SUNDAY
17 NOVEMBER, 1996
ISAIAH

               My hand itches to grab a fistful of coins from the compartment below the radio and find the nearest phone booth. It's Sunday and I haven't seen Dorian since I left him at his parents' house. Mansion as far as I'm concerned. Every other minute since then has been spent fighting the urge to call him.

A scalpel digs at the nerves between my spinal disks at the thought; he must be torn after seeing his parents and after everything he did for me this week, I hate not being there for him.

But I don't phone. He told me to make a decision and I haven't yet. It wouldn't be fair.

I replay everything he said to me, an audio tape that regularly gets stuck on "I want to go forward". How those five words flipped my world on its axis — now north is south and you're me. The thread is torn from my hold and my tapestry of us comes undone.

I've spent all this time pickling us, preserving our memories to make sure I don't forget the love we had, sealing every detail in the wax of poetry to read during whims of nostalgia only to burn them when the spell passes. Every holy moment has been marked by a dot of ink on our timeline. Even when I pretend I'm forgetting, I remember everything.

Dorian doesn't need to remember; he never viewed our love as a relic of the past to bury in a time capsule. He kept it alive and well in his heart this whole time, allowed it to wilt in autumn and blossom in spring without worrying if it looked different than the summer before.

Along with the terrifying promise of resurrection, a second wind of grief arrives. Knowing that our friendship didn't have to end, I have to grieve all the memories we could've made, the person I could've become, the person he could've become if he had chosen differently. My hatred has crumbled to dust that can't be reconstructed. Even so, I'm not sure I'm ready to welcome him back into my life. I love him with every fibre of my being, no point in denying that, but trust remains a frail twine.

The only way to test it is to jump and I'm not brave enough.

My lips twitch. I used to be the brave one.

Maybe on the day he broke up with me, my method of preserving his memory was to become him whilst he took everything I was. Maybe everything about me is actually about him — the person I was with him and the person I was without wouldn't recognise each other, and therefore it's Dorian who should be credited for everyone I've been.

Or maybe I was always the coward and I just managed to guise my own fears as selflessness.

I wouldn't let him see my house because I didn't want my mother to hurt him and not because I was terrified that if he saw the way I lived, he'd agree with everyone who thought me a rat. I never let him buy me a gift because, on principle, it wasn't fair when I wouldn't be able to get him anything back and not because I was terrified he viewed me as his poor friend who needed charity.

I didn't put up a fight when he left because I chose the high road and not because it confirmed all the fears I had resigned to years before the split: that I wasn't good enough, that he'd eventually outgrow me, that love isn't sufficient.

With a sigh, I brush the rumination to the back of my mind.

I pick up the yellow roses from my passenger seat before I climb out of the car. I've never been to Elmshoal, the town east of Halsett, and the scent of the sea takes me by surprise. Though the coast is still several kilometres away, the shrieks of seagulls liven the afternoon.

Double-checking the address from the note I copied it on, I approach one of the terraced houses and ring the bell. But when the door opens, behind it stands a squat freckled man with a bald head and a beard that compensates for it. He smiles warmly but remains a stranger.

'Er, sorry.' My eyes dart to the brass signage beside the door to check the house number: 15F. Maybe the address I found in the phonebook was wrong. 'I was looking for Samuel Kitner.'

The man nods and steps aside. When I remain on the doorstep, he urges, 'Well, come in before you freeze to death,' then calls into the house, 'Darling, there's someone here for you.'

Brushing my fingers against the mezuzah as I enter, I stifle the need to declare that I'm always cold so it really won't make much of a difference. One week with Dorian and I forget how to interact with people who aren't him.

The door shuts behind me just as Mr Kitner appears from the hall. For a split second, I don't recognise him out of his brown cotton suit but there's no mistaking the crow's feet that crinkle around his eyes when he smiles.

And he smiles as though nothing could make him happier than me arriving unannounced at his doorstep. 'Isaiah. Lovely to see you.'

Though his hair is brushed with considerably more grey and the backs of his hands are peppered with sunspots, he looks younger than when I last saw him. His body has aged but his spirit reinvigorated.

Kitner turns to the other man, hand still on my arm. 'This is one of my old pupils. Isaiah, this is my husband Gideon.'

A single phoneme of shock escapes me before I catch the rest. For a moment I know they both fully understand, I'm stunned but then I shift the bouquet to my left hand to shake Gideon's.

'These are for you.' I hand Kitner the roses and though his eyes widen a little, he accepts them gently. 'I just finished my master's dissertation. I'd've never made it this far if it weren't for you so... I wanted to say thank you.'

Kitner shares a glance with Gideon and I know they're indulging in some inside joke. They don't need words to know they're both thinking the same thing.

Adjusting the flowers, he squeezes my arm again. 'I'm honoured to have helped.'

It's obvious he means it, not slightly hyperbolic, and something twinges in my chest — not painful more than curious.

'I've just boiled the kettle, would you like to stay for tea?'

'I don't want to impose.'

'You aren't.'

The floor croons as they guide me through to the living room. I pass a display of family photographs, many in black and white and others so sun-bleached they pass for grayscale. A wedding picture is among them. It depicts much younger versions of Mr Kitner and Gideon holding each other in an apple orchard that may well be their back garden.

'Do you take sugar?'

I snap my attention to Gideon who pours readily brewed tea into three mugs on the sofa table. The back of my neck burns. How long did I stare?

'No thanks.'

I stumble to the armchair offered to me and accept the mug of tea. Before I can verbalise a thank you, a small girl pads into the room, though when she sees me, she stumbles so that the three puffs her hair is styled into with colourful bobbles jiggle. Then she darts a beeline to Gideon and whispers something into his ear. Though her skin is brown and her nose flat, their freckles draw identical constellations.

He listens intently until she pulls back. 'You need to show me now? Can't you wait twenty minutes?' When she vehemently shakes her head, Gideon stands, excusing himself, and lets her drag him along. 'Okay, Bampy is coming. No need to run.'

I watch them leave. The creak of floorboards commemorates their journey up the stairs and to a room above us.

I take a sip of tea and place the mug on the sofa table to free my hands as a gesture of sincerity before I look at Mr Kitner again. 'My mum told me about you losing your job. I'm sorry. It's fucked– sorry, wrong.'

He smiles at my clumsy save. 'I hate how it ended... But I don't mind that it did.' He sips his tea, returns the mug to the table, and watches fallen leaves storm behind the window. 'I loved being a teacher, but I did it for over forty years and I think it ran its course in my life. Now, I have the time and energy to devote myself to my family. And I get to wear this.' He toys with his wedding ring.

Normally, my trained politeness suppresses all emotions where they're inappropriate, but now confusion bubbles through me as obvious as the rattling lid over a boiling pot.

Kitner has no struggle to decipher the cause. He nods to invite me to ask.

Even then, I rub my tongue to the roof of my mouth in an attempt to phrase it well. When nothing feels particularly diplomatic, I settle for: 'I don't understand.'

'Well, it's not recognised by law, but why should we let that avert us from getting married? We had our wedding, unlawful as it is, thirty-seven years ago. Gideon has daughters from his previous marriage and his wife passed away when they were young so I've had the privilege of being a bonus parent and now I've got five grandchildren to keep me occupied.

'I'm perfectly happy. That's not to say I wasn't angry, or that I'm not angry still. I am. To lose a job over something so trivial is not what you expect in a place that claims to be the centre of modernity. This country has a lot of redeeming to do. But I can't let injustice consume everything else.'

My gaze drifts from the wall of framed baby pictures above the television to the flowers someone has scraped into the leather of the sofa, from the dozen potted plants by the window to the scatters of paint on the floor accidentally spilt when changing the colour of the walls.

This truly is a house that is loved in. A home. Something I've never had but can still recognise when it's in front of me. It fills me with inexplicable longing.

I return my attention to Kitner. Eye contact with him still has an element of mind-reading, the sensation he already knows what I'm thinking and, therefore, there's no point in secrecy.

'Do you think I'd make a good teacher?'

He laughs. 'Probably not. Have you ever taught anyone?' I don't even have time to turn away before Kitner soothes the hurt. 'I think you have the potential to be a fantastic teacher.

'You're twenty-three: I doubt there's anything you're good at yet. It's not a natural talent, it's a skill like anything else and passion is what gives you the patience to practice. It's intense work.' He chuckles again and a wistful note weaves into it. 'Kids can be brutal and difficult — quite annoying too. But it's rewarding.'

Unable to think of a response that feels substantial, I remain silent.

'If you want to, you'll be a great teacher.'

The sentiment canopies my thoughts when I drive back to the motel an hour later. I have to choose the things I nurture in this life and devote myself to them. It's my choice.

If I want to, I could have a beautiful life with Dorian.

But am I capable of devotion, of nurture? Wouldn't it be cruel if I promise him forever only to fail — I know you love me but I don't know if I can stomach it. I apologise for the inconvenience. Better luck next time.

Something pounces from the periphery. I brake, clutching the steering wheel as my heart bobs in my throat. But no deer nor other animal runs into the road. The assailant is just a colourful bedsheet the wind slaps around, one half of it torn from the fence it's attached to.

Checking that the road is empty, I park and go fix it before it causes an accident. Just as I've gotten all four corners secure, the front door opens and I look up to see a young woman rush toward me.

'You here to see the house?'

I stare at her until I shift my attention to the tie-dyed sheet. Now that it's spread out as intended, I can read the text painted on it: "FOR SALE".

My rejection is already on my tongue when I look up to see her beaming. I glance at the sign again. It's well made but obviously done by hand; she's decorated it herself.

I cut myself off and instead force a nod against my body's resistance. 'Yeah. Yes, I am.'

She squeals and bounces a little. I jerk forward when her heels crunch against the rocks in a way that sounds a lot like a twisted ankle, but she doesn't seem to share any of my concerns and only taps her hands together. 'Lawd Gad, I already thought ain't nobody coming.'

Her accent is so strong, I'm overtaken by a sudden urge to hug her and possibly to cry. She has the accent of someone who has never left Lower Halsett — Jamaican roots in Suffolk soil.

Reaching over the fence to touch my arm, she invites me onto the property. 'Please, please, welcome.'

She walks me up the wilting front garden. Someone has scraped moss from the grouts between the bulky paving in an effort to clean it up but it's obvious no one has taken care of the yard in several years. Every species of invasive flora found in Suffolk is crammed to the battlefield beneath rhododendron shrubs and the vines draping the garage grow so thick I doubt the door opens anymore.

Thanks to being further in the country, the property is much larger than the one I lived in with my mother and the nearest neighbour is a good two hundred metres down the road.

I remember this house, its red brick and white door. Vague memories of the boy who used to live here ghost around me as I walk up the drive, of his bicycle lying on the grass and the pitchers of homemade apple juice he drank in the yard.

I used to envy him. Though he was several years older than me, I used to imagine myself in his place. This was, to my child self who knew nothing of the existence of a world beyond Halsett, the furthest I would get from my mother's house.

Rather than long and narrow, this home is wide with windows on all four sides. A home where sunlight streams in all day but never grows unbearably hot thanks to the natural coolant of greenery. Where flowers thrive in a garden so large I could run around it for hours without boredom. Where the ground is soft with moss so I could run without being bedridden the next day. I wouldn't need to worry about slicing my foot open on a broken liquor bottle hidden amongst weeds if I didn't wear shoes.

Where I could craft a swing on the sturdiest of the apple trees out back and eat watermelon straight from the shell with a spoon. Where I could have my own chickens — two, called Thyme and Rosemary, after their favourite herbs respectively, because five-year-old me was adamant about the belief that chickens like fresh herbs with roasted vegetables as much as I do. Where I could lie in the grass to read and write poetry in the company of birdsong. Even the green that freckles the roof has a charm of gentle freedom.

I pluck a leaf from a cypress shrub we pass and instantly the scent brings Dorian to my side.

Dorian would love a house like this. He'd plant his own herbs and tomatoes in the garden and write music about the chipping paint on stiff window frames.

'D'you want sum to drink?'

I snap my attention back to the agent. She holds the door open for me with a smile that's extra kind to ensure I don't feel embarrassed. How long did I space out for? Why am doing that so much lately?

I scuttle up the stone steps and into the house. She shuts the door behind me and walks to a styrofoam cooler tucked against the wall. 'My supervisor told me that cider is the drink to serve cause everyone round here likes it well enough, but I brought some mulberry juice too cause I ain't a fizzy drink kinda gyal myself. And it's also from my cousin's farm and you have to support family, right? Sorry, I'm rambling.'

'You're criss. I'll try the juice.'

She beams. Opening the cooler, she digs a maroon juice box from the bottom and holds it out to me. I've barely taken it before she bursts with laughter.

'Christ!' Shaking her head, she presses a hand to her face before she holds it out to me. 'I completely forgot to introduce myself. I'm Kaleisha.'

Despite her overenthusiastic nerves, her handshake is firm. And when she guides me through the first open door to the sitting room, she points out the authentic antique tiles around the woodstove and the integrity of the exposed oak beams on the ceiling with impressive skill.

The room bathes in afternoon sunlight that cascades in through the dual set of windows. A piano would fit perfectly in front of them whilst the wall opposite is ideal for a bookcase that has room to grow.

'What happened to the family that lived here? I remember them.' I rack my brain for a name but none resurface. 'I didn't take them as the sort to move... Then, ain't nobody in Halsett seem like the sort to move.'

Kaleisha snorts. 'You ain't wrong. But, hey, when you've made a home somewhere, you don't just leave it, right?'

My chest seizes up but thankfully she's already explaining how the son moved to Devon and after Mr Jospeh passed, he finally convinced his mother to move out west. I nod vaguely and follow Kaleisha to the kitchen.

The workbench is made of the same oak as the ceiling beams, with a matching dining table left behind. If Dorian was here now, he'd run to feel it, probably lay on the counter with his whole upper body in some sort of hug. The butterflies refuse to waver as I run my palms over the wood.

Kaleisha shows me the rest of the house, then the backyard which is all the more charming for how shaggy it is, the river not too far from the property line, and the garage which I have to help her cut open. We return to the front garden for parting.

'Take one of them with you.' She hands me another juice box, then finds a folder from her bag. 'And this too.'

I don't have the heart to tell her I have no intention of moving here, so I take the folder and open it in the spirit of politeness. Half of the front page is covered by a photograph of the property taken in spring. But I stick to the number displayed at the bottom.

'Is this...' I look up at her, 'the annual rent?'

Kelaisha stares at me with sudden uncertainty. She thinks I'm joking and when she understands me not to be, she blinks firmly. 'No, this is to purchase.'

'And it ain't missing no zero?'

Catching up to the source of my confusion, she laughs. 'This is rural Suffolk. No place like home but it ain't worth much.'

Notes

Mezuzah: Mezuzah: A scroll with verses of scriptureattached to doorframes. Observant Jews will touch it upon entering any room toremind them about their obligation to God.