I won't say anything.
It's been five years since I've last seen him. It's been about seven days since we met again. We have three days left together. I close my eyes, open them, letting my eyes focus on the blinding moon, trailing down the dark sky, making a path through the stars, and settling on the horizon, just visible. The waves twinkle a little. I slide my head slowly to face him.
He was so tense on the first night. Perhaps everything I said terrified him a little, and that terrifies me.
I extend a hand, resting it on his forearm. I don't turn to him, but I feel his gaze on me. I can't see, but I know that he is comfortable. With the gesture. With me.
No words; we don't need them. A warm smile, a soft touch on the arm, just eye-contact. It's enough. And looking down at my hand, the ring makes everything more than enough.
I think I understand now. I have been unfairly persistent with Harry Evans, though he knows me to be this way. Even when we were younger. But I cringe at the memory of me making googly eyes in young Harry's direction to get his attention. At the thought of looking his way, but not completely his way, just to see if he was looking my way, makes my stomach churn with revulsion for myself. For who I used to be. But the younger me knew exactly what she wanted.
To have him.
It's an unusual idea, for someone so young to like someone so much, and maybe, back then, it was for the wrong reasons. But there was sincerity in every bubbly sensation in the pit of my stomach, in each split-second glance, and an undeniable desire to hope for more.
To have him, you must love every part of him. And him to me. There's a reason he shies away from me, and it's part of what he hasn't told me, or what he's scared to reveal to me. That iron door leading to a locked room, hidden behind the maximum security of his heart; I love it as much as I love his smile that I miss so much.
I turn to him. His eyes seem to reach beyond the horizon. He's not here. He's somewhere else. I'd like to be there too. Have I told you how much I've missed you, Harry?
There's a warm glow beaming upon us. It makes me a nice kind of exhausted. The type you feel after you've watched a wholesome film late in the night, or the type you feel after a long day out in the cold, and now you can lay back, stretch your sore toes and slurp loudly and carelessly on your hot chocolate.
My eyelids are droopy, my entire body feels heated, and the sweet, sweet scent of late-night dessert sweeps through the empty buffet. It fills my nostrils, gives me the energy to get up, go get some.
When we escape the cool breeze of the night, I find my hand in Harry's. He holds it tight, and only lets go after I sit down, crawling into the same booth we ate dinner in last night. Someone rearranged the buffet pillows, and I take the one sitting there, pressing it behind my back, resting against it. I expect Harry to sit across from me, but he squeezes in beside me. I take my feet off the bench to make room, he picks them up and lays them across his thighs.
Silence between us. Harry's the only one who looks nervous; it amuses me.
"How are you feeling now?" he asks slowly.
I assume he's checking if I'm sober. The thought makes me a little embarrassed. I remember everything I did (I think) but I didn't find any of it out-of-line at the time. But my wackiness lasted quite long. At least, that's what Ben told me. But it was my first time drinking.
As I open my mouth, a yawn overtakes me. "Tired," my brain automatically says.
"Do you want to head ba –?"
"No, I want to sit here with you."
His eyes don't meet mine. But I still find it quite amusing that he's suddenly so nervous. "Just tell me if you feel uncomfortable, alright?" he says softly.
"You got it, dude."
He looks up and meets my eyes this time, with a little sparkle in his. "Did you just call me 'dude'?"
"Yeah, dude."
He stretches his back, leaning away. When he slouches again, his hand lands on my leg. I shift by accident, he takes it off, but the grin doesn't disappear from his face.
"That means I can call you 'dudette', no?"
"Certainly not."
"Why not?"
I don't know, Harry. What even is this conversation?
"I like my name," I inform him.
"I like your name too."
He recoils at that. Just a little. But I see it. I knock my calves against his thighs playfully and his face reddens.
"Your last name," he starts. "It's… cool."
I make a pfft sound. "It's very generic, Harry. A lot of Australians have the same last name."
"I like it."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
I shake my head, unable to hold back my smile. "Don't go mixing Tasmin Kelly up with any other Kellys then, kay?"
He doesn't say anything, doesn't smile; just stares. I take my legs off of his, shuffle my butt back until it hits the seat's back, then lay my head on his shoulder. He draws in a quiet but obvious breath, but doesn't pull away. Thanks, Harry.
There's silence. A nice silence. One that I wish to spend again with Harry, after tonight. After this cruise, if only possible. Harry's the one to break it.
"Do you remember when we first met, Tasmin?"
The playground was alive.
"Yeah."
So much familiar noise. Squealing, shouting, chattering…
"Do you?"
...small talk, gossiping.
I heard the excitement in their voices.
Harry nods. "Everything."