Love Across the Seas: He’s in America, I’m in England
That summer promised nothing—just the usual: a bit of sun, the murmur of waves, my mates, laughter, evening strolls, and a quiet melancholy even the ocean couldn’t wash away. I’d gone to Brighton, expecting no miracles. Everything was predictable, almost dull. On the first day, as always, I slathered my fair skin in sunscreen—I burned too easily, and the last thing I wanted was to resemble a boiled lobster. I dreamed of an even tan, peace, and maybe, if luck was on my side, a fleeting holiday romance.
But romance came in the form of a handful of sand. Some bloke, walking past, seemed to fling it right onto my back on purpose. I yelped, ready to kick off, but when I looked up, I met his gaze. He stood there, shrugging slightly, grinning—wide, genuine. Then, softly, he said, “Sorry, wasn’t on purpose.” And something in his voice, in that simplicity, thawed something frozen inside me.
Days later, the sea turned wild, waves crashing with such fury only the boldest stayed on the beach. I’ve never been one to shy away—I’ve been a strong swimmer since childhood. But even I struggled to stay upright. Then, a sudden tug, a moment of panic—before a strong hand gripped my wrist. It was him. That same bloke with the grin. We laughed, wobbling like kids knocked about by the surf. And then—he vanished. Just like that. I scanned the shore, hoping to spot him again.
And I did.
One morning, nursing a pounding headache, I dragged myself to the beach. My mates had insisted, so I popped a pill and trudged along. I hid under a parasol, face buried in a towel, just waiting it out. But nearby, raucous shouts of “Bingo!” and “Ace!” cut through—someone was playing cards, unbearably loud. I lifted my head… and there he was. Just three parasols away. Our eyes locked, and my chest tightened. I fled—literally. Walked right off. He unnerved me too much.
But that evening, in the pub, it all began anew. First, the bartender slid me a cocktail—“from that bloke in the corner.” Then—a slow dance. And that was it. His hands, his movements… I melted into him. No words, just breath, touch, warmth. He stole me from reality. That’s how it started—the thing that changed me forever.
The rest of the holiday, we were inseparable. Mornings with tea, afternoons wandering, evenings spent watching sunsets and talking for hours. I giggled like a schoolgirl and cried from joy that came too suddenly. His name was James. He lived in America, in Seattle. Born in London but left years ago, built a life there, only returned in summer. Me? Just a girl from a quiet Cornish village. Our worlds couldn’t have been more different. And yet… we loved.
When it was time to leave, he insisted on driving me home. Silent most of the way, he held my hand. At my doorstep, he asked, “I’ve two weeks left. Can I stay? Be near you?” I just nodded.
He booked a room at the local inn. I told my parents. Dad chuckled, “You’re floatin’ on air—what’s got into you?” Mum… took offense. “Honestly, love, acting like a stranger. Boy in a hotel when we’ve space here?” She made me call James, invite him for supper.
He came with flowers—for me and Mum. Whisky for Dad. And that same wide, honest smile. We talked, laughed, lingered. They took to him. Those two weeks slipped by like a dream. Then—the airport. Tears. Promises. Silence.
Now, we live an ocean apart.
We talk every day. Video calls, letters, words to cling to. But it’s not his scent, the warmth of his hands, the way his eyes gleam when he looks at me. Without him, the room’s cold, even with the heating on. He jokes, “Wait. I’ll be back soon, sweep you away, never let go.” My voice shakes when I reply, “Come home. I love you.”
Sometimes I wake at night, reach out—and find empty sheets. Tears come uninvited. But I wait. Because I know—love across the sea isn’t a myth. It’s alive. Real. Just… impossible. For now.
