Page 96 of Carry Me Home

‘Nina—’

‘It’s his life. His decision. Good for him.’ I scrub at a spot that doesn’t exist. ‘Can we discuss literally anything else?’

‘Fine.’ Tilly sets down her cup. ‘Let’s discuss why you’re trying to polish a hole through the countertop.’

‘I’m cleaning.’

‘You’re avoiding.’

‘I’m cleaning while avoiding. It’s called multitasking.’

Brynn and Tilly exchange a look. The silent communication. The raised eyebrows. The routine that says we’re worried about you while pretending they’re not.

The bell above the door chimes. I look up, customer-service smile already forming.

Tom.

The smile dies. My hand tightens on the cloth. My whole body tightens – not the way it used to, not the warm involuntary pull towards him that I’ve been feeling for weeks. A different tightening. The bracing kind. The kind you do before impact.

He stops inside the doorway, clocking the scene – Tilly and Brynn at the counter, me behind it, Chips lifting his head and thumping his tail against the floor. For a moment nobody speaks. The café hums. The bear grins from its corner. The distance between the door and the counter is six feet and it might as well be the Irish Sea.

‘Tom!’ Tilly’s voice, too bright. ‘We were just talking about you.’

‘Were you?’

‘Kilts,’ Brynn says flatly. ‘Tilly thinks you should wear one.’

‘Right.’ Tom’s eyes haven’t left my face. He looks tired – properly tired, the kind that lives under the skin, the kind I recognise because I’ve been wearing it myself. There are shadows under his eyes that weren’t there a week ago. ‘Nina, can I talk to you?’

‘I’m working.’

‘It’s important.’

‘I’m sure it can wait.’

‘It can’t.’ He takes a breath. The breath has a shape to it – braced, controlled, the intake of someone about to deliver bad news. I’ve watched him do this at the surgery, when he has to tell someone their pet isn’t coming home. ‘It’s about Chips.’

My stomach drops. Not a metaphor. An actual physical descent, organs rearranging, the floor tilting slightly under my feet.

‘What about Chips?’

‘Can we talk somewhere⁠—’

‘Whatever you need to say, you can say here.’ I fold my arms. ‘Brynn and Tilly don’t mind. Do you?’

‘Not at all,’ Tilly says. ‘I love a good drama.’

‘Tilly,’ Brynn warns, folding her arms with a scowl towards Tom.

‘I’m being honest.’

Tom looks at me. I stare back. The silence stretches like Blue-tac, or chewing gum stuck to a shoe.

‘His owners have been found,’ he says. ‘They’re a family from Bristol. They lost him on holiday a few months back. They’ve been searching ever since – flyers, shelters, everything. One of the shelters forwarded them to me this morning.’

The words land one at a time. Each one heavier than the last.

‘The owners,’ I repeat. The word sounds foreign.