Page 129 of Carry Me Home

‘It’s not okay. You’ve been⁠—’

‘Patient. Too patient, probably.’ Her voice wavers – just once, just slightly, a hairline crack in the steadiness – and then she has it back. ‘What’s not okay is you staying here out of obligation. Out of guilt. Out of some idea that you owe me.’

‘I do owe you⁠—’

‘You don’t owe me your life, Tom.’ She leans forward. ‘Go to the christening. See Nina. Figure out what’s actually there. And then make a decision. A real one. Not this halfway thing where you’re here but not here.’

‘And if there’s nothing to figure out? If she doesn’t⁠—’

‘Then you’ll know. And you can come back and we can try properly. Or you can go somewhere else entirely. Or whatever you need to do.’ She sets down the mug. ‘But right now, you’re stuck. And I’m stuck with you. And neither of us is happy.’

I look at her – this woman who’s been nothing but kind, nothing but present. Who came to Sea Salt Bay knowing what she was walking into and came anyway. Who deserves so much more than what I’ve been able to give.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I thought I could decide to feel it. Make it happen through sheer force of will.’

‘I know. I’ve tried that too.’ A small, sad smile. The first real crack, and she lets me see it. ‘It doesn’t work.’

‘You deserve better.’

‘I do.’ No argument. No deflection. Just the clean, quiet truth of it. ‘And so do you.’ She reaches across the table. Takes my hand. Squeezes once. ‘Go figure it out, Tom. Whatever happens, at least you’ll know.’

Three weeks pass slowly. Then all at once.

I pack a bag. Just a weekend’s worth – I’m not leaving permanently, whatever Cara says. I’m going for the christening. I’m being a godfather. That’s all.

But I pack more than I need. Shirts I won’t wear. Books I won’t read. A jumper that smells faintly of the surgery in Sea Salt Bay, even though I’ve washed it three times.

The drive south starts in darkness. Five am, the roads empty, the first light of dawn bleeding across the horizon as I cross the border into England. Eleven hours ahead of me. Eleven hours of motorways and service stations and radio stations that fade in and out.

I’ve done this drive before. Two months ago, going the other way. But this doesn’t feel like running. It feels like the opposite of running, though I don’t have a word for what that is.

The landscape shifts as I travel. Scotland’s open hills give way to Yorkshire greenery, breathtaking really, followed by peaks and valleys, expanses of space that then leach into the Midlands’ flat sprawl with its industrial buildings and the carnage that is the Birmingham motorway system. I stop for coffee near Birmingham – proper coffee this time, from an actual café inside the services, not the machine that tried to poison me on the way up. It’s still not good. But it’s warm, and the woman behind the counter calls me ‘love’, and the accent is closer to home than anything I’ve heard in two months.

Then the slow curve into the southwest. The A-roads narrowing. The hedgerows rising on either side, thick and tangled and impossibly green. And somewhere around Exeter, the tightness in my chest – which I’ve been carrying like a fist behind my sternum since the day I left – starts to ease.

I don’t notice it at first. I’m focused on the road, on the lorry that’s been tailgating me for the last fifteen miles. But then I crest a hill and catch a glimpse of the sea – just a sliver, silver against the grey sky – and my lungs open. Actually, physically, open, drawing in a breath so deep it makes my ribs ache.

The miles fall away. Okehampton. Launceston. The roundabout at Camelford where Dad always takes the wrong exit and blames the signage.

And then the turn. The narrow lane that winds down to the coast. The hedgerows giving way to stone walls. The first glimpse of the village below, spread out around the harbour like a cupped hand holding water.

Sea Salt Bay.

The smell hits me before the view does. Salt and seaweed and fish and the sharp green of the coast path after rain. The smell of my entire life. The one I didn’t realise I was missing until it fills my lungs and I’m gripping the steering wheel because my hands have started shaking.

I roll down the window. The air comes in – cold, salt-edged, alive. And from somewhere below, the gulls, the waves, the distant shouts from the harbour. Every sound landing in me like a tuning fork struck against bone.

I drive slowly down the lane. Past the church at Pencross where I’ll stand tomorrow, making promises. Past the turning for my parents’ house. Past the spot where I drove away two months ago and watched Nina disappear into the mist in my rearview mirror.

The harbour comes into view. The boats. The fish shack. The Ship with its faded sign.

And the café.

The Lavender Café, with its purple shutters, chalkboard sign, window boxes, and hanging baskets full of flowers.

I pull into a space at the top of the harbour. Cut the engine. Sit there for a moment, just looking. The harbour is golden in the early evening light. The boats nod at their moorings. Everything exactly the same, exactly where I left it, as if the village was just waiting for me to come back and notice.

And then I see her.