Page 28 of Pull Me Under

And just like that, we’re not strangers anymore. We’re two people holding different pieces of the same ghost.

‘His ideas are good,’ I say. ‘Really good. Someone should⁠—’

‘Someone should implement them. Yeah. He was supposed to present to the council, had this whole PowerPoint thing with graphs and projections and…’ She trails off, lost in the what-might-have-been.

‘I could—’ I stop. It’s not my place. Not my ghost. Not my mission.

But Nina’s looking at me with a hope, that’s almost dangerous and contagious, but definitely heartbreaking. ‘You could what?’

‘Nothing. It’s not – I’m just here to fix boats and sort out a cottage. Not save the world.’

‘Peter wasn’t trying to save the world. Just this little corner of it.’ She pulls her feet up under her, getting comfortable like we’re friends who do this, have tea while storms rage. ‘He used to say the small places matter more because they’re what people actually live in. You can’t save the ocean, but you can save a harbour. You can’t feed the world, but you can make sure your neighbours eat.’

‘He sounds like he was a good man.’

‘He was the best man.’ Her voice doesn’t crack, but it thins. ‘He was interested. In everything. In people, in fish, in the way storms formed, in why certain jokes were funny, in how to make the perfect coffee, in saving things that other people had written off.’ She looks at me directly. ‘He would’ve been interested in you.’

‘Me?’

‘Someone who reads his notes and immediately understands them. Someone who’s come to check on the village basket case even though you barely know her.’

‘You’re not⁠—’

‘I am, though. The one who falls apart when sirens sound. Who can’t sell Peter’s boat but can’t look at it either. Who’s running a café because I don’t know what else to do with my hands.’ She says it matter-of-fact, like she’s reading a weather report. ‘It’s been six months. People expect me to be better by now.’

‘People are idiots.’

‘That’s what Peter used to say.’ She almost smiles. ‘Though he usually added, Present company excluded to soften it.’

‘I don’t soften things. Character flaw.’

‘Or character strength, depending on the situation.’

We drink our tea. The storm keeps raging. Catastrophe relocates to my lap without invitation, purring like a broken outboard motor.

‘I’d love to pick your brain sometime,’ Nina says. ‘About Peter’s work. About the harbour. About how someone decides to come back to a place that ran them off.’

She’s direct, for sure.

‘All right. But I get to pick yours too.’

‘Deal.’ She extends her hand, formal as a contract. ‘Nina Ellis. Café owner, village basket case, keeper of Peter’s ghost.’

‘Brynn Trelawney. Boat mechanic, shed squatter, haver of daddy issues and a tendency to hold grudges.’

We shake on it and for the first time I get a flicker of lightness, like I don’t have to spend every damn moment fighting. At least maybe not with Nina.

‘I should go,’ I say eventually, though I don’t move yet. ‘Let you get some sleep.’

‘Bold of you to assume I sleep.’ She laughs, and I wonder how often she’s laughed in the last six months. ‘Thanks for checking in, Brynn. Genuinely.’

I untangle myself from Catastrophe, who protests with a sound like someone stepping on bagpipes. Nina walks me to the door, both of us pausing at the threshold.

‘Brynn?’ She’s backlit by the warm light of her flat, looking less hollowed out than two days ago. ‘The Hardings don’t speak for everyone. Reuben doesn’t speak for everyone. Some of us are glad you’re back, even if we don’t know why yet.’

I don’t know what to say to that, so I just nod and head back into the storm.

The walk back is slower than it needs to be. Rain soaks through my jacket, but I don’t hurry.