Page 124 of Pull Me Under

‘I don’t want to intrude⁠—’

‘You wouldn’t be. Cal’s brother is visiting – Morgan. He’s been up in Scotland for work, just got back yesterday. We’re doing a welcome-home thing.’ She waves a hand. ‘Very casual. Just food and wine and conversation that isn’t about fishing quotas or lifeboat maintenance.’

‘I don’t think⁠—’

‘It’s not a setup, if that’s what you’re worried about.’ Cassie grins. ‘Morgan’s perfectly capable of finding his own dates. I just thought you might like to meet some people who aren’t ancient fishermen or gossiping villagers.’

I should say no. I should stay here, in my shed, with my engine parts and my anger and my determination to prove that I don’t need anyone.

But the thought of another night alone in that cottage, replaying Friday over and over, watching my phone not ring…

It was just sex, I tell myself. Just a few weeks of madness. What matters is the business. The future. Showing these Hardings that the Trelawneys aren’t going to be pushed around.

‘What time?’ I hear myself ask.

Cassie’s face lights up. ‘Seven. Bring wine if you want, but you don’t have to. And don’t dress up – I’ll be wearing whatever still fits over this belly, which at this point is approximately three items of clothing.’

‘I can do seven.’

‘Brilliant.’ She squeezes my arm as she passes. ‘It’ll be good, Brynn. I promise. Sometimes a night of good food and new people is exactly what you need.’

I watch her go, picking her way carefully down the harbour steps, one hand on her back.

New people. Right. Because the old ones have proven so reliable.

I turn back to the fuel pump. Stare at it for a long moment.

Then I put down my tools and head home to shower.

The cottage is quiet in the late afternoon light.

I’ve scrubbed off the worst of the grease, washed my hair twice to get the engine smell out, and I’m standing in front of my limited wardrobe trying to figure out what one wears to a casual dinner at a lifeboat captain’s house.

Everything I own is practical. Jeans. Work shirts. Jumpers chosen for warmth rather than style. I didn’t exactly pack for a social life when I drove down here.

In the back of the wardrobe, shoved behind my spare overalls, I find it: a dress. Dark green, soft cotton, the type of dress normal women might throw on for summer evenings. I bought it years ago, in another life, for a version of myself I’d almost forgotten existed.

I hold it up. It’s wrinkled. Probably too dressy.

I put it on anyway.

With a cardigan over the top – grey, slightly oversized, the most comfortable thing I own – and my good boots, it looks almost intentional. Like I made an effort without trying too hard.

I check my reflection and barely recognise the woman looking back at me. When did I start looking so tired? So guarded?

Since you came back here, a voice whispers. Since you let yourself hope.

I shove the voice aside. Fix my hair. Apply mascara for the first time in weeks.

I’ve got an hour to kill before I need to leave.

The cottage feels too quiet. Too empty. I could clean, but everything’s already clean – I scrubbed the whole place yesterday, burning off energy I couldn’t direct anywhere else. I could work on the accounts for the business I’m trying to build, but the numbers swim in front of my eyes and nothing sticks.

I find myself drifting toward the back room.

Grandad’s things are still there, half-sorted. I’ve been avoiding this – the boxes of papers, the old photographs, the accumulated debris of a life lived and lost. Every time I start going through it, I end up sitting on the floor for hours, lost in memories that aren’t even mine.

But tonight, with the strange restlessness humming under my skin, I pull down a box, unable to resist looking at it closer.