Page 126 of Take Me Away

I loved her when I was eighteen and stupid and thought the world belonged to me. I loved her when she left and I pretended I didn’t care. I loved her when she smacked into me out on that run when she’d just come back.

I love her now, walking beside me towards a gathering for a man I got killed, fitting into my life like she never left.

And terrifyingly, I think she might actually stay this time.

The Ship’s door is propped open, warm light spilling onto the street. Inside, it’s packed – every table full, people standing shoulder to shoulder, voices low and respectful. The air smells like beer and woodsmoke and grief.

Nina’s in the corner by the fire. Her mum’s on one side, Tom on the other, both holding her up like she might collapse without them. She’s staring at nothing, face blank, eyes hollow.

I did that. Put that look on her face.

My feet stop moving.

‘Kit.’ Isla’s hand on my back. ‘Come on.’

‘I can’t⁠—’

‘You can.’

Jude’s on my other side now. ‘One foot in front of the other, brother. That’s all you’ve got to do.’

So I do. One step. Then another. Until I’m standing in front of Nina.

She looks up. Her eyes focus on me slowly, like she’s surfacing from deep water.

‘Kit.’ Her voice is scraped raw.

‘Nina. I’m so⁠—’

‘Don’t.’ She shakes her head. ‘Don’t apologise. Don’t you dare.’

‘But—’

‘Peter made a choice.’ Her mum squeezes her shoulder, but Nina keeps talking. ‘He saw you in the water and he jumped. That’s who he was. That’s who he’s always been. You don’t get to take that from him by making it about your guilt.’

The words land like blows.

‘I should have checked the engine. Should have stayed in port. Should have⁠—’

‘Should have what? Seen the future?’ Tom cuts in, voice rough. ‘Peter wouldn’t want you destroying yourself over this, Kit. None of us do.’

I don’t know what to say to that. Don’t know how to carry this weight they’re trying to take from me.

Isla’s hand slides into mine, fingers lacing tight.

‘Thank you for the jam,’ Nina says to Isla. ‘Peter loved your gran’s jam. He’d eat it straight from the jar when he thought I wasn’t looking, said I should ask for the recipe and start selling it.’

‘Then he’ll be happy,’ Maisie says simply. Eight years old and wiser than all of us. ‘That’s good, right?’

Nina pulls Maisie into a hug so fierce it makes my chest ache. ‘That’s very good, sweetheart. Very good indeed.’

Over Maisie’s head, Nina’s eyes meet mine. ‘Thank you. For coming. For bringing them.’

I nod, throat too tight for words.

Someone starts singing then. Old Jack Penrose, voice rough as gravel, leading into ‘The Cornish Nightingale’. The room joins in – slow at first, then stronger, voices layering and building until the whole pub’s shaking with it.

These are the songs Peter learned when he moved from Plymouth and adopted Sea Salt Bay and Cornwall as his home. The rest of us grew up with these songs. Passed down through generations of fishermen who knew the sea took more than it gave, but went out anyway. Because it’s what we do. What we’ve always done.