Page 111 of Pull Me Under

‘Why?’ I ask.

‘Because when I’m with you, I don’t feel like I’m performing. I can just … be.’ He says it simply, like it’s obvious. Like it costs him nothing, when I can see from the tension in his jaw that it costs him everything.

The words land somewhere soft. Somewhere I’ve been protecting for so long I’d forgotten it existed.

‘Jude—’

‘I know it’s fast,’ he says. ‘I know this whole thing is insane. But I keep thinking about what you said on the beach. About running, and stopping, and being afraid of ghosts.’ He takes my hand. ‘I’ve been running too. Just in a different way. Staying in one place but never actually being present. Going through the motions of a life I’m not sure I even want.’

‘What do you want?’

He’s quiet for a long moment. The waves roll in, patient and endless.

‘There’s a prospectus,’ he says finally. ‘From the University of Plymouth Marine biology and oceanography. I’ve looked at it maybe a hundred times.’

I go still. ‘You want to study marine biology?’

‘I want to study something that matters. Conservation. Sustainability.’ He picks at a thread on the blanket, not meeting my eyes. ‘Peter used to talk to me about it – conservation corridors, rewilding the inlet margins. Making sure there’s still fish to catch in fifty years, not just next season.’

I’m watching him, mouth feeling like I’ve sucked a lemon as I watch this gorgeous man struggling to articulate his desires, his dreams. ‘So why haven’t you applied?’

He laughs, but there’s no humour in it. ‘Because Hardings are fishermen. That’s what we do. That’s what we’ve always done. And Dad—’ He breaks off. Shakes his head. ‘Dad would see it as abandonment. As choosing study over the family. Over him.’

‘Would it be? Abandonment?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe.’ He looks out at the water. ‘Kit found a way out. Built a life that is his – Jess and Maisie first, now Isla, a life that doesn’t always smell like fish. Even before New York, he’d already stepped back. His own house up the hill, his own world.’ Bitterness crosses his face.

‘And you don’t want to be the second son who steps away.’

‘I don’t want to be anything. That’s the problem.’ His voice is raw. ‘I don’t want the boat. I don’t want the business. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life hauling pots and managing accounts and slowly turning into my father. But I can’t figure out how to chase it without blowing everything up.’

I squeeze his hand. ‘For what it’s worth, I think you’d be brilliant at it. Marine biology. Conservation. Whatever you choose.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Jude, you explained wave refraction to me on a surfboard like it was poetry. You know more about fish populations than you let anyone see because it’s easier to pretend you don’t care. But I’ve watched you – the way you talk about Peter’s work, the way you light up when it’s the sea and not the spreadsheet.’ I pause. ‘You just pretend you don’t because it’s safer.’

He’s quiet and I can feel his hesitation pulse in the air, then he sighs, breathes out deep. ‘The surfing helps. When I’m on a wave, I don’t have to be anyone. Don’t have to perform. I can just exist.’ He glances at me. ‘Being with you feels like that too.’

The sun is fully up now, warm on my face. The cove glitters like someone’s scattered diamonds across the water.

And maybe it’s the sunrise, or the confessions, or the way he’s sitting there with his guard so far down I can see every bruise underneath – but there’s a shift. A door opens that I’ve been pretending was locked.

‘Jude.’ I turn to face him. ‘What are we doing?’

He blinks. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean this. Us. The sneaking around, the midnight texts, the sunrise coves. What is this?’

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Looks at me, caught between terror and relief, like I’ve said the thing he’s been trying to say for days.

‘I don’t know what to call it,’ he says carefully. ‘I know what it feels like.’

‘What does it feel like?’

‘Like the first real thing I’ve ever had.’ His voice catches. ‘Like the first real thing I’ve ever had and I’m going to fuck up because I’m a Harding and we don’t do this well.’

‘That’s not an answer.’