Page 131 of Carry Me Home

‘Neither do I.’

A pause. And then she laughs – just a small one, surprised out of her, but real. The first real sound between us in two months.

‘This is ridiculous,’ she says. ‘We should be able to have a conversation.’

‘We should.’

‘So let’s … start again. Tomorrow. At the christening.’ She straightens up. Tucks a curl behind her ear. ‘We’ll be standing at a font together. We should probably be able to make eye contact.’

‘Probably.’

‘Tomorrow, then.’

‘Tomorrow.’

She nods. I nod. We stand there nodding at each other like a pair of idiots, and I want to cross those twenty metres so badly my feet are aching with it, but I don’t. Not yet. Not tonight.

‘I should close up,’ she says, gesturing at the café.

‘Of course. I should go see Mum and Dad.’

‘Say hi to Ivy for me.’

‘I will.’

She turns back to the chalkboard. I turn back to the car.

‘Tom!’

I turn and there are two pink spots on her cheek, and I swear if I were closer I’d be able to see the pulse in the base of her throat. She takes a step towards me but then stops. Fingers fluttering at the neckline of her boho-style top.

‘You said it would have been better if you’d been the one to not come out of the water.’

My stomach squeezes. That was a low blow. Even for my heartbreak at leaving. I don’t respond.

‘That’s not true, Tom. Not true at all.’

She goes inside. The café door closes behind her. The fairy lights come on – warm, golden, glowing through the lavender shutters – and I stand there watching them the way I’ve watched them a hundred times before. But this time I’m not across the harbour. I’m right here. Close enough to see the light move behind the glass.

Mum opens the door before I’ve reached the gate.

‘Mum—’

‘Look at you.’ She holds my face in both hands, studying me the way she studies the garden – looking for what needs tending. ‘You’re thin. And tired. And you’ve got that look.’

‘What look?’

‘The one you’ve had since you were sixteen.’ She pulls me into a hug, fierce and brief. ‘Come inside. Kettle’s on. Your father’s pretending he’s not emotional but he’s been pacing since four o’clock.’

I follow her in. And the smell of the house – tea, and furniture polish, and the woodsmoke that never quite leaves the walls – wraps around me like a hand I didn’t know I was reaching for.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

NINA

The church at Pencross is small and old and smells of stone and candle wax.

I’ve been here a hundred times. Weddings, funerals, the occasional Easter service when I was younger and Mum guilted me into it. But today feels different. Today I’m standing at the font in a dress I bought specifically for this occasion, waiting for Tom to arrive, and my heart is hammering so hard I can feel it in my teeth.