Page 116 of Take Me Away

I loved him the first time he kissed me, pulling me up to my feet from where I’d been dragged by the wild water of the tide. Instead of drowning in salt water, I’d drowned in the heat of his mouth, so steady and sure.

My heart thuds unevenly in my chest as I stare at Kit and his daughter, the trajectory of the future I thought I wanted refolding itself into something new.

I need to go back to Salt Cottage, shower, change, give them space. But then I turn and see the kitchen. Dishes piled in the sink. Empty mugs scattered across the counter. The kettle, abandoned mid-fill. Evidence of people trying to help who didn’t quite finish the job. My feet carry me to the kitchen before I’ve decided to move. I fill the kettle properly this time, set it to boil. Find tea bags, sugar, milk that’s still good. While the water heats, I wash the dishes as quietly as possible, stacking them to dry. Wipe down the counters. Find bread that’s only slightly stale and put it in the toaster.

This is something I can do. Something useful. Something real.

I’m spreading butter when I hear a small voice behind me. ‘You’re still here.’ I turn. Maisie stands at the kitchen island between the living area and where I am. Her face is sleep-scrunched, a reddened cheek from where she’s been leaning against Kit. Keeping my voice soft I ask, ‘Is that okay?’

She nods, padding across the kitchen in her socked feet. ‘I love you being here. Dad’s still asleep.’

‘He needs the rest.’ I think he needs more than rest. I honestly don’t know how, in the cold light of the morning, he’s going to face the guilt that was eating him away last night.

‘Are you making breakfast?’

‘Toast. I’m not very good at breakfast, but I can manage toast.’

Her mouth tries for a smile. Doesn’t get there. ‘Can I have jam?’

‘Of course.’

She climbs onto one of the kitchen chairs, legs swinging, and watches me with Kit’s eyes. Dark. Serious. Older than eight years old should be. ‘Is Mr Peter really not coming back?’ she asks quietly. My hand stills on the butter knife.

‘No, Maisie. He’s not.’

‘Dad’s really sad.’

‘I know.’

‘Are you going to stay and help him not be sad?’ The question lands like a weight in my chest. Direct. Innocent. Impossibly complex.

‘I’m going to try,’ I say honestly. ‘If that’s okay with you.’

She considers this, swinging her legs. ‘Okay. But you have to know that he doesn’t like honey on his toast. He says it makes it too sweet. And he drinks his tea with two sugars, even though he tells everyone else to have less.’

‘Good to know,’ I say, sliding a plate towards her. ‘What about you?’

‘I like honey. And I’m not allowed tea yet. Only juice.’

‘Orange juice? I think there’s some in the fridge.’

‘Please.’

As I pour, something loosens in my chest. This I can do. This quiet, ordinary care. Maisie eats her toast and I make a second round. I don’t know whether she’s going to school. What are the rules when something like this happens? I don’t have a clue, don’t know the first thing about parenting or anything maternal. I’m saved when Reuben taps gently on the door and I let him in.

‘Isla.’ There’s a gruffness in his greeting, but also admiration I’m not sure I deserve. I hold a finger up to my lips and tilt my head in the direction of Kit.

‘I wasn’t sure if Maisie would be going to school,’ I say, sliding my hands into the pockets of the jeans I’ve been wearing for twenty-four hours. I might stink. How very un-Hollywood of me.

‘She can stay home, I think.’ Reuben looks around for his granddaughter.

‘She’s upstairs.’

He nods and glances again at his son, shaking his head slightly. ‘I don’t know how he will get over this.’

‘I’ll be here to help.’ I pause. We may as well deal with the strain between us. ‘This time, Reuben, I’m going to be here to help.’ I reach for his arm and give a gentle squeeze. This man who once was the closest thing to a father I knew, but who I let down, along with everyone else. With Maggie, with Kit. With myself.

Reuben’s pale blue gaze glistens. ‘I hope so, Isla. I really hope so.’