Page 128 of Carry Me Home

‘If you say good, I’m hanging up.’

I almost laugh. ‘It’s an adjustment. That’s all. New place, new people. Takes time.’

‘Mm.’ She doesn’t sound convinced. ‘And how’s Cara? Are you two…?’

‘We’re colleagues.’

‘Just colleagues?’

‘Just colleagues.’

‘Hm.’ There’s a weight to that syllable. A question she’s not asking. ‘Well. You’re coming to the christening. That’s the important thing. We’ll catch up properly then.’

‘Looking forward to it.’

‘Liar.’ But she says it fondly. ‘See you in three weeks, Tom. And for God’s sake, try to look less like someone’s kicked your puppy. It’s a christening, not a funeral.’

She hangs up before I can respond.

I set the phone down and look at the invitation, propped against the salt shaker on the tiny kitchen table.

Godparents: Nina Ellis & Tom Darcy.

Three weeks. In three weeks, I’ll be standing at a font with Nina. Making vows about a child named Peter. Promising to be there, to guide, to support.

I haven’t spoken to her since I left. Haven’t texted. Haven’t called. The silence between us has calcified – two months of it, hardening into a wall I don’t know how to take down and she hasn’t tried to.

But I’ll be there. At the christening. Standing beside her.

And I have no idea what I’m going to say.

Cara finds me in the staff room after the last appointment.

I’m pretending to do paperwork. She’s not pretending anything – just sits down across from me and waits, the way she does. Patient. Steady. Giving me space to speak first.

I don’t take it.

‘Okay,’ she says eventually. ‘I’ll start.’ She leans back in her chair, but her hands are wrapped around her coffee mug and her knuckles are white. ‘I’ve been watching you, Tom. These past weeks. Watching you try to make this work.’

‘And?’

‘And you’re miserable.’

‘I’m not⁠—’

‘You are. You’re doing everything right – showing up, working hard, meeting people, charming all the clients and their pets. But you’re not here.’ She taps her chest. ‘Not where it counts. You’re seven hundred miles away, in a village by the sea, with a woman who…’

She stops. Takes a breath. The mug turns in her hands.

‘With a woman who isn’t me,’ she finishes.

The words settle between us. I open my mouth to argue, but nothing comes out. There’s nothing to argue with. She’s right, and we both know it, and the kindest thing I can do is stop pretending otherwise.

‘I’m not angry,’ she says. ‘I’m not even surprised, really. I think I knew when I came to Sea Salt Bay. The way you looked at her.’ A pause. ‘The way you didn’t look at me.’ She holds up a hand before I can speak. ‘I’m not saying that for sympathy. I’m saying it because it’s true and one of us needs to be honest.’

‘Cara—’

‘I hoped it would fade. Or that I’d be enough to make you forget. But I’m not.’ She meets my eyes. Hers are bright but steady – holding. ‘And that’s okay. It hurts, but it’s okay.’