The ferry rocks as the boat aligns with the wharf. The speakers blare to life, spilling out reminders to gather all belongings and times to buy return tickets. Other passengers stand from the bench seats and stretch, eager to return to solid ground after the two-hour trip. Gray and I don’t move.

I’m not sure what to say. Despite my proximity to death at work, I’m fortunate enough to have never lost anyone close to me. It’s painful to lose a patient, but they’re not people I’ve interacted with outside the four walls of the hospital. The feeling of loss is different. If a stranger’s death affected you like a loved one’s, no one would ever be able to function. People die every day. Every minute.

Grief takes time to shrink to a manageable size. I know there’s nothing I can say to minimize it for Gray. But he could have come alone. He chose to include me in this. So, I reach out and tangle his fingers with mine. We’ve never held hands before. Touching is usually a prelude to something sexual between us.

I’ve held hands with other guys. I’ve kissed other guys. Both actions feel different with Gray. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m doing them with the knowledge of what doing more feels like…or if it’s because I’m doing them with him. Hopefully the former, likely the latter.

Gray squeezes my hand, then stands, slinging our bags over one shoulder and pulling me up with him. “Let’s go.”

I let him guide me down the stairs and off the ferry.

“You’ve been here before?”

“Yeah. Noah and I came with our parents when you guys were in…seventh grade, I think? I was ten.”

“Right.”

I expect to take one of the shuttles lined up on the street, but instead, we start walking along what looks like the main downtown section. My memories of my only other trip to this island are hazy, but I spot a bookstore and an ice cream parlor that both look familiar.

Charleston’s colorful charm has always looked like home to me. It’s not modern, but it feels fresh. Beaufort feels like stepping back in time. It’s overflowing with southern character, natural beauty, and rich heritage. Businesses line the street, separated by striped awning and wooden benches situated on cobblestones. They taper off into antebellum mansions situated under tall oaks dripping with Spanish moss.

“This is it,” Gray states, tugging me to the left toward a sign reading The Beaufort Bed-and-Breakfast.

The bed-and-breakfast is a three-story building that’s painted a cheery shade of light pink. The first two floors have wraparound porches dotted with hanging plants. Leaves spill over the edges of the pots and brush the railing. A white picket fence surrounds the property, which includes a quaint courtyard with wicker furniture.