Page 44 of Pull Me Under

He’s breathing hard. Ragged. Like he’s been running and couldn’t stop.

‘I went to the cottage,’ he says.

I wait.

‘You weren’t there.’

‘No. Because I live here. In the shed. Which you know, because you’ve been here before, and we’ve had this conversation before, and I’m starting to think you need it tattooed somewhere visible.’

‘You weren’t there.’ He says it like an accusation. Like I’ve broken a promise I didn’t know I’d made. ‘It was dark and the storm was hammering and I didn’t know—’ He stops. Drags a hand through his soaking hair. ‘Then I came down here and the light was on and I⁠—’

‘You were worried about me.’

‘I was—’ He can’t say it. Can’t admit it. His jaw works, grinding the words between his teeth. ‘I was angry.’

‘You’re always angry. That’s not new.’ I cross my arms. ‘And I’m sorry, are we doing this? Are you seriously standing in my shed, dripping all over my floor, because you panicked that I wasn’t in a building I’ve told you three times I don’t sleep in?’

‘It’s not about the cottage⁠—’

‘Then what’s it about? Because you’ve got mud on your knees and you can barely stand on that leg and you look like you’ve been running through a storm for no reason, so either tell me what’s actually wrong or get out of my shed, Harding.’

That lands. I watch his jaw clench tighter, watch his whole face shift – and the air between us changes.

‘My dad,’ he says, gaze dropping for a moment before lifting back to mine. ‘He stood up in the pub tonight and told everyone you don’t have a boat.’

I blink. ‘I have a boat. It’s right there.’ I gesture at the trawler behind me, twelve tonnes of proof.

‘I know. I told him that this morning. He watched it come in. He was standing on the dock.’ Jude’s voice is very controlled now, very flat. The voice of someone keeping it together with their fingernails. ‘He forgot. Or he didn’t – I don’t know – he’s been doing that, saying things that don’t – and then he told me to stay away from you, and he mentioned Kit, said he’d tell Kit to keep an eye on things, and Kit’s in New York, Dad, and I said that ten minutes ago⁠—’

He stops. Swallows.

And I see it. The thing underneath all the anger, all the soaking-wet storm-chasing dramatics. Jude Harding is terrified. Not of me. Of what’s happening to his father. Of the growing catalogue of things that don’t add up. Of the word he can’t bring himself to say.

‘Jude.’

‘Don’t.’ His voice is rough. ‘Don’t look at me like that.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like you understand.’

‘Maybe I do.’ I uncross my arms. A hinge I didn’t know was rusted gives way. ‘My grandad forgot things at the end. Small things first. Then bigger ones. I know what that looks like from the inside.’

He looks at me. Really looks at me. The fear naked on his face, stripped of every layer of sarcasm and deflection and Harding stubbornness.

‘I went to the cottage first,’ he says. ‘It was dark and you weren’t there and I thought—’ A breath. ‘I just thought.’

‘You thought I’d gone.’

‘Everyone goes.’

Two words. Two words that crack him open wider than a whole speech could have. His mother. Kit moving up the hill. Peter. Everyone goes, and Jude Harding stays, and the list of people he’s losing gets longer, and he just climbed a cliff in a storm because for one terrible moment he thought I’d been added to it.

‘I’m not going anywhere,’ I say, and I mean it in every possible way – the cottage, the harbour, the shed, this ridiculous village that doesn’t know what to do with me. ‘The roof’s fixed, since you’re so concerned. Had the lead flashing done Tuesday. Ceiling’s dry for the first time in twenty years. Second thing crossed off the list. I’m not exactly packing light.’

He almost smiles. Almost.

‘You’re shaking,’ I say.