Page 133 of Carry Me Home

‘I reject them,’ I echo, and my voice doesn’t wobble. Small victories.

‘Do you submit to Christ as Lord?’

‘I submit to Christ as Lord.’

The words feel heavy. We’re making vows – not to each other, but together. About this baby. About the future.

The vicar takes Peter from Isla’s arms. We step forward for the baptism – both of us, at the same time – and Tom’s hand brushes mine.

His knuckles against my fingers. The lightest contact. Accidental, maybe. Maybe not.

I don’t pull away. Neither does he.

We stand there, the backs of our hands touching, while the vicar holds the baby over the font. I can feel his pulse through his skin. Or mine. I can’t tell whose heartbeat I’m feeling, and the not-knowing is doing something to my chest that I don’t have language for.

‘Peter William Harding, I baptise you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.’

Water over his head. Peter blinks, startled, then settles again. Good baby. Calm baby.

I am not calm. I am the opposite of calm. Tom’s hand is still against mine and the vicar is still talking and I am standing in a church making promises about a child named for a man I loved while the hand of the man who has loved me for eleven years rests against mine, and the two things exist at the same time, and the world does not end, and I think: This. This is what it feels like when grief makes room.

Tom glances at me. Our eyes meet. Hold.

For a second – less than a second – his fingers curl. Not taking my hand. Just closing the gap. The slightest pressure. A question asked with the back of one knuckle.

Then Maisie tugs at Kit’s jacket – ‘Is it over? Can we have cake now?’ – and Tom’s hand falls to his side, and the moment passes.

But it happened. I felt it. The ghost of his fingers against mine, asking.

I just don’t know how to answer yet.

The party’s at The Ship.

Of course it is. Where else would Sea Salt Bay celebrate anything? Bill’s donated a keg. Tilly’s made a three-tiered cake that’s only slightly lopsided. Someone’s hung bunting that says WELCOME BABY PETER in letters that are definitely recycled from last year’s jubilee celebration.

‘To Peter!’ Kit raises his glass. He goes to say something else, but his throat must close up. ‘Arse it,’ he says, then laughs. ‘Peter!’ We all cheer and I could burst from the joy of it all.

‘Language,’ Isla murmurs, but she’s smiling.

‘He’s six weeks old. He doesn’t know what arse means.’

‘He’ll learn it soon enough with you as a father.’

‘Oi. I’m an excellent father. Tell them, Maisie.’

Maisie considers this. ‘You burned the toast this morning.’

‘That’s not – that’s a separate issue.’

‘And you forgot to pick me up from school last week.’

‘That was one time.’

‘And you said a bad word when you stubbed your toe.’

‘I said fudge.’

‘You didn’t say fudge.’