Amongst all the coastal livers and holidaymakers, I stand out like the proverbial sore thumb in my crumpled business suit. Yet nobody pays any attention to me when I walk into the busy pub.
The whole place is alive with that sense of relaxed joy you only ever get from having no place to go and no rat race to run in, just minutes and hours and days to spend without a care—to enjoy the simple acts of breathing, and laughing, and living.
Inside, the pub is large and open plan. The bar sits to my left, every stool occupied, the bar staff busy chatting to customers while deftly fulfilling drink orders. Smiles are broad and carefree, customers all gregarious and happy, buoyed by the atmosphere and the lingering remnants of sun on their skin.
I search every face. He’s not here.
To my right, a low dividing wall separates the space, splitting it from the high-top tables and booths, and opening up into a homely, traditional looking restaurant area.
I weave my way around occupied tables and take a seat near the panoramic doors that open to a view of the outdoor terrace.
The evening is balmy and almost tropical. If you were to close your eyes, take a breath of the salt-tinged air and feel the warmth on your skin, you could be forgiven for thinking you were somewhere in the Mediterranean, and not in a small Welsh coastal town.
As I wait for a server to approach, I search the busy room. My eyes skip over families, groups of friends, and couples out on dates. I take them all in briefly—from the toddler with a face covered in chocolate pudding to the nervous couple on a first date, both unable to maintain eye contact for long—and quickly move on to the next person, the next table, and the next group. Not one of the faces before me is who I hoped to see, yet something tells me he’s here.
After exhausting my search of those surrounding me, I turn my attention to everything else. Needing to see what he’s seen. Be where he’s been. Search for any clues that might give me an insight into his life here.
My table is exactly like the rest—aged, simply carved wood with a patina that speaks of years of use. There’s a history to this place that seeps into every corner, from the rustic candles to the marine lanterns hanging from low beams. Outside on the terrace, fairy lights dance on the warm breeze, while people chat and drink and eat and laugh. I watch as memories are made, as people connect and cherish the company of those around them.
A young woman with hair the colour of warm honey smiles as she approaches.
“Welcome to Safe Harbour. Will you be eating with us tonight?”
Her eyes are a jade green that sparkles in the candlelight, and her smile is open and sincere. Her soft Welsh accent only heightens her appeal. Rex would charm her and try to get her in his bed before sunset. Only he’s not here.
“Please.” I nod, returning her easy smile, although inside I feel anything but. My eyes are hungry to keep looking, to find him. “Do you have any specials you’d recommend?”
“I can grab you a menu, and you can choose from the evening selection, or the chef has some lovely local crab fishcakes. Freshly caught this morning.”
“Fishcakes sound perfect.”
“Great.” Her grin broadens. “I’ll pop the order in for you now. Can I get you a drink from the bar?”
“A lager would be good. Any kind, as long as it’s cold and wet.”
Her head bobs in response, and she scribbles on her notepad before slipping it into her apron.
“No problem. Oh, and I’m Iris. I’ll be your server tonight.” A slight blush creeps over her cheeks, and she rolls her eyes. “I’m supposed to say that in my greeting, but I always forget.” She slips a set of utensils wrapped in a napkin in front of me and adds, “Please don’t tell the boss that I didn’t. He’s a stickler for the way he wants things.” And then she winks before straightening. “Good thing he’s my cousin, hey? He can’t sack family.”
She leaves with a bounce in her step, and I lean back in my chair, affecting a relaxed air when I am anything but. My entire body thrums with an energy that has always been inside me, but is currently more potent, more vital.
And then, I see him.
My head turns, drawn to a door on my right. I watch as what I assume is the kitchen entrance opens, and out he strides. In chef’s whites, sleeves rolled up his tanned forearms, black work trousers beneath. His role at Safe Harbour becomes obvious. With a confidence borne of familiarity, he smiles widely at those he passes, giving a quick hello to anyone on his route to the front door and the man waiting there for him. They shake hands and exchange pleasantries, the other man handing him an envelope. The man says something, and he laughs freely, his head tilting back, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a kitchen towel. I’m transfixed by the way his muscles move with the stretch of his neck, and the curve of his Adam’s apple as it bobs with a swallow. The way his plump lips tilt in a sardonic grin as he exchanges banter with the other man. He tucks the end of the towel he carries into the back pocket of his trousers, takes the man’s hand once more and uses his other to squeeze his shoulder.
Jealousy rears inside me thick and fast.
They are likely colleagues, maybe good friends. Still, it is all I can do to remain seated and watch. The urge to interrupt and introduce myself is almost too much to contain. They say their goodbyes, and my always-greedy eyes track him back the way he came. When the door swings shut behind him, and my eyes can no longer feast on his presence, I take a shaky breath. My fingers fumble inside my inner jacket pocket for a packet of cigarettes long ago forsaken. Not that I could smoke in here. It’s been ten years since I craved nicotine and that calming first hit of thick smoke filling up my lungs.
Seeing him and not going to him, though, has me on edge.
I’ve never felt so unsettled. Not since the first time I lost him when I was a child.
My mind drifts to the first time we met.
I was very young—three, maybe. I don’t remember how he came to me that first time; I just remember him being there, and I liked him. As an only child, I wanted a playmate, so we played with my toy cars, and coloured with my favourite crayons.
After that first time, I saw him often. He was my best friend, and due to a childhood illness, for a long time, he was my only friend.
What made it more special was that I was his only friend, too.
You see, nobody else knew about him. We only played in my dreams.
If I said this out loud to anyone, they’d think I was crazy. They’d say that being isolated for so long as a child had me playing make-believe. That I should know better as an adult.
Hell, I’m a successful, self-made millionaire. By anyone’s verdict, I should know better.
And that’s the thing. I do.
I know I’m not crazy.
I’ve been searching for him my entire life.
“There you go. Cold and wet as ordered.” Iris appears and places a long, tall glass on a cardboard beermat in front of me. “Your fishcakes will be out shortly. Can I get you anything else?”
She blinks, and I’m aware I’ve taken too long to answer. My thoughts fizz around like the bubbles in the glass before me—banging against each other, crashing against the sides, or rising to the top to pop and explode.
“No, thank you. This is exactly what I need.”
She smiles before leaving, and just before she heads back into the kitchen, she stops and gives me a long, thoughtful look.