Page 83 of Carry Me Home

‘That happens.’

‘I know. But it hasn’t happened in months. I thought I was—’ I stop.

‘Further along?’

‘Something like that.’ I look at Chips, his warm weight against my legs. ‘Maisie told me once that it doesn’t get easier. You just get better at carrying it. She’s eight. She got it right.’

Brynn takes a sip of her drink.

‘Maybe it’s because it’s summer,’ I say. ‘We used to do all these things together – picnics in the evenings, early walks before he went out on the boat. Just sitting, listening to the sea.’ My throat is tight, the words squeezed thin. ‘And none of that is happening. And I miss it.’

‘Makes sense.’ Brynn’s smile is small and careful, standing in for words she doesn’t have.

‘And I haven’t dealt with any of it properly.’ I press my knuckles into my sternum, like I can push the emptiness out through the bone. ‘The boat. His things. I’ve just been avoiding all of it. Pretending that if I don’t look, it’ll sort itself out.’

‘It won’t.’

‘I know.’ I set down the mug. ‘I know it won’t.’

The silence stretches. Outside, the village carries on – voices, footsteps, Dot’s door chiming. Life happening whether I’m in it or not.

‘Go to the boat,’ Brynn says.

‘What?’

‘Jenny’s Dream. You haven’t been there in months. The cover’s still on, the lines haven’t been touched.’ She drinks, not looking at me. ‘Go sit with it. Whatever’s tangled up in there – that’s where you start.’

I don’t answer.

‘Just a thought.’ She stands, rinses her mug. ‘I’ll tell everyone you’re not dead. Tilly will be gutted about the elopement theory.’ She pauses at the door. ‘There’s a darts tournament tonight. The Ship. You should come.’

‘I don’t think⁠—’

‘Come,’ she says. Firm. ‘Trust me.’

After she leaves, I sit at the kitchen table with my tea going cold and Chips breathing against my knee, and I think about the boat. About all the things I’ve been keeping exactly where Peter left them, as if preservation is the same as love.

I sit for a long time. Frozen. Unmoving. I guess how I’ve been all these months.

My phone is on the counter. Eventually, my hand goes to it.

I catch myself. Put the phone down.

I’m not calling Tom. Not about this. Not today.

Why not?

Because I don’t know what I’d say. Because after the cinema – after the two blankets and the kiss on the cheek and Cara’s hand on his arm and the earthquake of he heard me, he heard what I said at seventeen and he stayed – I don’t know how to call Tom and cry about Peter without it meaning more than I can handle.

Because the person I want to call is the person I’m most afraid of calling, and I haven’t let myself ask why.

I leave the phone on the counter. I go to the harbour.

It’s quiet in the middle of the day, just that belting sun.

Most of the boats are out. But Jenny’s Dream is at her mooring, exactly where Peter left her. Exactly where she’s been for months, waiting for someone to decide her fate.

The cover is dusty. Stiff. I should have cleaned it. Someone should have.