Page 132 of Carry Me Home

Eleven years.

The words have been running through my head since the pub. Since Jude’s face went pale and he said, You knew that, right?

I didn’t know. I didn’t let myself know. And now I can’t unknow it, and Tom is about to walk through those doors, and we’re going to stand side by side and make promises about a baby, and I have no idea how to be normal.

‘You’re fidgeting.’ Brynn appears beside me, adjusting the collar of her dress.

‘I’m not fidgeting.’

‘You’ve straightened that hymn book four times.’

‘It wasn’t straight.’

‘Nina.’ She puts a hand on my arm. ‘Breathe.’

‘I’m breathing.’

‘You’re hyperventilating.’

The church doors open. Sunlight spills across the stone floor, and there he is.

Tom.

He’s wearing a suit I’ve never seen before – navy blue, well-fitted, a tie that matches the light sky hue of his eyes. His hair’s been cut since yesterday. He looks – and this is the part that floors me, the part I wasn’t ready for – he looks like Tom but illuminated. Like I’ve been seeing him through a smudged window for far too long and someone has just cleaned the glass.

He sees me. Stops for just a second. Then keeps walking, steady and calm, the way Tom always walks – unhurried, precise, giving nothing away.

‘Nina.’ He stops beside me. Close enough that I can smell his aftershave, all cedar and citrus. ‘You look…’

‘Terrified?’

‘I was going to say beautiful.’

The word lands in my stomach and stays there, warm.

‘You clean up all right yourself,’ I manage.

‘Thanks. I borrowed the tie from Dad. He said it was lucky.’

‘Is it?’

‘Hasn’t been so far. He wore it to his driving test and failed three times.’

I laugh. The tension breaks, just slightly. This is Tom. Just Tom. My friend. The person I’ve known forever.

The thought crashes back in and the tension doubles.

‘Right.’ The vicar appears, a small woman with grey hair and kind eyes. ‘Shall we begin? If the godparents could stand here, please…’

She positions us at the font. Side by side. Shoulders almost touching.

Kit and Isla appear with the baby. Peter’s wearing a christening gown that’s been in Kit’s family for generations – Maisie wore it too, apparently. He looks tiny and perfect and completely unaware of the significance of the day.

The service begins. The vicar speaks about faith and community and the promises we make to children. I try to focus on her words, but Tom is right there, inches away, and I can feel the warmth coming off him through the gap between our arms. Every time he shifts his weight, the air moves between us and my skin registers it – cataloguing the distance, the heat, the millimetres of space that are and aren’t enough.

‘Do you reject the devil and all rebellion against God?’

‘I reject them,’ Tom says, his voice steady.