my head around how people had lived with so little and still found happiness, while we kept taking more and more, never giving anything back.

I let out a slow breath, worn out from the day. Reaching into my back pocket, I pulled out her letter. It felt like the right moment to read it, to finally put the past to rest and leave it where it belonged. I unfolded the wrinkled paper and stared at the blurred handwriting.

“Dear Olly,

I know you probably think this is childish, leaving letters in your locker, but there are a few things I wanted to tell you. You won’t even look at me anymore, and I know you hate me for some reason, but I just wanted to say goodbye.

I’ve realized everyone hates me, and no one wants to be my friend. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like if I died, and whether anyone would cry. Sometimes I wish the Doctor Who we always watched would show up in his TARDIS and take me away, but maybe that’s something I have to do myself, because he isn’t real.

I hope one day you’ll remember me and think about us before your mum died, because I liked that Olly better. I wish we could still be friends. I wish you’d talk to me, because I miss you.