Page 54 of Carry Me Home

Tom picks up three balls. The crowd holds its breath. Somewhere behind me, I hear Mum’s voice along with Dot’s in return – ‘What’s happening?’ ‘Tom’s trying to win Brynn a bear.’ ‘Oh, how lovely.’

He throws the first ball. The coconut flies off its stand like it’s been shot.

The crowd cheers. Jude’s face falls.

‘Lucky,’ Jude mutters.

Tom throws the second ball. Another coconut, another clean hit, another roar from the audience. He does it casually, without effort, the same quiet competence he brings to everything – windows, coffee machines, injured dogs in the gorse. His forearm flexes on the throw and I watch the muscle move under his skin and then I look at the sky because the sky is safe and has never made me feel confused about anything.

‘Oh, come on⁠—’

The third ball leaves Tom’s hand in a perfect arc. The coconut doesn’t just fall – it rockets off the stand and lands in the sand three feet away.

The crowd goes wild. Maisie, who has abandoned the coffee stall entirely, is jumping up and down screaming. Even Brynn looks impressed, though she’s trying to hide it behind her hand.

‘That’s impossible,’ Jude says flatly. ‘That’s actually impossible. You’ve been practising. In secret. You’ve been preparing for this moment your entire life.’

‘I’m a vet,’ Tom says mildly. ‘Good hand-eye coordination.’

‘You have sorcery, is what you have.’

Tom reaches up and unclips the giant pink bear. It’s even bigger than it looked – ridiculous, the kind of thing that exists purely to be won at fetes and regretted for the rest of eternity.

He looks at Brynn.

Then he looks at me.

Then he holds it out to me.

There’s a stab in my chest. Not the Peter kind of stab – not the sharp grief-fold from earlier. A different kind. Warmer. Less familiar. I don’t have a category for it.

‘What?’ I say.

‘It matches your café.’

‘It’s pink.’

‘The Lavender Café. Pink and purple. Same family.’

‘That’s not how colours work.’

‘Take the bear, Nina.’

I take the bear. It’s so large I can barely see over it. It smells like sawdust and polyester and the particular optimism of cheap fairground prizes. Somewhere to my left, Jude makes a sound that might be outrage or might be laughter.

‘Incredible,’ he says. ‘Absolutely incredible. I spend twenty minutes and four pounds trying to win this for Brynn, and Tom does it in thirty seconds and gives it to someone else.’

‘I don’t want it,’ Brynn chimes in. ‘It’s a health hazard. Nina can have it.’

‘Nina doesn’t want it either,’ I say, struggling to see around its enormous pink head. ‘Nina has no idea what to do with it.’

‘Put it in the café,’ Tom says. ‘Mascot. Tourist attraction. Conversation starter.’

‘It’ll give children nightmares.’

‘Children love nightmares. It’s character-building.’

Jude is staring at us. Then he catches Brynn’s eye, and an unspoken conversation passes between them – and Jude makes a gagging motion so exaggerated it’s almost theatrical.