Chapter 1
The wind is getting warmer. My cheeks are flushing. I don’t know how long we’ve been driving — I just woke up.
The landscape has changed: green stretching as far as the eye can see, cows, sheep, people walking and laughing. My parents are smiling along to the radio. I haven’t seen them like this in a long time — usually, they barely speak to each other. The book I was reading before I fell asleep has ended up at my feet. I’m getting warmer, I can feel sweat running down the back of my neck. I’m cramped in this car, but then, it was never meant for a family. To be fair, I was never part of the plan — my parents had a quiet little life before I came along. An accident, as my mother likes to say, before sighing and thinking back to her life before, to the love she had for my father before I was born, the attention he used to give her. I’ve always wondered whether she regretted that part of her life. Whether she regretted me. I roll down the window. The air comes in slowly, heavy somehow. It smells of grass and dust. My father is softly singing along to the music, my mother laughs, her face turned toward him, and I smile. I want to ask what time it is, but seeing them so close like that makes me want to stay quiet, not to shatter the moment — those are so rare. I close my eyes and let the wind touch my face. Then the car stops.
— We’re here, sweetheart.
My father unloads the trunk while my mother admires the house, exclaiming in the way she always does, cycling through the same lines:
— Wow, it’s so beautiful!
— We’re going to be so happy here!
— Finally, a holiday…
She says the same things every year, without fail. I grab my book and step out. The sun is so bright I can barely make out anything but a blurry shape. Yet I know this house. We come every year, without fail — a holiday house in the south, a few metres from a little beach that opens onto the sea. A white facade, almost blinding, eaten up by the sun. Light-blue shutters, a little chipped, that always creak when you open them. A red-tiled roof, scalding by noon. Two stone steps lead to the front door — varnished, worn, but solid. A violet bougainvillea climbs up the left wall, and an old rusted iron table sits under the fig tree, where we always have lunch. It smells of warm sand, sun cream, and the sea, even with the door closed. It’s a house that never changes. Even when we change, a little more with every summer. I’ve barely recovered my sight when my parents are already waiting for me at the door. I walk across the burning gravel to the entrance. The inside hasn’t changed either — the air is cooler in here, slightly damp, as if the house had been waiting in the shade all year. The beige tiled floor, smooth, sometimes lets through a faint draught from the garden. The walls are white, slightly yellowed by the sun, decorated with old beach posters, a spotted mirror, and a few rattan frames. A wobbly chest of drawers sits in the entrance as always, covered in a pile of keys no one knows where to put. It smells of dry wood, lavender, and something faintly stale. The bedrooms are upstairs, reached by a creaking light-wood staircase. My room is the last on the right at the end of the hall. It too waits for me every summer. As if it only comes alive when I sleep in it. I drop my things by the bed. I’ll unpack later. Right now, I just need to lie down. To breathe.
To feel that summer has begun.
I didn’t go out today — we’re here for ten days, after all, I’ll have plenty of time to enjoy the sun and the beach. In previous years I used to stay with my parents, not because they stopped me, but because they were afraid — afraid of the unknown, afraid for me, I think… I’m not really sure. The heat has died down. I love summer evenings when the air grows lighter and everything slows down a little — the shutters clap softly, the crickets sing, the light turns golden, that moment when the day fades without a sound, as if apologising for leaving. We had tomatoes and mozzarella for dinner, and it’s funny how it feels like a ritual, eating that dish on summer evenings.
— Are you going out tonight? my mother asks.
— No, I don’t think so.
It’s strange she’s asking — it’s the first time she has. But the way she’s looking at my father, I get the sense these holidays are a second honeymoon for them.
— Tomorrow I’ll go into town, try to meet some new people.
She smiles. I was right — they need to find each other again, they don’t want me getting in the way. I finish my tomatoes and clear the plates. My parents asked if I wanted to watch a film with them. I said no. I need to sleep and, like I said, we have ten days — there’ll be time.
It’s the cicadas that wake me. The sun is already high. Strange that it didn’t wake me sooner — I’d forgotten to close the shutters. I struggle to get out of bed, I’m so comfortable; this holiday feeling had been missing from my life. And these are the last ones, really. Come autumn I start university — no more long summers to rest in this house. I barely open my eyes, just lying there a moment, taking in the room. Everything is exactly as I remember it: the white wall, slightly cracked; the beige curtains moving gently in the warm air; the old wooden wardrobe that creaks whenever you brush against it; the frame above the bed with its blurry photo of some unknown beach; the low chest of drawers where a few books from last summer still lie scattered; and my shorts rolled up in a ball on the chair, as if time here never really moves on. I finally dare to get up, grab a t-shirt, the same shorts as yesterday, and dash to the bathroom. I take a moment to look at myself in the mirror before brushing my teeth. There’s still that trace of lipstick on the glass. I should have cleaned it off, but I like having that memory. I used to play with my mother’s lipsticks and kiss the mirror — I must have been ten, I can’t quite remember. My reflection has changed. I look older, my features more defined. It’s a strange feeling. This mirror that only sees me for ten days a year. The water on my skin feels wonderful. I try to plan my day in my head, figure out where I’ll go. When I come downstairs, my parents are on the terrace having coffee. What time is it? I go into the kitchen for a glass of orange juice — 11:11. My parents never sleep this late, but it’s a good sign: they seem at ease, they look happier. The sun is warm on my skin as I join them, sitting on the same wooden chair I always sit on. The conversation follows its usual course — they ask my plans for the day, and before I’ve even answered, they announce they’re going for a walk together, just the two of them, in the village. I smile. They really want to find each other again. Given the time, we decide to make brunch: bread, avocado, salmon, and, naturally, tomatoes and mozzarella.
They left shortly after. I’m alone in this big house, and I really need to push myself to go out. I grab a bag, a book, the keys, and head for the beach. The advantage is that it’s only a few metres away. It’s a small beach, discreet, edged with rocks and tall grass, with slightly grainy sand that sticks to your ankles — a few towels laid here and there, a child shouting somewhere in the distance, an old woman under a striped parasol, and that smell of salt and sun cream drifting through the air. Everything is calm, almost sleepy, as if summer itself is taking a nap. I perch on a rock, realise I’ve forgotten to bring a towel, and settle in anyway. I open my book. The sound of the waves gives a rhythm to my reading, and I feel good. About fifteen minutes must pass before a noise pulls me out of my story — laughter, shouts, and the sound of water being churned up. I straighten up discreetly to see who’s disturbing my moment. That’s when I see them: a group of young people, probably my age, playing volleyball in the sand, diving into the water laughing, blasting music too loud — and I find myself watching them, almost admiring them. They give the impression of living their summer as if it were their last, which is what I’m doing too, but in a different way — quieter, more inward. And suddenly I wonder if I’m really making the most of it, because there’s a strange, diffuse feeling, as if something is missing, as if I envy them. Should I go over? Should I let myself have fun too? As if someone had heard me, the volleyball lands near me — and they’re all looking at me. I freeze for a few seconds, the ball in my hands, torn between the urge to run and the urge to join them. I grab the ball and walk toward them.
There are five, maybe six of them, all tanned, relaxed, as if they’ve lived here forever. One of them has curly hair, blonde almost white, and laughs loudly at everything. A shirtless boy holds a speaker in his hand and dances more than he talks. Another, quieter, watches me approach without saying anything — just a half-smile at the corner of his lips.
— I think this belongs to you, I say with a smile.
They thank me. The blonde girl smiles back. She’s wearing a white swimsuit that suits her perfectly and looks older than the others. I stand there, a little awkward, about to turn back — but before I can:
— Do you want to play with us? says a boy climbing out of the water. We’re short one person, there’s only five of us.
Five, then. The boy from the water, the blonde girl, the boy with the speaker, and the one who was watching me arrive. As if reading my thoughts, he adds:
— Right now it’s just four, but Amélie’s on her way.
— Well then, yes, why not, I laugh, a little nervously.
So I end up on a team with the blonde girl, the boy from the water, and the boy with the speaker. It’s funny — they’ve folded me in straight away without asking any questions, which puts me at ease. Amélie arrives: a small brunette with a lovely smile. The game begins. I’ve never played volleyball, but I hold my own. They don’t make a thing of my not being very strong — it feels more like they’re doing it for fun, nothing is taken too seriously. Sand flies under our feet with every move, the ball goes over the net — sometimes too high, sometimes nowhere near — people shout, laugh, throw themselves to the ground to make impossible saves. The speaker blasts an old summer track you can half hear, the sun beats down and no one complains. They sweat, fall, laugh again. It’s chaotic but full of life. And me, I run, I smack the ball clumsily, I laugh too, and for the first time, I don’t wonder what I’m doing here.
— Not bad for a first time, the blond boy says with a smile.
— Is it that obvious? I say. I didn’t understand half the rules.
— Doesn’t matter. Neither do we.
He has a lovely smile, hypnotic blue eyes. When the game ends, some go in the water, others sit down in the sand. I sit too, still a little out of breath. The others talk, laugh, half-drench each other with their water bottles — but I drift a little to the side, not really to escape, just to watch. The blonde girl comes over to me.
— So, she says, where are you from?
— I live in the city. I come here with my parents every summer.
— That’s funny, we’ve never seen you here — we come every year too.
That makes sense, really. I used to spend all my time with my parents or shut away in the house. We talk for about twenty minutes. I learn a lot about her and the group. They’ve known each other since they were little kids. She’s been at university for two years, the others have just finished school. She wants to become a psychologist and dreams of living in California. She’s so radiant when she talks — ambitious and dreamy at once, and I find that beautiful. She ends up asking what I’m doing tonight and whether I want to join them for a little get-together on the beach.
— It’ll just be us, don’t worry, she says, laughing.
I say yes with a big smile — I’m happy to be making new connections. They start packing up and saying their goodbyes. I go back to my rock, smiling, to finish my book.
