“Listen, Felix,” he says, “you’re right not to get swept up in something so quickly it will knock you off your feet. But don’t close yourself off to things that might make you happy.”
Happy.
This is something I’ve rarely been able to call myself. At home I feel secure, steady. Content, even.
Not happy.
But I did feel happy this week—at least before everything went to shit.
Hope made me happy.
Still does.
Which makes me wonder if I’m being too protective of myself. Ruling out the possibility of joy on the basis of the man I was, rather than the one I’ve become.
“That’s really good advice,” I tell Nick. “Thank you.”
“Not at all, any time. Now go on and sort yourself out. Call me if you need me, even if it’s late.”
“I will. Take care.”
I follow Nick’s advice to the letter. I go down to a coffee shop for espresso and breakfast, then take a long, fast walk on the beach, during which I call Sophie to check in on how things are going. She’s chipper and clearly has the business under control. Hearing her confidence and her updates about this and that assuages my nagging sense that things must be going wrong without me.
“We’re quite all right here, mate,” she says. “You’re the one stuck in the Bahamas with no passport, so worry about your own lot.”
I laugh. “Fair, enough,” I say. “I’ll see you soon.”
“If His Majesty’s government will let you. Good luck at the border.”
Next, I stop at the concierge desk to book a trip to see the pigs this afternoon. I go back to the room to tell Hope. She’s still sleeping deeply, so I leave her a note.
Went to a meeting—back by noon. I booked us a pig excursion leaving at 1 pm.
It feels… insufficient. I add:Thanks for last night.
And then I scrawl:xx.
It’s fairly anodyne as far as declarations of affection go, but it’s the safest way to convey the warmth that I feel for her. I leave the room before I’m tempted to wake her up and kiss her for real.
I take a taxi to a meeting on the mainland. I don’t speak beyond introducing myself, but I take comfort in being surrounded by likeminded people, all of whom know exactly what it feels like to experience what I’ve been going through. We recite the serenity prayer at the end of the meeting: “God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”
I know this is something I may always struggle with.
But saying the words is a good reminder of what I’m trying to achieve.
By the time I get back to the hotel room, around noon, I feel centered. Hope is up and dressed and munching on a sandwich.
“Hey!” she says. “How did it go?”
“I feel a lot better,” I say.
“Good. Hungry? I got you lunch.”
“Famished, actually. Thanks.”
She hands me a paper-wrapped ham and cheese toastie, still warm, and a bag of crisps. There is also a shopping bag on the table bulging with green apples.
“Uh-oh. Seasick again?” I ask.
