Page 93 of Pull Me Under

‘So,’ Brynn says, swirling her wine. ‘Where’d you learn to cook?’

‘Who said I could?’ I grin up at her, only to find her biting her bottom lip, staring at my mouth. My heart thumps once, then twice. ‘I’m not big on cooking, I suppose Mum used to make us help out before she left.’ My memory takes a small journey into the distant past, but I swiftly pull it back.

Brynn’s quiet. ‘Nina mentioned her. Your mum leaving when you were young.’

‘Nina talks too much.’

‘Nina’s my favourite person in this village. Present company included.’

‘Harsh.’

‘Accurate.’ She takes a sip, watching me over the rim. ‘You don’t have to talk about it.’

I focus on the tomatoes. Start chopping, the rhythm steadying.

‘I was nine,’ I say, eyes on the knife. ‘Kit was twelve. One day she was there, the next…’ I shrug. ‘Gone. Dad told us she didn’t want us anymore. That she’d chosen to leave.’

‘And you believed him?’

I look up. Brynn’s watching me with an expression I can’t read.

‘He was my dad. I was nine. What was I supposed to believe?’

‘Fair enough.’ She sets down her glass. ‘My dad didn’t leave physically. He was always around. But he was gone. In his head. In his heart. Looking for something none of us could give him.’

‘What was he looking for?’

‘Someone, I think. Someone he lost.’ Her voice is careful, choosing each word carefully. ‘But all he found instead was a bottle.’

The kitchen feels very small. Very quiet, except for the hiss of garlic hitting hot oil.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘About your dad.’

‘I’m sorry about your mum.’

We look at each other. Two people shaped by absence.

‘Yesterday you said this was the only place that ever felt like yours,’ I say, turning back to the pan. Adding tomatoes. ‘Is it? Feeling like yours yet?’

She’s quiet. I can hear her thinking.

‘Some days,’ she says. ‘When the light comes through the kitchen window and I can hear the sea from the bedroom and the list has one more thing crossed off.’ A pause. ‘Other days I’m waiting for someone to tell me I don’t belong here. That it was a mistake. That the cottage was meant for someone else and they’d like me to leave now.’

‘Nobody’s going to tell you that.’

‘Your father would. In a heartbeat.’

I can’t argue. So I don’t.

‘This is heavy,’ she says, with a small laugh. ‘Weren’t you supposed to be impressing me with your culinary skills?’

‘Right. Yes. Prepare to be moderately impressed.’

‘Such confidence.’

‘I contain multitudes.’

She laughs. Real. It’s the best fucking sound.