Page 133 of Take Me Away

I reach for Isla.

My hand finds empty sheets. Cool to the touch.

For a second, panic spikes – that old fear that everyone leaves, everyone always leaves – but I push it down. She’s probably downstairs. Making tea. Burning toast. Doing that thing where she mutters at the kettle like it’s personally offended her.

I smile despite myself.

Christ, I’ve got it bad.

I open my eyes properly, blinking against the pale morning light filtering through the curtains. The white walls stare back at me. White ceiling. White room. The same sterile nothing it’s been for two years.

Maybe it’s time.

Maybe it’s time to paint it.

What colour though?

Blue, like the rest of the house? Blue like the sea? That feels too obvious. Too much like admitting the ocean owns me, which it does, but I don’t need to advertise it on my bedroom walls.

Yellow? Too cheerful. I’m not that far gone yet.

Green, maybe. A soft green. Like⁠—

Like Isla’s eyes.

Fuck.

I stare at the ceiling and the reality settles over me like a blanket I didn’t know I needed.

I want to paint this room green because of a woman’s eyes.

I want to wake up to a colour that reminds me of her.

I want her here. Not just for now. Not just until the grief eases or she gets bored or Hollywood calls her back. I want her here for good. For always. For every morning and every nightmare and every stupid decision to paint a room a colour I’ve never even considered before.

It’s official.

I’ve got it bad.

So bad that last night, standing by the harbour with stars overhead and her hand in mine, I told her I loved her. Meant it. Didn’t even hesitate.

And she said it back.

She said she was staying.

The thought fills my chest with something warm and terrifying and good.

Maisie’s already attached. Asked me last night if Isla was staying forever, like it was the most natural question in the world. Like she couldn’t imagine a future where Isla wasn’t in it.

Neither can I.

And that should scare me more than it does.

I swing my legs out of bed, feet hitting the cold floorboards. Pull on the jeans I left in a heap last night, find yesterday’s T-shirt. The cottage is quiet. No sound of the kettle. No footsteps downstairs.

Maybe she’s asleep on the sofa. Didn’t want to wake me by coming back to bed after she got up for one reason or the other.

Or maybe she went back to Salt Cottage to get some clean clothes.