Page 143 of Carry Me Home

‘Good. Emmett finished the serving hatch today. It actually looks like a café now. A floating café.’

‘Send me pictures.’

‘Tomorrow. When the light’s better.’

‘I want to see it.’ His voice softens – drops into a register that I’m now learning is just for me. Because he loves me. ‘I want to see everything.’

‘You will. Soon.’

‘Eleven more days.’

‘Eleven more days.’

A pause. I can hear him breathing. Can picture him in the magnolia cottage, lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling in the silence where the sea should be. I try hard not to think about him sharing the cottage with Cara.

‘I hate this,’ he says.

‘I know.’

‘I hate being here when you’re there.’

‘I know.’

Another yawn. ‘Sorry. I’m knackered. I should sleep.’

‘Sleep. Call me tomorrow.’

‘I will.’ A pause. Longer this time. The quality of the silence changes – thickens, becomes deliberate. ‘Nina?’

‘Yeah?’

‘I love you.’

The words arrive down the phone line and land in my chest like a key turning. I press my hand flat against my sternum. Close my eyes.

‘I should have said that before I left,’ he says. ‘I should have said it eleven years ago. But I’m saying it now.’

‘I love you too.’ My voice comes out rough. Cracked at the edges. ‘I love you too, Tom.’

‘Good. That’s…’ I can hear him smiling. The shape of it in his voice. ‘Goodnight.’

‘Goodnight.’

Days six and seven blur together. The texts get shorter. The calls get briefer. He’s busy, he says. Wrapping things up. Handing over patients. Saying goodbye.

I tell myself it’s fine. He’s got a lot to do. He’s coming back. He promised.

But there’s a knot in my stomach that tightens every time I check my phone and find nothing new.

‘You’re being paranoid,’ Brynn says the following afternoon. We’re on the boat – Lavender Dreams, my boat now – painting the cabin walls a soft sage green. Paint on our hands, paint on our jeans, the harbour rocking gently beneath us. ‘He said he’s coming back. He’s coming back.’

‘I know.’

‘So stop looking at your phone every thirty seconds.’

‘I’m not—’ I look at my phone. No new messages. ‘I’m just checking.’

‘Paranoid.’ She dips her brush. ‘He loves you. You love him. It’s going to be fine.’