Page 162 of Pull Me Under

‘It’s not the same.’

‘No. It’s not.’ He sits back down, suddenly looking as tired as I feel. ‘But Jude – if you love her, don’t you owe her the chance to explain?’

If you love her.

Present tense. As if that’s still true. As if I haven’t spent the last twenty-four hours trying to burn that feeling out of my chest the way Dad burned Mum’s letters.

‘I don’t know what I feel anymore,’ I say. ‘About any of it.’

Kit nods. Doesn’t push.

We sit there together, watching our father sleep, and I try to figure out what comes next.

Four days later, I’m still trying.

Four days of ceiling tiles and vending machine coffee and the steady beep of the heart monitor tracking my father’s recovery. Four days of nurses with careful smiles and doctors with careful words and Kit sitting across from me, neither of us knowing what to say.

Dad drifts in and out. Sometimes lucid, sometimes lost in whatever fog the heart attack left behind. When he’s awake, he looks at me with confusion, like he’s trying to remember something important. I don’t help him. Don’t speak. Just sit there, watching, waiting for him to slip back under so I don’t have to decide what to say.

Four days of not thinking about her.

Almost.

Kit appears in the doorway. He’s showered. I can tell because he doesn’t smell like the inside of an NHS waiting room anymore. His shirt’s clean. His jaw’s shaved. He looks like someone who might actually belong in the world outside this building.

‘You need to leave.’

I don’t move.

‘Jude.’

‘I heard you.’

‘Then get up.’ He crosses the room. Grabs my jacket from the back of the chair and throws it into my arms. ‘Up. Now.’

‘I’m fine.’

‘You’re not fine. You haven’t showered in four days. You’ve eaten nothing but Mars bars and whatever that grey stuff was in the canteen. And you keep staring at Dad like you’re trying to set him on fire with your mind.’

‘Maybe I am.’

Kit sighs. Drags the other chair over and sits down, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.

‘The doctors say he’s stable. Out of the woods, cardiac-wise. The cognitive stuff—’ He shrugs. ‘They want to run more tests when he’s stronger. But he’s not going anywhere today. Or tomorrow.’

‘I know.’

‘So go home. Sleep in an actual bed. Eat something that doesn’t come wrapped in cellophane.’

‘I said I’m fine.’

‘Jude.’ His voice drops. That older-brother tone I’ve been hearing my whole life. ‘You’ve been sitting in that chair for four days. You’re not helping him by destroying yourself.’

I look at Dad. At his slack face and his trembling hands and the tubes running into his arm.

I built my entire life around this man.

And he lied to me. For twenty years.