Calloway // Michael Gray x Reader - Peaky Blinders Fanfic

Chapter 3

Calloway

We lay in the sand. Side by side, a healthy and platonic distance apart. The sun is enjoying its last moments in the sky, and the beachgoers up the other, less rocky, end are all packing up and leaving for the day. The gentle whoosh of the waves mingles with the sound of the birds. My mouth is still salty from the food.

"Why do you want to leave the village so badly?" I ask. "Why aren't you like the rest of them, perfectly content with such a simple life?"

He's quiet before he answers. "I read," he says. "A lot. Fitzgerald. Machiavelli. Powerful men get to do the things they do in books. Men who've lived. Gained influence. I read about their automobiles, and their fights for dominance, and the way people look up to them. Spent more time in those worlds than this one. And I much prefer it there. If I could live a life like that... Maybe I wouldn't need to read so much."

"I completely understand," I say quietly.

He turns his head to look at me. "You do?"

"I'm a woman," I explain. "I long for all those same things you do. I feel just as strongly, just as..." I twist the bracelet around my sand-coated wrist. He's been so honest with me, I do not hold back. "It's why I decided to go into banking. I wish to make something of myself. I see the other women in Derby, with children at their feet and babies on their hips. Some of them only a few years older than me. And yes, teaching or nursing might have been more sensible, but..."

"But wouldn't it be nice to make history?" He murmurs, finishing my sentence.

I smile at him. "Maybe we'll both end up in the history books."

He says, "Stranger things have happened."

We lay in silence a moment longer, listening to the waves. The sky is getting darker and darker, but I don't want this to end. I'm enjoying his company.

"When do you go back?" He asks me.

"Tomorrow," I tell him. "You?"

"Not until next week."

"You'd better not go cooking mussels with any other girls while I'm gone."

He laughs. "That's a shame. They're lining up down the other end of the beach for their turn — I'll have to tell them to go home."

"Please do," I say. "They might actually know what they're doing when it comes to the bloody things, and make me look very stupid."

His voice is soft. "If there's one thing I've learnt about you, Calloway, it's that you're not stupid."

He slips his palm into mine, and we hold hands. Sideways, like children, with our fingers wrapped around each other's palm. There's a fluttering in my stomach, a rush of blood to my brain. His hand feels nice in mine. Warm. Comforting.

I am lying with a boy, and we are holding hands. I wonder for a moment if this means I am going to have my first kiss.

But there's an absolute innocence to the gesture as we lay there, both of us savouring the moment. Allowing the waves to cleanse the sand until the sky is pitch black, and neither of us can justify lying here any longer, in case our families worry and come to look for us.

It is with reluctance we pull away, our fingertips lingering against one another for as long as we can get away with.

"Where are you staying?" He asks. "I'll walk you back."

"We're just along the Main Street," I tell him.

"Your parents won't be worried?"

"I doubt it. I have a younger sister, they're more focused on her usually. Yours?"

"I have a younger brother. They're still overbearing."

"That'll only be because they care," I say politely.

He smiles. "They're not too bad. Think they've worked out by now I'll do what I want. Make my own mind up on things."

We come to a slow stop. "This is me here," I say, gesturing to the little cottage illuminated in the streetlights.

We stand facing each other on the pavement. Once again, I'm distracted as I try to work out the colour of his eyes — but the dim lighting is even less useful.

"I'm very glad I met you, Calloway," he murmurs.

My stomach suddenly feels like it did when he took my hand. "I'm glad I met you too, Henry."

He nods, eyes flitting to the ground then up again. "It's a shame you're not staying longer."

"Who knows," I say. "My parents keep insisting I'll miss coming here, now I'm old enough to stay home. We might both be back here next year."

He smirks. "I won't be."

"No, you won't be," I agree. "Maybe you'll be in New York by then."

He steps back, still grinning as he says, "I'll be sure to send you a postcard."

I roll my eyes. "Make sure it's one befitting of a Machiavellian Prince."

"I'll make sure of it."

We both hover a few seconds longer, the chilly air thick between us.

And then I turn, and then he turns, and we part our separate ways.