Page 129 of Pull Me Under

My voice cracks off the kitchen walls. Dad finally looks up, and for a moment – just a moment – I see a trace of emotion flicker across his expression before he can hide it. My stomach drops as I register what looks like raw pain and regret.

Then it’s gone. Shuttered away behind the same stone wall he’s been building for decades.

‘Leave it alone, Jude.’

‘Dad—’

‘I said leave it.’ He turns back to his crossword, pen gripped tight enough to shake. ‘Some things are better left buried.’

I stare at the back of his head. The grey hair, thinning now. The stubborn set of his shoulders. This man who raised me and resents me and can’t even remember my name half the time.

‘Fine,’ I say. ‘Keep your secrets.’

I take the stairs two at a time, stripping off my jumper before I’ve even reached the bathroom. The shower runs cold for thirty seconds before the ancient boiler kicks in – story of my life, really. Always waiting for things to warm up.

I stand under the spray and let the water pound the tension from my shoulders. Think about Brynn. About the way she looked at me after the rescue, like I was worth seeing. About the way I keep hiding her away like I’m ashamed, when really I’m just terrified.

Terrified of wanting this so much.

Terrified of what happens when Dad finds out.

Terrified that poison runs deeper than whatever’s building between us.

I shut off the water. Towel off. Find the shirt Kit gave me at Christmas – soft cotton, dark blue, obviously chosen by Isla, which still has the tags on because when would I ever wear a shirt as nice as this that wasn’t my standard hoodie and old denim?

Now, apparently. Now I wear it.

I catch my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Dark sandy waves dripping, jaw set, recklessness in my eyes.

Downstairs, Dad’s still at the table. Still pretending I don’t exist.

‘I’m going out,’ I say, grabbing my keys.

He doesn’t respond.

I slam the door harder than necessary.

The evening air hits my face, cold and salt-sharp, and I start walking toward the Morrisons’ place before I can think better of it. Brynn’s probably already there. Probably already laughing at a clever and fucking smug thing Morgan’s said, being charmed by his easy smile and his uncomplicated family.

Well.

Nothing like an impromptu dinner crash to spark a man up.

The Morrisons’ cottage sits halfway up the hill, windows glowing warm against the darkening sky. I can hear laughter from inside. Music. The kind of easy domesticity that makes me get this empty draining sensation if I think about it too long. Like I used to when I was with Kit and Jess, after they had Maisie and I’d stand there on the outside, always stuck like the odd man out.

Don’t think about it.

I knock before I can lose my nerve.

Cassie opens the door, her bump preceding her by a good few inches now. She takes one look at me – clean shirt, damp hair, expression that probably screams desperate – and her face breaks into a knowing grin.

‘Jude Harding. What a surprise.’

‘Cal said there was room for one more.’

‘Did he now.’ She steps back, waving me in. ‘Kitchen’s through the back. You know the way.’

I do know the way. I’ve been here a hundred times. But tonight my feet feel clumsy, my pulse too fast.