Page 73 of Pull Me Under

‘With a teacher like me, how can it not be amazing?’

I roll my eyes. Kit had to assure the local education authority that Maisie would continue her learning while away. It was either that or enrol her in an American school for six weeks.

‘We’ve nailed the six times table.’

‘You or Maisie?’

He grins. ‘Both.’

One of those lapsed pauses that signal the end of a conversation.

‘Take care of yourself, yeah? And try not to let Dad murder any Trelawneys while I’m gone.’

‘No promises.’

The call ends. I’m left standing in the harbour, phone in hand, the silence pressing in.

I should be glad for him. I am glad for him. After everything – Jess dying, raising Maisie alone, nearly drowning in his own grief before Isla came back – he deserves this. Deserves New York and Broadway and a life that doesn’t revolve around tide tables and fuel costs and a father who can’t let go of twenty-year grudges.

But watching them together. The ease. The way they orbit each other like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

I never thought I wanted that.

That’s not quite true. I never thought I was allowed to want it. There’s a difference, and it took me twenty years to spot it.

I was nine when Mum walked out. Kit was twelve. Kit remembers her better – her laugh, her cooking, the way she’d sing while hanging washing on the line. I remember the door closing. I remember Dad standing in the kitchen afterwards, very still, and Kit putting his hand on my shoulder and saying, It’s all right, Jude.

It wasn’t. But Kit said it, so I believed it.

Women don’t stay. That’s the lesson I took from Mum, and every relationship since has confirmed it. Sarah, Claire, Meg – different names, same ending. A gradual fading, then a door. I stopped being surprised by it somewhere around twenty-five. Started expecting it. Started making it easy for them to go, because at least then it was on my terms.

But watching Kit and Isla – the ease of them, the way she’s wearing his jumper like she’s always worn it – something nags at me. An itch I can’t reach and don’t want to look at too closely.

I pocket my phone and head for home, the thought following me like a shadow.

I’m considering giving Friday night at The Ship a miss – maybe drive up to Newquay, find a pub where no one knows my name. Newquay has waves. Not the point break at Pencarrow that I love, but rideable. I could surf, clear my head, stop thinking about⁠—

There’s a knock at the door.

Tom’s standing on the step, still in his work clothes, mud on his boots and what might be cow shit on his sleeve. He looks tired, but he usually does.

‘You coming tonight?’ he asks without preamble.

‘Was thinking Newquay, actually.’

‘Newquay.’ He says it like I’ve suggested the moon. ‘Why the hell would you go to Newquay?’

‘Change of scenery. Different faces.’

‘Boring faces. Shit beer.’ Tom leans against the doorframe. ‘Besides, Nina’s going tonight. She’s actually coming out. First time since—’ He stops.

That stops me. Nina hasn’t been to The Ship on a Friday since Peter died. Just the café, open to close, and then home to that flat above it where she rattles around with his ghost.

‘How is she?’ I ask.

Tom’s expression shifts – assumes I’m asking about someone else. ‘Brynn? Fine, I think. I figured inviting her⁠—’

‘I meant Nina.’