Page 39 of Carry Me Home

I call him anyway.

He picks up on the second ring. ‘Hey.’

One word, and something in my chest unclenches. Just like that. His voice in the dark is different from his voice in daylight – lower, softer, closer, like he’s right here instead of across the harbour.

‘Were you asleep?’

‘No.’

‘Liar.’

‘I wasn’t. I was reading.’

‘Reading what?’

‘A deeply boring article about advances in equine dentistry.’

‘That does sound boring.’

‘It’s extremely boring. You’ve saved me from it.’ A pause. The creak of something – his bed, the old leather armchair. ‘Why are you awake?’

‘Couldn’t sleep.’

‘Any particular reason?’

‘No. Yes. I don’t know.’ I settle back against my pillows, curling onto my side, the phone pressed between my ear and the pillow so that his voice is the only sound in the room. The darkness feels different with him in it. Less like a weight, more like a blanket. ‘Sometimes my brain just decides that sleep is optional and consciousness is mandatory. It’s very inconvenient.’

‘Have you tried⁠—’

‘If you say chamomile tea, I’m hanging up.’

‘I was going to say whisky.’

‘That’s … actually not a terrible suggestion.’

‘I have my moments.’

Silence. But it’s comfortable – the kind that only happens when you’ve known someone long enough that the gaps belong to both of you. I can hear him breathing, steady and even. I wonder what his flat looks like right now. I’ve been there a hundred times during the day – the bookshelves, the journals, the cracked leather armchair – but never at night. Never like this. I wonder if he leaves a light on. I wonder what he’s wearing, and then I wonder why I’m wondering what he’s wearing, and then I stop wondering because that’s a road I don’t need to be walking down at half eleven on a Tuesday.

‘Chips has taken over the bed,’ I say. ‘He’s supposed to sleep in his basket but he’s staged a coup.’

‘He did the same thing at mine. I think he has authoritarian tendencies.’

‘He’s five kilos. How much authority can he have?’

‘You’d be surprised. Small dogs are the worst dictators. It’s a Napoleon complex.’

‘Did you just compare my dog to Napoleon?’

‘I compared all small dogs to Napoleon. Yours is just a particularly good example.’

‘I’m telling him you said that.’

‘He already knows. We’ve discussed it.’

I laugh, and the sound surprises me – how easy it comes, how real it is. This is what Tom does. He makes me laugh in the dark when nothing else is working. He’s been doing it for so long, but I’ve never once thought about what that means, and I’m not going to start now. Not at half eleven. Not lying in bed with his voice in my ear.

‘How was the rest of quiz night?’ I ask. ‘After I left?’