Page 125 of Pull Me Under

Inside are letters. Dozens of them, bundled with rubber bands that crack when I touch them. My father’s handwriting on some, my grandfather’s on others.

And then – different handwriting. Smaller. More careful. Slanting slightly to the left.

Beneath the layer of Dad’s unsent letters: more letters. But these aren’t his. And they’re addressed to G.

She wrote back.

H didn’t just exist in my father’s desperate imagination. She was real. She wrote to him, and he kept every word.

I pull one out. Unfold it.

My darling G⁠—

I know you think I’ve made my choice, but you have to understand – there was never a choice. Not really. Not the kind you get to make freely.

I miss you in ways I can’t say out loud. In ways I have to hide from everyone, even myself. Some mornings I wake up and forget, just for a second, that you’re not beside me. And then I remember, and the day goes grey.

Be patient with me. Please. I’m trying to find a way through this.

All my heart—H

The paper trembles in my hands. Not because of what it says – though that’s enough – but because of how it sounds. This isn’t a woman who chose to leave my father. This is a woman who wanted to stay and couldn’t.

I check my phone. Quarter to seven. Shit.

I shove the letters back in the box. There are more – I can see the edges of them, a whole layer I haven’t touched. H’s side of the story, waiting underneath my father’s grief like the answer to a question I’m not sure I want to ask.

Later. I’ll read them properly later.

Now, I have a dinner to attend. A life to build. A future to focus on that doesn’t involve Jude Harding or ancient family secrets or the growing suspicion that everything I thought I knew about my family is wrong.

I grab my bag, the bottle of wine I bought earlier, and the small bunch of flowers I picked up from Dot’s shop – a hostess gift, because even emotionally devastated women can have manners.

Dot had given me a look when I bought them. That knowing village look that says I’ve heard things.

‘Going somewhere nice?’ she’d asked.

‘Just dinner with friends.’

‘Friends.’ A pause. ‘Well. Good for you, dear.’

I hadn’t asked what she’d heard. Didn’t want to know.

The walk to Cal and Cassie’s takes ten minutes. The evening is cool but clear, the sun sinking toward the horizon, painting everything gold. Sea Salt Bay looks almost pretty at this hour – the harbour still, the boats bobbing gently, the sound of gulls fading as they settle for the night.

I could learn to love it here. If I let myself.

If certain people would let me.

I shake off the thought. Tonight is not about Jude. Tonight is about making friends, building connections, proving that I can have a life in this village that doesn’t revolve around a man who’s too scared to claim me.

Cal and Cassie’s cottage is warm and welcoming, light spilling from the windows, a shout of laughter and a squeal. I take a breath.

New people. New start.

I knock on the door.

A guy answers, dark, dead-as-fuck handsome with jet hair and eyes that drill me to the ground with one sweep. My tongue dries. ‘You are not Cal Morrison.’