Page 146 of Pull Me Under

I have to tell him.

But how? How do I look at the man I’m falling for and say, By the way, your mother had an affair with my father, and they have a daughter together, and your dad has been lying to you your whole life, and I’ve known for almost twenty-four hours without saying anything?

There’s no good way. No kind way.

I’ll tell him tonight. When he comes back. I’ll sit him down and I’ll⁠—

The door opens.

Jude steps inside, salt-wind in his hair, a grin spreading across his face when he sees me. ‘Finished early. Dad wasn’t speaking to me anyway, so I figured⁠—’

He stops. Looks at me properly.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing.’ The lie comes too easily. ‘Long morning.’

‘Brynn.’

‘I’m fine. Really.’ I cross to him, slide my arms around his waist, press my face into his chest. He smells like the sea. Like safety. Like everything I’m about to destroy. ‘I just missed you.’

He’s quiet for a moment. Then his arms come around me, pulling me closer.

‘I missed you too,’ he murmurs into my hair, hands hot on my skin, sliding under my jumper, fingertips trailing my stomach. ‘Come upstairs. Let me show you how much.’

I should say no. Should sit him down, tell him everything, rip off the plaster.

Instead, I let him lead me up the stairs.

The secret buries deeper.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

JUDE

There’s a particular quality to early morning light on the water. The way it catches the swell, turns the grey-green Atlantic into a sparkling shimmer that’s almost silver. I’ve seen it a thousand times – ten thousand – but it still gets me. Still makes my body loosen, just for a moment.

The Mary Jane cuts through the chop like she was born for it. Which she was, I suppose. Three generations of Hardings have worked this boat, hauled these nets, brought the catch home to Sea Salt Bay. My grandfather. My father.

Me.

I check the nets, haul in the last of the morning’s catch. Decent. Not spectacular, but enough to keep the books balanced for another week. The cod are running well this season; the mackerel less so. Climate change, probably. Or overfishing. All the things Dad won’t talk about or even acknowledge.

Or maybe it’s just the sea being the sea – unpredictable, ungovernable, answering to no one.

I like that about her. The sea, I mean. She doesn’t care about family feuds or grudges or which Harding son is the disappointment. She just is.

The harbour comes into view as I round the headland. Sea Salt Bay in the early light, all white cottages and slate roofs and the eternal smell of fish and diesel. Home. For better or worse.

For the first time in years, it feels more like better.

I catch myself humming.

Actually humming. Like some idiot in a bad film. I clamp my mouth shut and check over my shoulder – nobody heard, thank God – but the damage is done.

This morning I woke up with Brynn’s hair in my face and her cold feet pressed against my calves. I didn’t even complain about the cold feet. Just pulled her closer and lay there like a complete sap, watching the dawn light move across her ceiling.

Her ceiling. Because apparently I live there now.