Page 57 of Carry Me Home

‘Fame is fleeting. The bear’s moment will pass.’

‘The bear is going to outlive us all. I’ve accepted this.’

He laughs, and I stand next to him and watch the water and try not to think about what Mum said. About looking away. About what I’d see if I stopped.

‘Good day?’ he asks.

‘Good day.’

‘Your mum seems well.’

‘She is. She likes it here. Pretends she doesn’t miss it, but I think she does.’

‘She should visit more.’

‘I keep telling her. She says she’s too busy.’

‘Doing what?’

‘Running her café. Having opinions. Watching me from a distance and drawing conclusions.’

‘What kind of conclusions?’

I glance at him sideways. He’s looking at the sea, his profile lit by the last of the sun, and in the dusk he looks like something from a painting – calm and golden and entirely still. Tom is always still. I’m never still. I’ve never thought about what that means before.

‘The wrong kind,’ I say. ‘Mums are like that. They see patterns that aren’t there.’

‘Maybe.’

‘Definitely.’

The last of the sun slips below the horizon. The beach is almost empty now, just the cleanup crew and the fairy lights blinking on the trailer and the sound of the sea.

‘I should go help Mum pack up,’ I say, but I don’t move. ‘She’s got an early train tomorrow.’

‘I’ll walk you back.’

‘You don’t have to.’

‘I know I don’t have to.’

We walk back along the waterline, shoes in our hands, the sand still warm from the day’s heat. Chips trots ahead, investigating seaweed with profound seriousness. We don’t talk much. We don’t need to.

That’s the thing about Tom. The silences are never empty. They’re just … quiet. The shape of two people who fit together without trying.

I hear myself think that and the sentence snags. Fit together. I’ve never described us that way before. I’ve described us as friends, as partners, as the people who always end up at the same table. I’ve never said fit.

Mum’s waiting at the stall, the bear loaded into a wheelbarrow borrowed from Bill. She hugs Tom goodbye – properly, like family – and tells him to eat more vegetables and get more sleep and come visit her in Truro whenever he wants.

‘You’re always welcome,’ she says. ‘You know that.’

‘I know,’ Tom says. Something passes between them – a look I can’t read, a whole conversation I’m not part of.

Then he’s gone, walking up the beach towards the village, and it’s just me and Mum and the ridiculous pink bear.

‘Right,’ Mum says. ‘Let’s get this monster home.’ She takes one handle of the wheelbarrow. I take the other. ‘I want to hear all about those fuchsias Tom’s been watering.’

‘They’re fine. They’re just fuchsias.’