Found Missing

I wake up, cramped neck and aching legs, almost forgetting why I'm in the back of someones trashy car. In an instant the memories from yesterday attack; Heather.

I groan and sit up beneath the blanket we've taken from home, trying not to disturb the sleeping Gerard curled up beside me. His hair covers most of his face, long fingers hidden beneath the sleeves of his jacket. I watch the warmth of his steady breath turn to steam in the brisk air of his car and I can't help but think how peaceful he looks when he sleeps; innocent - the perfect picture he tries to hide behind that bitter veneer when he is awake. It's rare for him to look so tranquil, forgetting how uncomfortable our few hours of rest have been. I want to let him sleep, just for a little longer, before he's sucked back into the chaotic reality of today.

I reach for my bag from the front seat and pull out a cigarette, searching my pockets for a light, remembering the muffled cries he sometimes makes through the night. It's the heart-rending whimpers he'll smother in the bosom of his pillow that tell me his dreams can be more chaotic that reality, dreams harsh enough to make him knock back a bottle of cough medicine.

I sigh, rolling down the window, just enough to let my smoke out. The sun is failing to shine through those ceaseless clouds, and I've always known the mid March mornings to be bleak, obviously this is not an exception for the New York boroughs. I can see Bayonne Bridge from where we're parked, the road that took us from New Jersey to this bland place; all one-thousand and something meters of arched steel in coordination with the grey sky.

"It's fucking cold," Gerard sits up behind me, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, pulling the blanket tighter around us both. "and all I can smell is smog, sea salt and cigarettes." He buries his face in my neck, cool hands sneaking around my waist beneath our blanket. "At least you still smell like strawberries..." He murmurs into my hair, "I wish we could just stay like this."
"We can't." I tell him, although his fingers on my skin make me wish that we could. He hums, licking his lips against the sprinkle of goosebumps on my shoulder. "Gerard, we're not here on vacation, thankfully. We've come here for a reason."

I feel him sigh, looking up to rest his cheek against mine. "I know."

*

I perch against the bonnet of Gerard's car and kick a beach pebble through the sand, staring out at the city where I spent my first days in America; sky scraping towers and grand building blocks. Even from here I can feel the busy excitement, remember how loud everything is, how terrifying it had felt to be lost in a world so constant. Here, on the other side of the ocean, there's not much but a great collection of abandoned fishing boats and a rickety train track.

"I kinda' feel like we're in Belleville by the sea." Gerard says from his place next to me, an unimpressed curl to his mouth. "Right," I agree, scanning the desolate beach for anything to do this island justice. "Who would have thought we'd end up here, eh? On some sort of, wild goose-chase."
"No one knows us here..." Gerard says, turning to face me. "We could be anyone."
"What are you suggesting?" I ask through a puzzled laugh. "Are you suggesting we role-play? Make up new personas? I'll be Bonnie, you be Clyde?"
"Kind of."
"And for what purpose?"

He shrugs. "We'll look for this bar, we'll find Heather, and along the way we can, I dunno, make believe? We could pretend to not be the two friends everyone doubts."

I want to tell him that this isn't true, that we aren't doubted back in Belleville, but that would be a lie.

"This place, it's so empty. We could make something out of nothing, Elfie." He says. "We can go to the pier, I'll buy you cotton candy, it might taste like shit but it'll be okay because we're together." He hooks his fingers around the straps of my dungarees and pulls me closer to his side. "It'll be us."

I can't help but feel endeared by how sweet his proposal is, no matter how dark our circumstances are. "Alright." I grin. "Alright, fine. Cotton candy it is then." My heart flutters when I see him grin back, eyes shining bright behind those black lashes. "It'll be just us."

*

We walk along the pier, hand in hand, my boots squeaking over the wooden panels when it starts to rain. Gerard buys us a bag of cotton candy, as promised, and I blush when the lady behind the stand remarks on how pretty of a couple we make. Standing against the metal railing we let the seaside wind bite our cheeks and sweep our hair, resorting to one an-others side when our jackets fail to keep us warm, and for once, outside of our dismal, closely-knit town, I feel normal.

No, not just normal, happy. I listen to Gerard above the crashing waves, his eyes wide and bright as he relays stories back to me that I never knew existed; little details I never thought I'd hear. I watch him speak with cotton candy lips; pink and sticky and a smile equally sweet, and I can see that he feels just as happy.

He tells me about how he had always wanted to be a writer, despite his passion for art. He tells me about his time in high-school and about how he thought it'd be a smart move to go for the role of Peter Pan in the Christmas production, wearing the skin tight costume his grandmother had made. Looking back, he says he's not surprised by how much the other kids ridiculed him.

"I can't believe you've never met my grandma." He says through a mouthful of candy. "You need to, she's, like, the coolest person ever."
"I never knew you were so close to her," I say, sucking the sugar from my fingers. "I think that's kinda' cute."
"Cute my ass." He laughs. "No, but seriously, she's the best. I feel bad, she's been ill recently and I haven't been to see her as much..." He adds, and I can see his smile begin to drop. "Maybe it's because I don't want her to see how much of a wreck I'm becoming."
"Well, when we're home we'll go and see her together, if you want." I say quickly. "Just you and me, or with Mikey and your parents, whatever you want."
"I'd like that." He smiles again. "She'd like that, she's always so kind. She's supported me through a lot, like, with my art and writing, she even tried to teach me to sing."
"I didn't know you could sing."
"I can't."
"I bet you're the next Billy Corgan."
"I wish."

I link my arm around his waist, resting my head against his arm and I remind him of what I'd said back in January; giddy on vodka, laying side by side on his bedroom floor. "I think you can do anything, Gerard."

"What about you?" He says after a moment, seemingly shy of the previous topic. "You never really talk about how you feel."
"That's not true." I snap my head up to look at him. "I've told you a lot."
"Not really."
"Well, right now I think I feel happy."
"You think?"
"Fine. I know."
"Are you always happy? I know you're not, but you never tell me."
"I've told you about my dad, and I've told you I feel alone, and stupid, and pathetic. Surely that's enough." I mutter, taking my arm back. "Besides, you seem to know how I feel without me saying anything."

There's a pause.

"You never tell me about England, or how much you miss your mother, or about your little sister. I've seen the picture of you and her together behind the plastic in your wallet." He pulls me back closer to him again. "Y'know, it's okay if you're not okay."

"I don’t like to tell people that I'm not okay," I explain, unaware that I've been blinking back tears until now. "because it’s hard watching them not know what to do."

I hear Gerard sigh, reaching behind us to trace circles on the top of my spine. "I can read you like a book." He tells me, "You feel alone but you don't want to let anyone in... I think you need someone to want you, Elfie." He pushes his fingers up into my hair, gently pulling back until he can reach down to kiss cotton candy from the corner of my mouth.

"Well, I want you," He says over my lips, quietly, desperately. "I wanna' be with you so bad."

I don't say anything, I can't, my words are lost. I don't need to say anything, he already knows how much I want him, too, even if I am too frightened to admit it as often as I should. I lift my hand, pressing my touch to his neck so I can feel the frantic beat of his pulse. It isn't until now I realize how wet his hair is, plastered to his forehead and mine; water running down his jawline and onto my collarbone.

Neither of us had noticed how heavy the rain has become.