Page 42 of Take Me Away

Kit kneels before me, carefully examining my foot again. His fingers are calloused but gentle, pressing here and there, watching my reactions.

‘Wiggle your toes,’ he instructs.

I comply, wincing.

‘Good. I really don’t think anything’s broken. But you’re going to have an impressive bruise.’ He looks up at me, still holding my foot. ‘The local hospital is twenty miles away if you want to be sure.’

‘I trust your diagnosis, Dr Harding.’

The corner of his mouth twitches, almost a smile. ‘Ice. Elevation. Rest. Maybe stay away from manual labour for a while.’

‘Noted.’

His eyes drift towards the ceiling, catching on the water stain that’s grown since my arrival. His expression darkens. ‘That’s getting worse.’

‘It’s on my to-do list.’

‘Right after “drop rocks on foot”.’ The almost-warmth vanishes, replaced by the familiar coolness.

For a moment, I glimpse something raw in his expression before he shutters it away. His fingers sweep back a lock of my hair and tuck it behind my ear. There’s a deadly ache settling inside me. His hand drops and I mourn its loss more than I could have imagined. For a heartbeat, neither of us moves. His eyes drop to my mouth. Then he blinks, steps back. ‘I should go.’ He steps back. ‘Ice. Elevation⁠—’

‘Rest. Yes, doctor. I heard you the first time.’ I try to laugh, but his fingers against my hair have left me on uneven ground.

He nods once, then heads for the door. He pauses with his hand on the knob. ‘The weather will get worse before it clears. Stay off that foot.’

I’m left with the ghost of his touch still clinging to my skin – and the weight of everything we never said pressing heavier than the mizzle outside.

Chapter Ten

KIT

Iscrub my hands, using washing-up liquid, but I can still smell her on my skin. Vanilla and salt. Always that combination, ever since we were teenagers. Like she absorbed the sea air and made it part of her.

The kitchen is quiet except for the angry chop of my knife against the cutting board. Onions. Garlic. Too forceful, too fast. A piece of onion skitters across the counter and onto the floor. I swear under my breath, bending to retrieve it.

My arms still feel the phantom weight of her. Too light. Much too light, like there’s less of her now than when she left. And why am I noticing? Why does my body remember exactly how she fits against me when my brain is screaming to forget?

I toss the onion piece into the bin and return to chopping. The curry I’m making is simple – one of the few things I can cook reliably that isn’t fish or pasta. Jessica taught me, patient as always, laughing at my early disasters until eventually I got it right.

My breath aches in my throat at the memory. Two years and it still catches me sometimes, that twist of grief when I least expect it, but then, after the tide of grief comes the swell of survival, the steadiness of still being here, still living, still doing all the things Jess wanted me to do.

For some inexplicable reason, an image of Isla flits its way back into my consciousness, but I try my hardest to block it out while I prepare my late wife’s recipe.

The front door bangs open, followed by the thud of Maisie’s wellies being kicked off in the hallway.

‘Dad! Dad!’ Her voice rings through the house, excitement palpable. ‘Is Isla okay? I tried to come over to help but Grandad made me wait with him!’ Her tone tells me exactly what she thinks about Grandad in that moment. I bite down on a grin.

‘She’s fine,’ I say, keeping my voice neutral. ‘Just a bruised foot. Did Grandad not want to come in?’ That’s unusual; normally when he’s had Maisie he will stop in, see if I’m cooking anything he might fancy. Maybe he got a whiff of the garlic and ginger and decided that he wasn’t up for any of that fancy stuff.

Maisie appears in the kitchen doorway, cheeks flushed from the wind, eyes bright. ‘He’s gone to the pub. Nina said the rock was HUGE. Was it ginormous? Did she cry?’

‘It wasn’t that big, and no, she didn’t cry.’ I return to chopping. ‘It’s just a bruise.’

‘She didn’t cry?’ Maisie climbs onto a kitchen stool.

‘She swore. A lot.’

Maisie’s eyes widen. ‘The f-word?’