Page 136 of Pull Me Under

Then I see Reuben.

He’s stopped coiling the rope. He’s standing completely still, staring at us, his face a mask I can’t read. Not just anger – though there’s plenty of that. This is deeper. Broken.

‘Jude,’ I murmur.

He turns. Sees his father.

The warmth drains out of him. I watch it happen – the way his shoulders go rigid, the way his jaw sets into that stubborn line I’m coming to know so well.

‘Dad—’

But Reuben’s already moving. Dropping the rope, turning on his heel, striding away from the harbour with a speed that surprises me given his age.

‘Shit.’ Jude’s hands fall from my waist. ‘I have to⁠—’

‘Go. It’s fine. Go.’

He hesitates, searching my face. ‘I’ll come by later. We need to talk about⁠—’

‘I know. Go.’

He kisses me once more – quick, fierce – and then he’s gone, jogging after his father’s retreating figure.

I stand there for a moment, watching them go. Two Harding men, one chasing the other up the hill toward town.

‘Well.’ Frankie’s appeared at my elbow, wiping his hands on his apron. ‘That’s put the cat among the pigeons.’

Bill joins him, shaking his head. ‘The boy doesn’t understand what he’s stirring up.’

‘What do you mean?’

They exchange a look. It’s a look that holds decades of history I’m not privy to.

‘Nothing, love.’ Bill’s smile is sad. ‘Just … some wounds run deep, that’s all. Deeper than he knows.’

Frankie nods toward the hill, where Jude has nearly caught up to Reuben. ‘He’s got a good heart, that one. But a good heart doesn’t always—’ He stops, shakes his head. ‘Never mind. Not my place.’

‘Jude, you don’t understand!’ Bill calls out suddenly, his voice carrying across the harbour.

But Jude doesn’t turn. Doesn’t slow. He catches Reuben’s arm, and even from here I can see the tension in both their bodies, the way they’re squaring off like fighters before a match.

Bill sighs. ‘I’ve got a real bad feeling about this.’

He looks at me then – really looks, with eyes that have seen more than they’ll ever say. His face folds into careworn lines.

‘You should head home, love,’ he says gently. ‘Whatever happens next … it’s not going to be pretty.’

I want to argue. Want to march up that hill and stand beside Jude, face whatever storm is coming together. But those deep lines of worry on Bill’s face stop me.

Some wounds run deep. Deeper than he knows.

What do they know that we don’t?

I nod, numbly, and start walking.

The cottage is quiet when I get back. Too quiet. I make tea I don’t drink, try to read a book I can’t focus on, pace the length of the sitting room until I’m dizzy with it.

What’s happening up there? What’s Reuben saying? What’s Jude?