Never Forget (Memories)

shut my window.
    Dad pulls the car up outside the small, two-storey cottage I know so well. Pink rose bushes still climb around the door in a random pattern, the white window panes are immaculate, and the white paint on the exterior is slightly cracked and weathered. Too many flowers crowd the beds lining the cobbled path up to the little wooden door.
    The door opens revealing the salt-and-pepper-haired, wrinkled woman I know and love as my Grammy. One side of my mouth curls up as I see her and I rip the headphones from my ears. I push the door open - not too enthusiastically since I don't want my parents knowing I'm even a little excited - and skip down the pathway to her.
    "Lexy girl!" Grammy cries, wrapping her arms round me.
    "Hey, Grammy." I hug her back and take in her distinctive scent of roses, fresh blossoms and a hint of freshly baked bread. "How are you?"
    "Still alive, dear, still alive." She chuckles and moves to hug the parents.
    I shake my head - I've forgotten her dark sense of humour. Of course, at 68 years old she would be glad she was still alive.
    "Mum, it's been too long," Mum says and embraces Grammy.
    "I know, love. I've missed you," she replies.
    Grammy moves to Dad and greets him the same way. I look around as the sea breeze ruffles through my long, dark hair.
    Grammy must have every type of flower possible in her front garden. Roses, hyacinth, tulip, growing sunflowers, pansies, and everything else you can think of. I'd bet my favourite Gucci purse she'd spent half her pension on her garden already this summer.
    "Lexy?" Mum's voice pulls me back from my musings and I look up. "Grab your bags from the car, sweetie. Grammy wants to show you your new room."
    "My new room?" I turn to Grammy.
    "Of course, dear," she chuckles and clucks her false teeth. "I highly doubt you're much into Westlife these days, so I had your room redecorated for you."
    I smile as I remember my unhealthy love of my favourite boy band. If I'm honest, I still love them, but I'd never admit it. Not to anyone but Grammy, anyway. I grab my suitcase and duffel bag from the boot of the car and follow her into the cottage. I heave the fit-to-burst suitcase up the old, wooden stairs after her and into my room.
    "Here we are, Lexy girl." Grammy pushes the door open and I gasp.
    The once Westlife plastered, pink room is now a powder blue and white. Thin, gauzy curtains flutter at the open window, and a shell design quilt lies on the bed. The walls are decorated with driftwood frames filled with local beach shots and shells hanging on string. White wooden furniture accompanies the new design, and I turn to my Grammy with adoration in my eyes.
    "I love it. Thank you, Grammy." I hug her and she grips me back.
    I can feel her spine under my hands. She's lost weight since I've seen her.
    She pulls back and smiles at me widely. "Don't worry, dear." She winks. "Your albums are in a box under the bed."
    I crinkle my eyes and grin. "You're the best."
    "That's what they all say," she sighs. "I'm going to check on your parents, you'll be okay here?"
    I look around my room again. "I'll be more than okay."
    "Good." She turns and shuffles off, stopping at the top of the stairs. "Do you know when your brother will be here?"
    "He said he'd try to get here on Monday," I call over my shoulder and enter my room properly.
    Grammy's cottage is high up, and from my window I have an amazing view of the Bay. I've spent too many summers to count at Lilac Bay, sitting on the beach collecting shells, rock pooling, and building endless sandcastles. I smile wistfully at my childhood memories and pull the curtains aside for a clearer look.
    The grass from the dunes sways in the wind, and the golden sand stretches out for a mile. One end of the bay is covered with rocks, perfect for rock pooling and climbing. Pebbles are scattered on the sand around them, and the outgoing tide reaches for them desperately, only to be pulled away empty handed.
    Movement catches my eye from below on Grammy's garden. I move my eyes from the Bay and towards her herb patch.
    A boy – can I call him a boy? - is working there, digging, planting and watering. I watch with slight interest as his muscles ripple below his shirt which clings tight to him due to the hot weather. He pauses and runs a muddy hand through his dark brown, messy hair, making it stick up in all directions. I instinctively move my hand to smooth my own when he looks up, straight at me.
    I get a good look at his