Page 138 of Pull Me Under

Jude’s expression folds into a grimace that makes me laugh, the sound so free it takes me by surprise.

‘It will be fine. It’s all about the tasting while you cook.’

‘Nina did not mention tasting when she was telling me what to make you.’

He follows me, leaning against the counter while I rummage through the fridge. I’ve got onions, garlic, tinned tomatoes, some sad-looking bacon that’s still within date. It’ll do.

‘Chop these,’ I say, handing him the onions. ‘Small pieces. And try not to lose a finger.’

‘Your faith in me is touching.’

But he takes the knife, and I watch him frown in concentration as he attempts to dice an onion. It’s endearing. This capable man who faces down Atlantic storms, undone by root vegetables.

‘Smaller,’ I say.

‘They’re small.’

‘Those are chunks, not diced.’

‘What’s the difference?’

‘About three centimetres.’

He mutters under his breath, but adjusts the size of the onion. I hide my smile and start on the garlic.

We work in companionable silence for a while until the kitchen fills with the smell of frying onions, and the sizzle of bacon. I’m feeling warm and oozy and I genuinely think I might be coming down with something.

‘Your mum,’ I say as I stir the sauce. ‘What was she like? I’ve got this vague memory of her – auburn hair, I think? – but I was so young when we left.’

Jude’s quiet for a moment. I don’t push.

‘Helen Harding,’ he says finally. ‘The woman who couldn’t wait to escape small-town life.’

His voice is as bitter as the darkest of chocolate – more like a wound that’s scarred over but never fully healed.

‘That’s what Dad always said, anyway. That she was too good for Sea Salt Bay. Too ambitious. Too restless.’ He reaches past me for his whisky glass, takes a drink ‘One day she was there, making breakfast, and the next…’ He shrugs. ‘Gone.’

‘She didn’t say goodbye?’

‘Not to us.’ His jaw tightens. ‘Dad said she’d found something better. Someone better. That we weren’t enough to make her stay.’

I ache for the nine-year-old boy he was. The one who woke up to find his mother vanished.

‘Do you believe that? That you weren’t enough?’

‘I did. For a long time.’ He sets the glass down, stares at it. ‘Kit still does, I think. It’s why he’s so … intense. So afraid of people leaving. When Jess got sick – his wife – I watched him fall apart. Not just because he was losing her, but because it confirmed everything he already believed. That people leave. That love isn’t enough to make anyone stay.’

‘But he has Isla now.’

Jude’s face softens. ‘Yeah. He does. And she’s – God, she’s amazing for him.’ A pause. ‘I used to think Kit was the lucky one. Finally got the girl, his first love, got the life. But watching them … I think I understand now. It’s not luck. It’s choosing someone every day. Even when it’s hard.’

‘Is that what you want?’ My voice is barely above a whisper. ‘Someone who chooses you?’

He turns to look at me. Those green eyes, so like the sea outside, are raw and unguarded.

‘I think I’ve already found her.’

I don’t know who moves first. Maybe we both do. But suddenly his mouth is on mine, his hands in my hair, and the pasta sauce is burning and neither of us cares.