Page 60 of Take Me Away

‘Thanks, Kit. I know you’d rather be anywhere but here, helping me.’

For a flash, his gaze settles on my face, paired with a beat of silence.

‘You didn’t need to be out on the boat? I could do without your dad glaring at me any more than he is.’ I try not to wince. Fail.

‘Ignore him. He’s got crankier with every passing year.’ There, a flicker across his face, something deep.

‘What?’ I leave the box and turn back to Maggie’s old wing-backed armchair, the one with the lace arm protectors and green crochet blanket.

Kit shakes his head. ‘It’s nothing.’

‘Tell that to your face.’

He laughs and the sound is so unexpected, so electrifying, that it’s a high-voltage shock straight to my heart. His laugh. It’s the same.

There is some part of Kit Harding that hasn’t changed, and it makes my eyes sting.

‘Why – why don’t we just sit for a moment.’ I gesture to the sofa. I think he won’t.

Then I let out a breath when he lowers down onto the floral print, a ghost of a smile flickering across his lips when he glances down at the well-worn fabric we used to make out on.

Neither of us speak, which would be awkward apart from the uneven beat of my heart thudding in my ears.

‘Jude went out this morning.’

I nod. ‘My first day back, Frankie and Bill were saying your dad still goes out too.’

Kit’s laugh is dry. ‘Of course, the great Reuben Harding is going to be out in that boat until the day he dies.’

‘That must be frustrating.’

He shrugs, lips pursed. ‘I don’t want to talk fishing boats, Isla.’

My fingers pluck the edge of the blanket. ‘No, and what do you want to talk about?’

His gaze is city-levelling as it meets mine. ‘What you said last night, about suicidal thoughts. I mean, that’s what you meant by oblivion, right?’

‘What?’ Heat crawls up my throat. ‘It was a throwaway comment, Kit.’

‘Not a funny one.’ He leans forward, elbows on knees. ‘Isla. You haven’t been back to Sea Salt Bay for ten years. Come on. You show up, out of nowhere…’

‘Oh, right. So the man who apparently hates my guts, the man who is grieving his dead wife so much he’s barely existing, is now so concerned with me he’s skipped out of work. What? To be on suicide watch?’

‘Isla, that’s not—’ He closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. ‘Why is it so hard to talk to you?’

I huff out a snort of air. ‘Because we don’t know one another anymore, Kit. Not at all.’

When he opens his eyes, I want to weep at the shadows of pain that linger there. ‘No, I guess we don’t.’ He gets up from the sofa and walks back towards the kitchen and the back door. ‘I’ll finish your roof and then I’ll get out of your hair.’

‘Kit,’ I call, but I’m too late. The back door slams. ‘Fuck.’

My phone buzzes – Simone. I hesitate, thumb hovering. She’s relentless but fair. Brutal honesty in Louboutin heels. I’ve been ignoring her for over two weeks.

I swipe to answer. ‘Simone.’ My stomach tightens into a hard ball, while my ribs crank with the effort of simply breathing.

‘Isla, darling!’ Her voice snaps like a perfectly starched collar. ‘Please tell me you’re not dead in a ditch.’

‘Not dead, not in a ditch,’ I say, rubbing my temple. ‘Just taking some time away.’