“You seem different.” The boy looks amused as I wave from the drive. I’ve been waiting, impatient to see him, on the steps outside the front door.
“Do I?” I do a jazzy walk towards him to make him laugh.
“Yeah. You grown some?” He jokily pats me on the head.
“Yeah, haven’t you?” I mirror his gesture.
“I sure have. Look at me, a real grown man now. A grown-ass man who’ll be fifteen in two weeks!”
“You look good, by the way.” He raises an eyebrow, and the look he sends me makes me feel hot under the collar. I giggle, suddenly coquettish, like a frivolous French girl in a vaudeville act.
“So do you, baby,” I reply.
“How you been?” he asks.
“Better for seeing you,” I say, and he flusters.
“I’m sorry.” He looks down. “It just feels like so long ago. Gotta get used to bein’ here with you again.” He smiles, then glances back up at me. “It’s like you’re almost too pretty to look at.”
His eyes drop to his feet.
“It’s a bit overwhelming,” I agree.

We walk into the house, where Miss Mary greets him with a hug and an offer of something to eat.
“I think he’s more excited about your food than seeing me,” I snort, following them into the kitchen.
“Then you’d be wrong,” he says, suddenly serious, before going red again.

***

We’re up in my room. He’s lying on my bed, tossing a tennis ball into the air and catching it as it falls.
“You never tell me much about your old life in England,” he says.
I look up from where I’m sitting against the headboard, drawing. “Yeah?”
“Well then, tell me,” he insists, impatience creeping in.
“I grew up in the countryside. In a big old house.” I tell him how lonely it was after Tom died.
“Every day I’d walk down to the beach looking for America.” I laugh, even though it reminds me of being sad, missing Tom and something else, something intangible, something I knew I’d find if only I could get back here.
“Were your folks there with you?”
“They were. They were with me until I came here. It’s all a bit blurry now.”

I glance at him.
“So you’re a country bumpkin too?” he teases.
“I always thought of you as a cosmopolitan type. But it don’t surprise me none to know you’re from the country. Kinda makes sense.”
He trails off.
“Why did your parents just leave you here?”
“I don’t really know,” I say, looking into the middle-distance. “It’s a bit sad, isn’t it?”
“A bit?” he says. “It’s a whole lotta sad!”
“I suppose.” I trace a pattern with my coloured pencils. “I think mostly because I reminded them of Tom.”
“You ain’t bothered by that?”
“Sure I am. But it’s human nature, I can’t blame them for it.” I look out of the window for a moment. “It’s also a kind of freedom. Or at least that’s how I’ve chosen to see it.”
“I don’t know…” He looks thoughtful. “I’d die without Mamma.”
“I know.” I stroke his hair and put the drawing away.
“I’m real glad you’re home,” he says. “I’m glad your folks left you here so I can have you all to myself.”
I giggle. “Yeah,” I say, “me too.”

I look at him and, because I have no impulse control, I say, with all the drama I can muster,
“I think my soul wanted to come here to meet you. So it flew here. I think I willed my way to you.”

For once, there’s no joking. The old intensity is back.

Miss Mary comes in with a tray of snacks and Coca-Colas, keeping a discreet eye on us.
“Open a window, it reeks of teenagers in here!” she yells.
We quickly open one.
“Yes, ma’am,” the boy says.
“Are you scared of Miss Mary?” I ask once she’s gone.
“When she’s like that, I am,” he says, and we burst out laughing.
“But I also adore her.”
“Me too,” I say.
“Come over here,” he tells me, he’s moved around the room and is now patting the edge of the bed. “I wanna play you a song on my guitar.”
“Yay! I can’t wait to hear it. How exciting!” I clap my hands. He’s getting better each time I hear him play.
“You should be excited. I’m the next big thing, you know,” he says, bright red, looking at me.
He’s hoping he looks cooler than he feels.
I act like he’s the coolest cat alive, fawning all over him. He likes that.
“You’re going to be a superstar, baby!” I clap again and shower his slightly spotty face with butterfly kisses.
He’s self-conscious, but I reassure him.
“It’ll clear up. Just be patient.”
“That’s easy for you to say!” he cries.
“You’re still the most beautiful boy I know,” I say, crawling on top of him to pacify him.
“No, I ain’t.” He waves a dismissive hand.
“Why aren’t you wearin’ my ring anymore?” he suddenly asks, glancing at my hand.
“I am!” I say, pulling it out from around my neck. “I just wear it on a chain now. See?”

Instead of telling him the truth, that all the other girls at school think it’s junk and demanded I throw it away, I just say,
“It’s for sports at school. And to keep the memory of our love close to my heart.”
Which, in a way, is true too.

“Any boys at school botherin’ you?” he asks, suddenly serious.

I hesitate. Should I tell him about Topper? About the party?

“No,” I say. “There are no boys at Miss Porter’s. It’s a girl’s school.” 

He searches my face, not quite believing me. I add, “You’re the only one for me.” I say, adding a giggle to the end of the sentence to make light of the situation. 

“Good,” he says finally. “Keep it that way.”

It’s the first half-lie I’ve told him. 

***

The boy’s parents have moved to a bigger apartment. It’s in social housing. I don’t know what that is. “Cool,” I say. I mean it, it’s cosy and everything is new.

He has his own room now, so we spend evenings lying on the floor, listening to the radio. We put on Sinatra, then switch to race records, back and forth, everything we love. The programming down here is brilliant.

“Mr Sinatra’s a national treasure,” I say.

“Sure is,” he giggles.

“You’re my national treasure.”

He grabs me, rolls me around on the floor, and we make out again.

“International treasure, please!” I can barely get the words out between smooches.

“Whatever. Now just hush up a minute.”

His mother is religious, well, they all are. It’s the South. So we have to be very proper when we’re at his parents’. The door to his room has to stay ajar. They think it’s the same at my house, and that Miss Mary, who goes to church every Sunday, keeps a much closer eye on us than she actually does.

It’s a big house. We can hear her on the stairs minutes before she ever enters my room, and she always knocks before coming in.

Not here.

His mother wants her son to grow up to be a proper gentleman. “There’s a fat chance of that happening,” I think, as I nod and agree with her and say, “Yes, ma’am,” and “Thank you, ma’am.”

I pretend I’m a godly young woman who’ll stay pure until the day I marry her son. Otherwise, we’re not allowed to hang out.

In reality, I don’t know if I am. I’ve already noticed how terribly imperfect I am, and how the boy and I have developed into little liars who smooch when we’re alone and can get away with it.

We promise to be chaste, and we’re sort of already teenage-engaged, even though I’m pretty sure I never want to marry anyone, not even him, even if I know I’ll love him forever.

I know I’ve never loved anyone as much as him, and I’m convinced I never will.

I also know he checks out every other girl when I’m not around, so there’s that.

My novel GREAT ARE THE MYTHS will be serialised (one chapter each day) over the summer of 2026. If you would rather listen to the audiobook, the full story is available for free on all the usual platforms. Info and links HERE