Disloyalty

- The Beginning -

We first met on September 17th, 2011.

Our moms had been inseparable once, growing up side by side in a rundown neighborhood where their houses stood like mirrors of each other. Both had peeling paint clinging desperately to weathered wood panels, held together by nothing more than rusted screws. 

My mom used to tell me stories about those days—how they'd share food, sneak out to meet in the dead of night, and swear to each other they'd be best friends forever.

But forever didn't last long. Charlotte moved away when her parents decided to start fresh somewhere far off, and like most friendships lost to distance, theirs slowly faded until it was gone. I'd never heard from her since. Until today.

Charlotte had somehow reconnected with my mom through a mutual friend and wanted to meet at a beach nearby. She'd be bringing her son, and my mom—overly enthusiastic, as always—insisted I come along.

 I refused, multiple times, but in her usual fashion, she piled on awful jokes like, "Who knows, maybe her son will be your future husband!" As if. I eventually caved just so she can shut her up.

The day was overcast, the sky a dull shade of grey. The beach was nearly empty, except for the occasional dog walker passing by. 

I remember seeing them approach—Charlotte, tall and slender with long brown hair that was perfectly curled, her dark eyes full of warmth, exactly how I pictured her.

 And beside her was her son. He was tall for his age, with the same dark eyes and jet-black hair, probably a year older than me. Attractive, aswell.

Our moms embraced like no time had passed at all, tears and laughter filling the quiet air. Meanwhile, we stood awkwardly to the side, stealing confused glances at each other, neither of us sure what to do. Finally, he broke the silence.

"Hi," he said, flashing a wide, bright smile that made him seem older than he was, despite the small gap where a tooth had once been. "What's your name?"

I froze. "H-Hi, I'm Mia... Mia May Ebsworth," I stammered, my voice betraying how nervous I was. I reached out for a shaky handshake, annoyed at myself for sounding so formal.

He chuckled softly, glancing down at his shoes, a blush creeping up his cheeks. "It's alright... If you're Mia May, then I guess I'm September," he teased, making light of my awkwardness with a playful grin. "Just kidding.

 I'm Andrew, Andrew James Graham, if we're doing full names." His joke made me laugh despite myself, easing the embarrassment of the situation to my relief.

Eventually, our moms finished their little reunion, and we started walking along the beach with a cheap ice cram.

The sand was dotted with plastic bags and broken shells, their once-beautiful patterns long since worn away from time. The sea stretched out like a sheet of dull grey, waves capped with dirty foam. It wasn't much, but the salty air carried a certain nostalgia that felt strangely comforting.

"So... do you like the beach?" Andrew asked, clearly trying to keep the conversation going.

"I love it," I blurted out. "It's my favorite place in the world. There's something about the way the sky looks at sunset, the way the water feels when you swim... well not his beach im talking more Spanish...It's my happy place." I realized I was rambling, but he didn't seem to mind. He just smiled.

"Hey, look," he said, pointing out toward the horizon. A yacht, so big it could fit over a 100 people on it drifted along the water, its sleek white hull cutting through the waves with effortless grace.

"One day," he said, his voice full of ambition, "I'm going to own a boat like that. I'll sail the Mediterranean, explore the world."

I smiled, turning to face him. "That sounds amazing."

He grinned back at me, his eyes glinting with determination. "When I get that boat, I'll take you with me. Just the two of us."