Open Water by Caleb Nelson (books to read in your 30s .TXT) 📗

‘My best friend had a pair of tickets, and agreed I could have the ­other –’

‘But?’

‘But the day before, he’d been like, there’s a girl . . .’

‘Ah. If it makes it any better, he is such a good performer.’

‘Cheers.’

‘You seem upset,’ she says, unable to control the smile from tugging on her lips.

‘I am.’ And she listens, carefully, as you describe the significance of Isaiah Rashad’s debut album, listing his influences and dissecting his musical style with breathless excitement.

‘He’s like an OutKast by way of J Dilla, with a sprinkle of Gil, the soul of an Isley Brother, so much soul in his music, you can really feel it, no? What?’

‘Nothing.’

She’s grinning as you follow her through the ticket barrier.

You don’t tell her that the album had soundtracked your previous summer. You don’t tell her that you had repeated the song ‘Brenda’, an ode to the artist’s grandma, so much so that you knew when the bassline would begin to slide under the strum of guitar chords, when the trumpet would riff and reverb, when there was a break, a slight pause where the music fell loose from its tightly wound rhythm. You don’t tell her that it was there, in the slight pauses, that you were able to breathe, not even realizing you were holding air in, but you were. There would be a moment where you exhaled and a small, sad smile spread on your face as you struggled to contain your own loss.

Below ground, you scroll through the tracklist, and point instead towards ‘Rope/Rosegold’. She nods appreciatively.

‘Mine’s “Park”. Such a big song.’ She wheels up your favourite first, and locks her phone screen, turning up the volume as loud as it will go. You both know all the words. So much soul. A Black couple watch on, amused, as the pair of you play rapper for the short journey. Embankment to Victoria. A song’s worth. You make it worth it, swaying with the twists and turns of the carriage, catching the swing of the rhythm, sitting in the pocket of the beat. A small joy, but a joy nonetheless.

You feel you have never been strangers. You do not want to leave each other, because to leave is to have the thing die in its current form and there is something, something in this that neither is willing to relinquish.

The view from her balcony: London’s glittering skyline. You feel comfortable here. You feel at home.

‘Tea?’ she asks from the kitchen.

You nod, walking across the living room, to touch the glass. As if light is something you can hold, as if this is a painting you could touch. She appears noiselessly beside you.

‘How long have you lived here? I’m jealous.’

‘Couple years. It’s all right, isn’t it?’ She hands you a mug and signals to her sofa. You both sit on opposite ends, knees pushed towards your chests, careful not to breach the border of the bisecting cushion; except you both know something has opened, like pressing at a teabag and gazing into the cup to find the leaves swarming through boiling water.

‘Your mum is hilarious,’ you say.

‘She’s not usually that friendly with strangers,’ she says, sliding her legs out to sit in the space beside you. She closes her eyes and lets an almighty yawn stretch through the silence. It’s contagious and she laughs as the baton is passed in a race only sleep will win. Her phone buzzes. A sound slips from her that you cannot quite work out.

‘Are you OK?’

‘I think Samuel is coming over.’

‘Ah, right. Right.’ Reality. ‘I should go.’

‘No, it’s cool, you should finish your tea at ­least –’

‘I don’t want to ­impose –’

The doorbell rings.

After the door opens and shuts, after the fumbling of shoes being taken off, Samuel enters the living room. The night you all met in the basement of that ­south-­east London pub returns to you: that need to know that woman, the way you insisted towards her. It was Samuel who engineered this meeting tonight; his girlfriend asked if he knew any photographers and you were who he thought of first. But you’re gazing at Samuel now and the shame is intense. Feigned surprise on his face. ‘Oh, hey.’

‘Hey,’ you say.

‘I’ve heard you had quite a night.’

‘We did, we did. It was real nice.’

‘I’m sure it was,’ Samuel says. He walks over to his girlfriend, giving her a quick peck. ‘I’m gonna make some tea.’

You turn to her. ‘I’m gonna head.’

‘I’ll see you out,’ she says. From the kitchen, Samuel watches you watching her. You were careful not to breach a border, except you all know something has opened; the seed you pushed deep into the ground has blossomed in the wrong season. You think of how you will tell this story to those who ask, because there will be questions. You wonder if it felt right will be sufficient. You wonder if the defence of nothing happened will be sufficient.

It is the early hours of the morning. She dons an enormous green coat and walks you down the stairs. The night is as warm as her embrace and, as you pull away, she asks:

‘Will you text me?’

‘Of course.’

5

You say:

The sky has erupted and there’s white ash on the ground. The dog has never seen snow before. It alternates between bounding across the icy planes and staying ­stock-­still, aside from the tiny shake in its hind legs. Your grandma had never seen snow until the year you were born, while she awaited your arrival, and those tender flakes fell in a furious storm, clumping on the ground. She got on her knees and began to pray, for herself, her daughter and unborn grandchild. On the same day, your mother was on the top deck of a bus, cowering as a man waved a gun, and she emerged unscathed. You’re not religious, but when you hear stories like that, it makes a man want to believe. You imagine your grandma in fervour, praying for your body barely formed, your spirit in