Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
NINA
The church at Pencross is small and old and smells of stone and candle wax.
I’ve been here a hundred times. Weddings, funerals, the occasional Easter service when I was younger and Mum guilted me into it.
But today feels different. Today I’m standing at the font in a dress I bought specifically for this occasion, waiting for Tom to arrive, and my heart is hammering so hard I can feel it in my teeth.
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.
‘I reject them,’ I echo, and my voice doesn’t wobble. Small victories.
‘Do you submit to Christ as Lord?’
‘I submit to Christ as Lord.’
The words feel heavy. We’re making vows – not to each other, but together. About this baby. About the future.
The vicar takes Peter from Isla’s arms. We step forward for the baptism – both of us, at the same time – and Tom’s hand brushes mine.
His knuckles against my fingers. The lightest contact. Accidental, maybe. Maybe not.
I don’t pull away. Neither does he.
We stand there, the backs of our hands touching, while the vicar holds the baby over the font. I can feel his pulse through his skin. Or mine. I can’t tell whose heartbeat I’m feeling, and the not-knowing is doing something to my chest that I don’t have language for.
‘Peter William Harding, I baptise you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.’
Water over his head. Peter blinks, startled, then settles again. Good baby. Calm baby.
I am not calm. I am the opposite of calm.
Tom’s hand is still against mine and the vicar is still talking and I am standing in a church making promises about a child named for a man I loved while the hand of the man who has loved me for eleven years rests against mine, and the two things exist at the same time, and the world does not end, and I think: This.
This is what it feels like when grief makes room.
Tom glances at me. Our eyes meet. Hold.
For a second – less than a second – his fingers curl. Not taking my hand. Just closing the gap. The slightest pressure. A question asked with the back of one knuckle.
Then Maisie tugs at Kit’s jacket – ‘Is it over? Can we have cake now?’ – and Tom’s hand falls to his side, and the moment passes.
But it happened. I felt it. The ghost of his fingers against mine, asking.
I just don’t know how to answer yet.
The party’s at The Ship.
Of course it is. Where else would Sea Salt Bay celebrate anything? Bill’s donated a keg. Tilly’s made a three-tiered cake that’s only slightly lopsided. Someone’s hung bunting that says WELCOME BABY PETER in letters that are definitely recycled from last year’s jubilee celebration.
‘To Peter!’ Kit raises his glass. He goes to say something else, but his throat must close up. ‘Arse it,’ he says, then laughs. ‘Peter!’ We all cheer and I could burst from the joy of it all.
‘Language,’ Isla murmurs, but she’s smiling.
‘He’s six weeks old. He doesn’t know what arse means.’
‘He’ll learn it soon enough with you as a father.’
‘Oi. I’m an excellent father. Tell them, Maisie.’
Maisie considers this. ‘You burned the toast this morning.’
‘That’s not – that’s a separate issue.’
‘And you forgot to pick me up from school last week.’
‘That was one time.’
‘And you said a bad word when you stubbed your toe.’
‘I said fudge.’
‘You didn’t say fudge.’
The pub erupts in laughter and Kit goes red, while Isla pats his arm with exaggerated sympathy.
‘I’m getting another drink,’ he mutters. ‘Possibly several drinks.’
I’m at the edge of the crowd, holding a glass of wine I haven’t touched, watching Tom across the room. He’s talking to his mum – Ivy’s got his arm, talking intently, and I can guess what she’s saying because Ivy Darcy has never been subtle about anything in her life.
Every few minutes, he glances my way. Every time, I look away too quickly.
This is ridiculous. We’re adults. We’ve known each other for over a decade. We should be able to—
‘You’re staring.’ Brynn materialises beside me.
‘I’m not staring.’
‘You’ve been staring at him for twenty minutes. It’s actually impressive. I didn’t know you could focus on anything for that long.’
‘I’m not – I was just—’
‘Staring. I know.’ She sips her drink. ‘Have you talked to him? Actually talked?’
‘We talked at the church.’
‘About the christening. That doesn’t count.’
‘We talked about his dad’s tie.’
‘That definitely doesn’t count.’
I take a long drink of wine. It doesn’t help.
‘I don’t know what to say,’ I admit. ‘I don’t know how to be around him anymore. Not since Jude—’
‘I know.’ Brynn sighs. ‘Look. I know this is complicated. I know you’re scared. But Nina – he’s leaving again. Tomorrow. Back to Scotland. If you don’t say anything now—’
‘Say what? What am I supposed to say?’
‘The truth. Whatever that is.’ She nods towards the back door. ‘There’s a perfectly good harbour out there.’
‘Brynn—’
‘Go.’ She takes my wine glass out of my hand. ‘Or don’t. But if you let him drive back to Scotland without telling him—’
‘Without telling him what? I don’t even know what I—’
‘Yes, you do.’ Her voice is quiet now. Certain. ‘You’ve known since Jude said it. Maybe before. So stop circling and go.’
I look at her. My best friend, who’s been watching this disaster unfold with more patience than I deserve.
‘I hate you,’ I say.
‘I know. Go.’
‘Can we talk?’
He looks up from his conversation with Ivy. Hope and caution in equal measure – the face of a man who’s learned not to trust good news.
‘Now?’
‘If you’re not busy.’
He glances at his mum. She’s already waving him away.
‘Go, go. We were just catching up.’ She gives me a look that says she knows exactly what’s happening and has been waiting eleven years for it. ‘Take your time.’
We walk out the back door. The evening air is cool and salt-sharp, the sky purpling at the edges. The harbour stretches out before us, boats bobbing gently, the water flat and silver in the last of the light.
We stop at the wall. Lean against it, side by side, looking out at the sea.
Silence.
‘So,’ Tom says eventually.
‘So.’
More silence. The waves. The halyards. The muffled noise of the pub behind us.
‘Tom.’ I grip the harbour wall. The stone is cold and rough under my fingers and I need that – need to feel something solid while the rest of me shakes. ‘Jude told me. At the pub. The night they wet the baby’s head. He was drunk and he thought I already knew.’
Tom goes very still.
‘Told you what,’ he says. But it’s not a question. His voice is flat. Careful.
‘That you’re in love with me. That you’ve been in love with me for eleven years.’
The words hang in the salt air between us. Tom doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. His hands are gripping the wall the way mine are – knuckles white, holding on.
‘I’m going to kill him,’ he says eventually.
‘Don’t be angry at him.’
‘I’m not angry at him.’ He runs a hand through his hair. ‘I’m angry at myself. I should have told you. Years ago. Instead of just … hovering.’
‘Why didn’t you?’
‘Because you were with Peter. And then you were grieving Peter. And there was never a right time.’ He laughs, short and joyless. ‘That’s what I told myself. That I was being patient. Noble. But really I was just terrified.’
‘Of what?’
‘Of you saying what you said when we were seventeen.’ He’s looking at the water, not at me. ‘That kissing me was like kissing your brother.’