Page 25 of Pull Me Under

Do not engage with Jude Harding

Survive

I underline that last one three times, hard enough to dent the next page.

A knock interrupts – not a bang, not a demand, just knuckles on wood, almost hesitant. I know who it is before I open the door because who else would it be? The wind? God? Someone with good news for once?

Jude’s standing there, hands in his pockets, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. The harbour light behind him makes him a silhouette – all shoulders and stubborn jaw.

‘What?’ I don’t open the door wider. ‘Come to yell at me too? Should I put the kettle on for the full Harding experience?’

‘Came to tell you something.’ He shifts, and I can see his face now. Tired. Always tired, like exhaustion is his default setting and everything else is a temporary upgrade. ‘About the Mary Jane.’

‘What about her?’

‘You were right.’ He says it like it’s costing him. ‘The feed line. The worn seal in the distribution manifold.’ A pause. ‘Fitted it this afternoon. She’s running clean.’

I lean against the doorframe, blocking entry but not actively slamming the door in his face. Progress. ‘And you came all the way down here to tell me that.’

‘Seemed like the decent thing.’

‘The decent thing would have been reading Peter’s manual six months ago.’

His face flickers – hurt, or the shadow of it. I almost feel bad. Almost.

‘He won’t let this go,’ Jude says, steering past it. ‘Reuben. He holds grudges like heirlooms.’

‘Noted.’

‘I’m not saying you should leave⁠—’

‘Good, because I’m not.’

‘—just that you should know what you’re in for.’

‘Twenty years of reputation destruction, economic strangulation, and social exile?’ I keep my voice light, casual, like we’re discussing weather patterns. ‘Already familiar with the Harding playbook, thanks.’

There’s a bright flash deep in his shadowed gaze – hurt, anger, possibly both – but he doesn’t deny it.

‘That’s not—’ He stops. Runs a hand through his hair, and a few grains of sand fall out. He’s obviously come straight from somewhere, hasn’t even showered. ‘I was nine.’

‘And I was seven. Weird how we’re both still paying for it.’

He looks at me then, really looks, and for a second I see that boy – seaweed in his hair, laughing, chasing me across the harbour stones.

‘Why did you really come back?’ He asks it different this time, softer.

I could tell him. Could say that Grandad died three months ago convinced he’d failed me, that Dad drank himself into silence and then into nothing, that I’ve been running towards and away from Sea Salt Bay my whole life and finally got tired of the circling. Could tell him about the solicitor’s letter, the cottage deed, the toolbox with Grandad’s initials scratched into the lid. Could say: because this is the only place that’s ever felt like mine, and I’m done pretending it doesn’t matter.

Instead, I say, ‘Stubbornness. Spite. The usual Trelawney traits.’

‘Right.’ He backs away, and I can’t tell if he’s disappointed or relieved. ‘Well. Thanks for the diagnosis. I owe you one.’

‘You owe me twenty years of shed rent, but we can start with one.’

Almost – almost – he smiles. But it dies before it reaches his eyes, and then he’s walking away, favouring the bad leg just slightly in the way people do when they think no one’s watching.

I close the door, lean against it, listen to his footsteps fade.