Chapter fifty-five

The clock of the night ticks too fast, and the idea of having to wake early tomorrow morning irks me to the core. I'd much rather party now, sleep late, dive into a series of inexplicably unusual dreams, and wake when my body feels it should, and to spend at least an hour just thinking.

In the hazy, midnight craze, strobe lights shine down, fluorescent colours skimming the dance floor and the walls, lighting people up in a halo of rainbow, and casting towards me the unmistakable glimmer of Tasmin's bluebell eyes.

Free.

It's worrying how much I'm starting to think about her. Like, really think about her. Apart from what I'm supposed to be thinking of, I'm thinking of her eyes when she laughs. I'm thinking of the blush that appears so shyly on her cheeks. I'm thinking of how she is when she's around me.

Tasmin Kelly: the reason I'm part of this organisation, the reason I've suffered, and the reason I feel free for the first time in several years.

I've been caught staring, and now I'm stupidly leaning forward and muttering passionate nonsense to Tasmin, straight from my heart without passing through my brain to determine whether or not the language I'm spewing is sane. And her hair tickling my nose is enough to drive me insane. My heart is slowly being stretched, so much so that it's starting to hurt, and the pain brings my sane thoughts rushing back.

I'm not here for that reason; I have that choice. I'm here with a duty; I'm here to feel free. I'm here because of Tasmin; but it's all for my mum.

It's close to one when Tasmin pulls me outside with her for fresh air, and the first breath in is a gust of heavenly wind, and I realise how I've become so accustomed to the briny scent filling my airways. Tasmin grabs my hand, tugging me into a run, mouth open in a joyful laugh, eyes tilted towards the sky. Pure, untouched, free.

And after sprinting ourselves breathless, we finally register the layer of moist spread over our faces and seeping through our clothes.

Rain.

The smile, ever-present on Tasmin's face, falters, and she seizes my wrist, and we make a beeline for the doors of the buffet, but I tug back on Tasmin's hand. There's a thought at the back of my mind, something I need to say to her, something I have to say soon, or I'm afraid it'll be too late. But I have no idea what. Nevertheless, Tasmin turns, muttering an Oh! in surprise.

"Can I – tell you – something?" Out of breath, heart full of an unknown desire. Telling her everything, pouring out my soul, revealing the secrets I've kept for years on end… it may bring this moment to an end. The sensation of having freedom on the other side of the invisible door in front of me, and having one correct key in a truckload of incorrect ones, when by the time I find the right one, the freedom will be gone – it slashes mercilessly at my insides.

Tasmin's eyes widen, and then the fairy lights are shining in her bluebell eyes and I'm leaning forward without an ounce of hesitation coursing through my body, just this sudden rush of adrenaline, like someone has electrocuted me.

And when my skin brushes against Tasmin's, I feel it again: freedom. The freedom I felt before my father was so obsessed with his work, and before my mum fell ill.

My father is a Management Consultant. He's an expert in complex problem-solving, the idea man, and he spends days on end devising undefeatable strategies that improve the operations and financial security of organisations. As the Management Consultant of a number of establishments located over the globe, he never stops travelling. As a child, seeing him was rare, and when I did see him, I'd only see him for five minutes at a time before he'd disappear into his office to work tirelessly.

As a child I didn't understand why he would never spend time with us, but my mother was always quick to tell me how important his work was, why he had to travel, and that one day we'd travel with him, anywhere we wanted.

Like I could understand.

I knew he was a hard worker, and I knew he knew I was his son, but there was an undeniable difference between him and my mum. The eyes. I always distinguished them by the eyes.

Scarlett Lee Evans' eyes were dark brown. People say that brown is boring, plain, default, common; not my mum's eyes. They were soulful, deep, wide, clear. A glance and I'd know what sort of mood she was in, and oftentimes that mood wasn't as happy as I wished she'd been. She'd come to me when I was upset with my father, arms outstretched, eyebrows furrowed in a caring mother's worry, emotion-filled eyes pulling me into her embrace.

Then there was my father, whom I match almost completely in appearance. Same height, same thick brown hair, same murky green eyes, same built-shape. He said he loved us, but he was always away, and his eyes were never sincere like my mother's. Instead, they were hollow, secretive, like his words; always focusing on something other than that of his own family. The older I've grown, the closer he's come to me, and the more I've pushed him away. He'd offered to take me on one of his business trips, but I told him that I'd prefer to stay and work and study. He thought I'd say yes, become a young and successful businessman like him, but I'm not him.

I'd much rather live the life my mother always wanted me to live: freedom from expectation, freedom from the melancholies of life, freedom from the life we lived. Being with her was like hanging onto the fragile rope of hope, and when she left, the rope snapped, releasing me into a freefall.

I haven't felt such hope in five years. But the dying embers of hope were relit here on this cruise; the place I least expected it to happen, and with the person I least expected.