Page 141 of Carry Me Home

‘Yeah?’

‘When do you have to leave? For Scotland?’

‘This afternoon. Probably. I should see Mum and Dad first.’

‘And then you’re going back.’ I’m trying to read her expression, but for the first time in my life, my fluency in all things Nina fails. Does she think I’m keen to go back? Indifferent? Hating the thought of it like it might end me to be separated from her again, which is how I do feel?

‘It’s just a few weeks. I need to hand over properly. The practice, the patients. Talk to Cara. I told you last night.’

At Cara’s name, her expression tightens slightly around her mouth, quickly released.

‘What are you going to tell her?’

‘The truth. That I’m coming home. That this is what I want.’

‘Is it?’

‘Nina.’ I sit up. Take her hand. ‘I have wanted this since I was sixteen years old. Through all the various places you and I have been at different times. I wanted it through Peter, through the grief, through Scotland, through every version of my life where I tried to convince myself I could build something without you in it. And I couldn’t. It was never going to work because the question was never about Scotland. It was about whether I could build a life around your absence.’ I look at her. ‘And the answer is no. It was always no.’

She’s quiet for a moment. Her thumb traces a circle on my palm.

‘That’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me,’ she says. ‘And you said it while looking like you’ve been electrocuted.’

‘My hair’s fine.’

‘Your hair is vertical.’ She reaches up, smooths it down. Her hand stays on my head. ‘Come back, Tom. Come back and stay.’

‘I’m coming back. Two weeks. Maybe less.’

‘Promise?’

I catch her hand. Press my lips to her knuckles.

‘I promise.’

‘Okay.’ She nods. Breathes. ‘Okay.’

She walks me downstairs. The café is still dark, chairs stacked on tables, the pink bear keeping watch from its corner, the morning light filtering through shutters. The village outside the windows is quiet – sleeping off the christening, the harbour still, the boats barely moving at their moorings.

‘Call me,’ she says at the door. ‘When you get there. Second ring.’

‘Second ring.’

‘And text me. Properly. Not just fine and good. Actual information. What you ate. What animals you saw.’ She’s smiling, but her eyes are bright. ‘Just come back. That’s all. Just come back.’

I pull her in. Kiss her. Long and slow and full of everything I can’t say in words, every promise I’ve ever wanted to make compressed into the press of my mouth against hers. She holds on. Her fingers twist in the front of my shirt the way they did last night, like she’s anchoring herself, like letting go is a skill she hasn’t learned yet.

‘Go,’ she whispers against my mouth.

I make myself walk away. Down the harbour. Up the hill. Every step a small act of will, like walking against a current.

At the top of the lane – the last point where you can see the harbour – I turn back.

She’s still standing in the doorway. Bare feet on the stone step. Wrapped in a cardigan. Watching me go.

Two months ago, I drove away from this village and the last thing I saw was Nina alone on the harbour wall, disappearing into the mist.

This time, she raises her hand. I raise mine.