‘It’s insanely perfect there, isn’t it?’ I say as Rohan and I walk down the steps to the beach, still hand in hand after Clara insisted on walking us to the cliff edge to show us the best path down to the sand.
‘Yeah. I feel like I don’t belong there, like I’m going to taint their belief in happily ever afters just by being there.’
‘I’m sure that’s not true. Everyone seems to love you. You’re too charming for your own good.’
He gives a disbelieving snort. ‘That’s going to make it even harder when they find out what we’re really doing here then, isn’t it?’
I feel that punch of dread again. Everyone is so nice here. It’s like the more islanders we meet, the nicer they get. And we’re going to betray them.
‘Guilt?’ Rohan asks, like he can sense how I’m feeling.
‘Yeah. Don’t you feel bad for lying to everyone?’
‘Of course. Especially when they do nice things like this.’ He waggles the picnic basket that he insisted on carrying. ‘But I keep telling myself that they left us with no choice. They could’ve been more welcoming before. They could’ve been less secretive.’
‘Or we could’ve respected their wishes and got on the first boat home.’
‘We both have jobs to save. We couldn’t have given up without trying something.’ He gives me that cheeky smile again, the one that makes me forget everything outside of the way his light eyes twinkle. ‘Besides, if we’d have done that, I wouldn’t have got to be engaged to you and learn all these fascinating things about boring old churches and fabric samples.’
‘And we wouldn’t have got a basket full of free cake.’
‘Exactly,’ he says with a grin brighter than the spring sunshine.
The beach is just as gorgeous as it looked from the jetty and surprisingly warm for mid-April, and the first thing we both do is take off our shoes as soon as we step on the sand. It’s not as windy down here as it is on the clifftop. The tide hasn’t come in yet and the sun has warmed the sand, and I curl my toes into it, loving the feeling as it squishes between them.
The cliffs are ragged and tower above us on our left, and even from down here, the tip of the church’s spire can still be seen. There’s no one else around though, and it feels weird to have this huge stretch of sand to ourselves.
My only experience of beaches has been the packed family holiday types. Maybe that’s another reason they don’t want to shout about Edelweiss Island from the rooftops. If more people knew, it would turn into a tourist trap, and this beach would be crammed. Romantic walks with your fiancé would probably lose their appeal if you were picking out a path between soggy beach towels and constantly dodging screaming toddlers with buckets and spades and sunburnt men in Speedos three sizes too small.
We follow the curve of the cliffs around the side of the island, out of sight of the jetty, until Rohan finds a little cove and nods to it. ‘Looks like the perfect place for a picnic.’
The sand is soft and almost white, and the whole beach is absolutely pristine. There’s not a cigarette butt or a stray paper cup in sight, and the cove where Rohan sets the picnic basket down is a curve in the cliff edges, half shaded and half in full sun, and I wonder how many other couples have sat here and had a picnic together. How many other times has Clara run and got a picnic basket and blanket?
I can see why this island is so popular as a wedding venue and honeymoon destination in one. It’s only spring but the weather has been surprisingly good, probably because we’re so far south. Even with the tide out, the sea looks blue and inviting. It’s definitely the closest thing you’re going to get to a tropical island holiday in the UK, and I wish more people knew how beautiful it was, but at the same time, I feel like it’s a delicious little secret that’s just for us.
And Rohan and I are going to blow the secret right out of the water when we get home. Even more doubt sets in. It feels special here, and maybe it feels so special because people only find it when they’re meant to find it.
‘Bon?’ Rohan waves a hand in front of my face, sounding like it’s not the first time he’s said it. ‘Raspberry and champagne or strawberries and cream?’ He’s laid Clara’s red gingham blanket out on the sand and the picnic basket is open in the middle of it, and he’s holding two pieces of wrapped cake in each hand like he can’t make up his mind.
‘Obviously both,’ I say. ‘Cake is not an either or conundrum. The answer will always be both.’
Ro laughs. ‘Ahh, a girl after my own heart if ever there was one. That wasn’t a question, it was a test, and you passed with flying colours.’
I grin as we sit down on opposite corners of the blanket and Rohan digs the flask of tea out and pours a cup each. I lean over and peer into the basket. ‘There’s so much in here. Carol has given us samples of everything in the shop.’
‘Carol’s my new favourite person on this island. I’ve always said cake is the only part of a wedding I can get behind. Cheers.’
We clink plastic tea mugs, laughing at the sight we must make. I watch as Rohan rips open one of the cake samples and stuffs the whole thing into his mouth in one piece. Each piece is only one square but they’re definitely big enough to be eaten in a few bites. He scribbles something on his scorecard as I unwrap my first piece and bite into the thin, soft, raspberry and champagne flavoured pink sponge. ‘Oh my God,’ I say with my mouth full.
He grins. ‘And that’s only the first one. We have like twenty more. I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy in my life.’
I smile at his grin, wide and unguarded as he roots around in the basket for another piece of cake. I’m sure we were meant to eat the sandwiches first, but his enthusiasm for cake is catching.
‘Eating cake with you on the seafront is becoming a bit of a habit lately,’ I say as I bite into another piece, watching Ro as he tries to be more refined this time and breaks pieces off the cake and puts them into his mouth.
‘Well, I like cake, I like seafronts, and I like you, so why not?’ he says with a shrug.
I go hot all over and I’m really glad I’m already sitting down. ‘I thought you thought I was a crazed wedding-obsessed… whatever the equivalent to a bridezilla is when someone isn’t actually a bride?’
He laughs. ‘Life would be boring if we all liked the same things. I don’t believe in love, I definitely don’t believe in the church of no-divorces, and I hate weddings, but good for you if they make you happy. We can like different things and have different opinions and still be friends, can’t we?’
‘Of course,’ I say, still surprised by how openly he gives compliments. It’s kind of refreshing to meet someone who is so straightforward, especially when he’s so guarded about everything else.
‘So what is it with you and wedding dresses then?’ Rohan asks, popping another square of cake into his mouth without even reading Carol’s handwritten label.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t know, really. You have one as your Twitter icon and you seemed upset when you came out of the shop earlier… I just wondered if everything was okay?’
‘Yeah,’ I say, taken aback that he noticed I was upset earlier. I thought I’d hidden it well enough.
‘Were the dresses in there that ugly?’
I laugh. ‘No. They were beautiful. Well, most of them. There were some that must’ve taken their inspiration from a toddler’s dressing up box, but still. No, it just… reminds me of how unmarried I am, I guess.’
‘Being unmarried should be something to celebrate, not be sad about.’
‘Trust you to say that,’ I mutter. ‘And it’s not something to celebrate when every single one of your friends is married with babies and their own house.’
‘Well done to you for not following the herd.’
‘I’m nearly thirty-five, Ro. People who are five, ten, fifteen years younger than me are getting married and having children. I don’t even have a potted plant.’
‘Is that why you use a wedding dress as your Twitter icon?’
‘No,’ I say, surprised that he’s interested enough to ask and even more surprised that I don’t mind telling him. ‘It’s kind of mine. It’s in a bridal shop in London. They’re keeping it for me and letting me pay it off bit by bit.’
His head is cocked to the side as he looks at me. ‘Call this a silly question, but isn’t a wedding dress a bit pointless without a groom?’
‘Yeah. It’s so stupid, I know, but this dress… I fell in love with it as much as it’s possible to fall in love with an inanimate object. It was the most beautiful dress I’d ever seen, and I’ve seen a lot of wedding dresses over the years, but this one… My favourite film has always been Disney’s Beauty and the Beast, and it’s an exact replica of the yellow Belle dress, but in ivory. I didn’t even mean to buy it. I walked past and took a picture because I liked it so much, and I actually walked away and then turned back and went in, like a magnet was pulling me back, and I somehow ended up trying it on, and it was the perfect fit, it wouldn’t even need any alterations, and I just thought it was meant to be. It made me feel like I was in a fairy tale. Like somehow everything would work out if I bought this dress…’
I trail off, aware that I’ve been rambling. He must think I’m an absolute fool, rabbiting on and on about a wedding dress to someone who hates weddings, never mind for spending money I can’t afford each month on something I’ll probably never get the chance to wear.
‘So you did?’ he asks, not sounding as bored as I expected him to.
‘Well, I thought about buying it outright but even my credit card laughed at that idea. They put it away for me and let me pay it off in small chunks, and I mention Snowdrop Bridal Boutique in Marble Arch in my articles wherever possible.’
He’s smiling when I look at him again. ‘So much sarcasm you don’t know where to begin? You must think I’m a right idiot.’
‘No, of course not.’ He gives me that smile again, the sad one, and there’s an intensity in his blue eyes that makes me feel he’s looking past the words and straight into my heart. ‘It obviously means a lot to you, and I’m not going to make fun of something that matters to you.’
‘I thought you made fun of everything to do with weddings?’
‘Weddings, yeah. But that’s nothing to do with a wedding… It’s just you. It’s not for me to make fun of.’
I feel guilty for being as surprised as I am. I always expect the worst from him, and no matter how genuine Rohan can seem, R.C. Art is never far from my mind.
‘I take it you’ve already got your perfect wedding planned? You’ve pictured it since you were ten years old and enacting it with Barbie and Ken dolls?’
‘Not quite.’
He raises an eyebrow.
‘Actually they were Sindy and Aladdin dolls.’
‘Oh, that makes such a difference.’ He laughs. ‘So, what’s it like? Your dream wedding?’
‘Honestly, I don’t know. I mean, I see stuff at other people’s weddings or for my articles and think, “Ooh, I’d like that at my wedding,” but I’ve never really planned it. That probably sounds stupid considering I’ve already got a dress, but I’ve never gone as far as planning a ceremony. To be honest, getting married here seems perfect to me. I agreed with everything Paul suggested for us, and I’ve never been in a wedding venue that feels as special as the church does. So we’re pretty much planning my dream wedding right now, except…’
‘…for the groom,’ he finishes for me.
There’s a pang in my chest at the tone in his voice. He sounds jovial enough but there’s just a hint of hollowness as he looks down at the blanket and doesn’t look up. He busies himself with going through the picnic basket. ‘Almond white chocolate or lemon pistachio?’ he asks, but he doesn’t sound as excited as he did before, and he passes over both cake samples without waiting for an answer.
‘Why are you so fundamentally against weddings?’ I ask, thinking one of his anti-marriage rants might ease the tautness between us.
‘It just seems so pointless to me. People care more about the wedding than about who they’re marrying. They have huge fights about guest lists and reception menus and seating plans and it’s supposed to be the happiest day of their lives. I just think that if people put half as much effort into their marriage as they do into planning their wedding, the divorce rate wouldn’t be so high. As a society in general, we focus more on a wedding day to remember than a marriage that will last. And at the end of the day, it’s all so pointless and shallow. All that money spent and for what? So relatives you don’t know and don’t like can caw, “Ooh, it was a lovely do,” whenever your name is brought up for the next decade, probably on the annual Christmas card, which is the only contact you ever have with them because you don’t know and don’t like them.’ He puts on an old witch’s voice and does a perfect impression. ‘You’re paying fifty quid a head for these people when you really begrudge a second-class stamp for the annual Christmas card. And you only send that to avoid having an actual conversation on the phone.’
‘Some of us like our relatives. Some of us would like to invite our gran’s neighbour’s second cousin’s daughter to our wedding.’
‘Some of us have got more money than sense,’ he says with a shrug. ‘If I had that kind of money to spare, I’d give it to a dog rescue centre or a homeless shelter so something truly good can come out of it, not a filet mignon that no one will remember the next day for some old battleaxe I barely know.’
‘You don’t strike me as the good Samaritan type.’
He raises his head and looks me straight in the eyes, a silent challenge. ‘Why? Because I get paid to write a column and not sugar-coat my opinions? That makes me a bad person?’
‘Well, no, but…’ I sigh in frustration, more at myself than at him. There should be a simple answer to his simple question. ‘You can’t have it both ways. You can’t expect everyone to think of you as a nice guy when you also write columns that compare a bride to a Thriller zombie and a groom to a Viagra-dependent scarecrow. That’s not nice.’
‘Oh, that was one of the nicer things that didn’t get edited out by my boss for that particular groom,’ he mutters, carrying on before I can ask any questions. ‘I don’t have to believe in love to be a decent person.’
‘Yeah, I know that,’ I say, so many questions flying around my mind.
‘Actually, I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I’ll be honest, this is the first time anyone has ever known I’m R.C. Art and it’s throwing me a bit. I’ve never had anyone judge me on my columns before. I’ve never had to defend myself as… myself.’
‘No one knows?’ I ask, surprised.
He shakes his head.
‘Not even family? Friends?’
‘Hah. Definitely not. My mum thinks I’m a postman. If she ever comes to visit me, I’ll have to get up at four a.m. and wander the streets. I couldn’t even tell anyone I work for The Man Land in case they put two and two together. I should’ve chosen a better pseudonym. R.C. Art isn’t nearly anonymous enough, even Clara guessed it.’
‘Why?’ I ask. ‘If you’re embarrassed by it, why do you write it?’
‘I’m not embarrassed, I just don’t want anyone to know how—’ He stops abruptly and swallows hard. ‘I just don’t want anyone to know.’
There’s a wobble in his voice that makes me want to go over and wrap my arms around him.
‘I guess weddings are a smorgasbord of things to be sarcastic about…’ I say, well aware that I’ve probably pushed him too far and he’s not going to tell me any more, no matter how many questions I have. I can almost see him shutting down, hunched over, his elbows on his knees, fiddling with the wrapping of a cake sample rather than eating it, and I have an urge to fill the silence that has suddenly got awkward and uncomfortable between us. ‘Amabel’s story does make you realise how materialistic weddings are and how pointless it all is in the end. I spend a good chunk of my life writing about bargain dresses and preventing blisters in wedding shoes, and what does it matter at the end of the day? You think if Amabel had planned her wedding better or worn a certain type of dress that her husband wouldn’t have been killed? It makes me think I’m wasting my life. I have nothing to show for my career but a string of articles about things like “how to lose that muffin top before your dress fitting” and interviews with couples getting married.’
‘But you love your job. It really matters to you, anyone can see that.’
‘Yeah, but it’s so superficial, isn’t it? It’s exactly what you said – people put more effort into their wedding than their marriage, and I encourage that every time I hit send on another article about wedding underwear or packing for your honeymoon. Maybe it would be for the best if Two Gold Rings lost, if we—’
‘Hey.’ He taps a finger down on the blanket in front of him. ‘You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to give up on this. Where’s the girl who threw her wine down my neck? Who was determined to prove me wrong and validate the church of Edelweiss Island?’
‘But it just doesn’t matter, does it? I’ve never done anything in my life that matters, that’s important, that makes a difference.’
‘But it does matter. You love it – that’s what matters. And I’m sure you make a difference to all the brides who pick up a copy. At least you spread positivity. I try to give people a laugh with my angry, negative attitude.’
I chew on my lip as I look at him. I know he’s made a career out of being good with words, but he always seems to know exactly what to say.
‘Amabel’s story really makes me realise how alone I am,’ I say eventually. ‘Twenty years later and he’s still a huge part of her life. That’s sweet. Special. Every couple who gets married in the church will see his stone and ask about it. He lives on through her love for him. That’s what I want.’
‘A dead husband?’ he says with a grin.
I roll my eyes even though it’s not something to joke about. ‘Love. What my parents have. Someone to share my life with. It’s not about the perfect wedding day, the big white dress, and beautiful church. I want someone there when I come home. I want to curl up on the sofa after a long day, eat pizza and watch mindless TV, and just not be alone.’
‘Otherwise known as getting a dog?’
It makes me laugh again, distracting me from the pit of loneliness in my belly that feels like it’s growing by the day. The more time we spend planning a fake wedding, the more I realise that I’m probably never going to have a real one. The more time I spend with Rohan… the easy meals together, wandering around the island with his hand in mine when someone might be watching… the more I remember that I don’t have anyone like him in my real life, and when we leave Edelweiss Island, it’s back to working late and grabbing a sandwich for one on the way home, alone.
‘Well, if you will keep dating guys who push you into ponds…’
‘Oi! I’ve been trying. I’ve been dating for years, and just… nothing. I’ve never felt anything more for a guy than “oh well, I suppose a second date would be okay”. I’ve tried the dating websites, the dating apps, set-ups by friends and colleagues, blind dates. I even tried an actual newspaper’s personal ads once, and the bloke who turned up was at least twenty years older than his advert said and he bought me a stuffed crow as a present, and to be honest, the stuffed crow was a more interesting date, and it smelt better.’
Rohan puts his hand on his chest and doubles over laughing.
‘It’s not funny,’ I say, even though I’m laughing too. ‘I haven’t even been on a date for months now. It’s so bleak out there that I’ve given up.’
‘Would it be wrong of me to say that actually makes me happy?’ he asks, his cheeks reddening as he looks at me and looks away quickly. ‘Sorry, I think I must be method acting or something. I’m strangely jealous of my fiancée going on dates with other men. When we get back to London, I’ll take you on a date somewhere really nice, just to show you how it’s done. I’ll feel better sending you back out into the wilds of the dating world if I know you know how a date should be done.’
‘There’s no way you go on dates. You’re not looking for love, are you?’
‘Oh, I go on dates. My neighbour lets me walk his dog sometimes, and I take him to the park and throw a tennis ball for him. He’s the best date ever and he always gives me a kiss at the end of the night and he always uses tongues. I’d expect nothing less from you on our date.’
‘You can’t date a dog, Ro,’ I say, the butterflies fluttering nervously at the idea of kissing Rohan again, even though he’s joking.
‘Well, you can’t keep dating guys who puke on your shoes or present you with avian taxidermy.’
‘Those are the only kind of guys who seems to be interested in me. I’m starting to think there’s something wrong with me.’
‘Aw, Bon, there’s nothing wrong with you.’ He gets to his feet and steps across the blanket, dropping down beside me and hugging me to him. ‘You’re gorgeous, and funny, and kind. There’s something wrong with any man who’s ever made you feel otherwise. Seriously, I’d marry you tomorrow if I was even half the man you deserve.’
My breath catches in my throat and he holds me tighter, shifting until his legs are around me, his arms encasing me and pulling me against his solid chest. His chin rests on my head and I wrap my arms around him too, trying to give him the hug I wanted to earlier, and we just sit there, his aftershave making me feel as giddy as a glass of champagne or two, his closeness and warmth feeling as right as a thunderstorm after a heatwave. I wonder how it can be possible to feel so content in the arms of a man I’m not even dating. This is just an act, and while I’m sure the hug is genuine, this will end when we leave here.
I wonder how many excuses I can come up with to stay longer.
After a while, a longer while than anyone has ever hugged me before, Ro pulls back and lets me go, but instead of returning to where he was sitting, he lies down on his stomach next to me and drags the picnic basket closer. ‘We should score some of these cakes,’ he says. ‘At this rate, we’re going to have to go back and ask Carol for more samples… which, on second thoughts, why would more free, delicious cake be a bad thing?’
I wriggle down beside him. ‘She’s already given us half the shop. And we haven’t had one of Kittie’s sandwiches yet.’
‘Ooh, good point. More tea?’
I grin and nudge his shoulder with mine, hoping to lift some of the unease I feel. That hug was charged. It felt important, too important for this pretence to end, and now I feel all weird and fluttery and I need to get back the easy jokiness between us. ‘Tea and cake. You really know the way to a girl’s heart.’
‘Then you must allow me to seduce you further, Madame…’ He reaches into the basket again. ‘Lavender and honey or red velvet? And I don’t mean either or, I mean which one first and which one second?’
***
‘I am never eating again,’ Ro says, resting his chin on his hands and pressing them down into the sand.
I roll over onto my back with a groan. ‘What is it with this island? They make the best food ever.’
‘Every single one of them. I haven’t eaten anything that hasn’t been completely gorgeous,’ he says. ‘Did you remember to rate any cakes though?’
‘Oops.’
He laughs. ‘I rated them all in my head. They all get a ten out of ten. Except the chocolate orange one – that gets, like, twenty-nine out of ten. I guess we’ll just have to try them all again sometime.’
‘Or just choose something random. It’s not a real wedding, is it? We’ll cancel it before she actually makes the cake. It’s not like it’s going to matter.’
‘No, I guess not,’ he says, sounding disappointed. He must really like free cake.
Our hips are so close together, too close maybe, our legs almost touching from thigh to foot, but I feel completely relaxed with him. His eyes are closed where his chin’s resting on his hands and I fold my arms under my head and look up at the clouds. The sky is such a flawless blue, dotted with a few white clouds and the distant silhouettes of birds swooping into the sea.
‘It’s nice here, isn’t it?’ I whisper, scared to break the spell.
‘It’s perfect here,’ he murmurs in reply. ‘It’s easy to forget about everything and just live in the moment. I see why people get married here. I might not believe in it, but I even see why people choose the church of no-divorces.’
‘That’s almost as good as admitting you were wrong.’
‘No chance.’ He cracks one eye open and looks up at me. ‘But I can almost admit you were right as well.’
I glance over at him. His eyes are closed again and he looks like he could easily fall asleep. A chunk of hair has fallen forward and my hand sneaks out to brush it back. I expect him to pull away but he makes a noise of contentment and shifts minutely closer, silent permission to carry on. My breath catches in my throat as I let my fingers trail lightly through his soft hair.
It feels private in our little cove and the chances of anyone seeing us seem unlikely, but people do walk on the beach so I suppose we can’t take any chances. The more islanders who see us acting like a couple, the less chance we have of being exposed as frauds before we’ve managed to find out anything solid about the church’s records.
The shrill whistle of someone calling a dog and rattling a dog lead from the clifftop above us breaks through the peacefulness of the afternoon. Probably the vicar walking Puffin.
Rohan leans up on his elbows and looks up, but you can’t see the path from down here.
Before I realise what’s happening, he kisses me.
His hand slides across my body and up to my neck, angling my head until my mouth fits against his, and he presses his lips to mine, softly and gently at first, but I respond without even thinking about it. My whole body feels alive and zinging with energy as I return the kiss, nothing slow and hesitant about it this time like there was in the churchyard. This is a hot, insistent battle of tongues, not the kind of way you’d kiss a man you’d only known a week. Probably the way you’d kiss someone you were engaged to, actually.
It’s like something inside me clicks into place when he kisses me. Sounds I didn’t even realise were there suddenly go silent. The splash of waves in the distance, the squawking of seabirds, the far-off hum of a boat engine. His leg is between mine, and I hook my leg around his and pull him closer, his hands cradling my face, his thumb brushing my jaw as everything disappears. There’s no sand, no picnic, no blanket, no cliffs, no island. There’s just us, floating on the waves of what is without a doubt the best kiss I’ve ever had.
I lose track of everything as we kiss – time, sense, probably even my own name. When we pull away to gasp for air, he rests his forehead against the side of my head, breathing heavily. ‘God, that was something.’ His voice is deep and raspy and ridiculously sexy.
I make a sound that’s somewhere between a moan of pleasure and an agreement.
‘Sorry,’ he whispers. ‘I thought someone might be looking. Thought we’d better show them some proof.’
‘Good thinking,’ I mumble. I think my brain has melted out of my ears, that was such a good kiss. ‘You should do it again. Just in case someone’s watching.’
He lifts his head and looks at me with a dazed, ethereal grin, his eyes heavy-lidded and dark sapphire blue. ‘Just in case someone’s watching.’
And he kisses me again.
I feel myself going boneless as I melt into his touch. He’s got one hand under my head, his fingers playing in the ends of my hair at my jawline, and I scrunch my hand in the thick hair at the back of his neck and drag him impossibly closer, shivering when he moans into my mouth.
‘They could be spying on us by drone…’ he says when we pull apart this time.
I surge up and kiss him again, dragging him back down, glad we’re lying on the sand because there’s no way I’d have stayed upright through a kiss like this.
‘Or by boat…’ I suggest, and he kisses me again. And again.
‘Or seaplane…’ he whispers as we kiss again.
‘Or underwater submarine…’ I say.
It makes him burst out laughing, still laughing against my mouth as he kisses me again.
His lips are dark red and swollen by the time he pulls back, and the sun is much lower in the sky than it was when we heard the whistle, what feels like hours ago, and it takes every ounce of self-control I have not to pull him back and kiss him again.
His cheeks are flushed and I can see him trying to stop grinning, but he can’t. ‘Best to be on the safe side,’ he says. ‘Can’t give them any reason to suspect us.’
‘No,’ I say, knowing the grin on my face matches his. ‘No reason at all. In fact, we should do that more often.’
He leans forward and kisses me once on the lips, still grinning. ‘Much more often.’
If there were butterflies in my stomach once, I think that kiss made them spontaneously combust into flames and rise from the ashes as burning phoenixes. I feel hot and tingly all over, and every time I try to stop smiling, I smile even harder.
We pack up the picnic stuff and walk back along the beach, and he takes my hand as we reach the top of the cliff path, back in view of the islanders, and we keep smiling at each other for no reason, like there’s a secret between us, but I’m not sure if it’s the same secret we’re keeping from everyone else now.