Page 75 of Pull Me Under

The pub is already busy when I arrive at seven. Friday night tradition – crew drinks, fish and chips from Tilly’s kitchen, the easy camaraderie that makes the hard parts of this life bearable. Normally it would be me, Dad, and Kit at the bar with Maisie at the corner table, colouring a monstrous but creatively dynamic work of art while we sink pints and catch up with the village.

Kit’s table is empty. Two chairs tucked in like they’re waiting.

Bill and Frankie are at the usual table near the fire, pints half-empty, arguing about something that will inevitably involve the forecast. Tom’s hovering over them like a prospective referee. He’s showered, changed out of his country vet uniform of tweed and mud. Cal is peering into an empty crisp packet with the focus of a man examining evidence.

And Brynn.

She’s sitting at the bar with Nina, a glass of wine in front of her, laughing at whatever Tilly’s just said. Her hair’s down tonight – first time I’ve seen it out of that ponytail – and it falls past her shoulders in dark waves that catch the firelight. Her skin has a glow. Or maybe that’s just me and I’m losing my goddamn mind. She looks different. Softer. Almost approachable.

Then she catches me staring and the softness vanishes, replaced by that guarded expression I’m starting to know too well. The one that says, I see you looking. Don’t.

I nod. She nods back.

Colleagues.

I get a pint and join the crew table. Bill shifts to make room.

‘Harding,’ Cal grunts. ‘Thought you weren’t coming.’

‘Why wouldn’t I come?’

‘You’ve been scarce lately.’ Those sharp eyes. ‘Everything all right?’

‘Fine. Just busy with Kit away.’

‘Mm.’

The evening unfolds the way it always does – rounds bought and stories told, the rhythm of people who’ve known each other too long to stand on ceremony. Bill tells the ’98 rescue story that he tells every few months, getting more heroic with each retelling. Tom complains about farmers who won’t follow veterinary advice. Cal broods over his pint like a sailor watching for storms.

And I watch Brynn.

I can’t help it. Every time I try to focus on the conversation, my eyes drift. The way she leans forward when Nina talks, actually listening. The way she laughs – rare, but real when it happens. The way she holds her wine glass, fingers wrapped around the stem, and I remember those same fingers digging into my back, pulling me closer, the sound she made when⁠—

‘Jude.’ Tom’s voice. ‘You listening?’

‘What?’

‘Darts. Tilly’s challenged us to a rematch.’

‘I don’t⁠—’

‘Teams of two,’ Tilly announces from across the room, already pulling darts from the board. ‘Me and Nina against Tom and whoever’s brave enough to partner with him.’

‘I’ll do it,’ Brynn says.

The table goes quiet. Not hostile – surprised. The new girl volunteering. Putting herself in the mix.

‘All right then.’ Tilly grins. ‘Brynn and Tom against me and Nina. Jude, you can referee.’

‘Why do I have to referee?’

‘Because you’re too chicken to play.’

‘I’m not—’ I catch Brynn’s eye. She’s got that challenging look again, and I know I want to either kiss her or throw her in the harbour. ‘Fine. I’ll play. Brynn and me against Tom and Nina.’

The words are out before I’ve thought them through. Brynn’s eyebrows rise. Tilly’s grin widens. Tom sneaks a look at Nina, who’s smiling – actually smiling, for the first time tonight, and it’s heartwarming to see after six months of heartbreak.

‘This should be interesting,’ Nina says.