Page 82 of Pull Me Under

So I wash it all away, pull it down with the tide by rolling my eyes and pulling a cry-baby face at him. I’m pretty sure I used to do that way back when too.

‘So you’re a grown man. With your own brain. Your own opinions. You don’t have to be what your father tells you to be.’

‘Easy for you to say. You didn’t grow up in it.’

‘I didn’t grow up in anything. That’s the point.’ The words come out sharp and bladed.

Jude’s quiet. I can see his brain working behind those green eyes.

‘So I kept moving,’ I say, ‘because staying was never an option. The work moved, so I moved. Taunton, Bristol, Southampton, Plymouth. Bedsits and boatyards and garage shifts. I wasn’t running from anything, Jude. There was nothing to run from. There was nothing at all.’ I look at him. ‘You stay in one place your whole life – you can’t imagine what it’s like to have nowhere that’s yours.’

‘And now you’ve stopped.’

‘Now I’ve stopped. Because Grandad died and for the first time in my life, I had this feeling that I was being pulled forward instead of being pushed away. A cottage. A shed. A name on a harbour wall.’

We stand there, the confession hanging between us. The waves crash and bash a steady cacophony I can’t imagine not hearing. Somewhere in the village, a kid laughs.

‘For what it’s worth,’ Jude says, ‘I’m glad you came back.’

‘You hated me when I came back.’

‘I didn’t hate you. I was⁠—’

‘Wary. Yes, you said.’

‘I was going to say scared, actually.’

That stops me. ‘Scared of what?’

He looks at me. Really looks, the way he did on the harbour Friday night.

‘I don’t know yet,’ he says. ‘But I’m starting to figure it out.’

My lungs don’t seem to be inhaling and exhaling the way I need them too. We’re not standing that close – a few feet of concrete between us – but it feels like inches.

I should break the tension. Make a joke about him being scared of a girl with a spanner.

Instead, I just look back at him.

‘Your coffee’s getting cold,’ I finally say.

‘So is yours.’

‘Mine’s already cold. I’ve been holding it for ten minutes.’

‘Whose fault is that?’

‘Yours. You’re the one who brought it.’

He laughs. A real laugh, warm and surprised, and it jolts through me.

‘I should let you work,’ he says, but he doesn’t move.

‘Probably.’

‘I could stay. You know, hand you tools. Get things wrong. Generally be useless.’

‘That’s a compelling offer.’