‘Yes,’ I say quietly. ‘I’m glad tonight isn’t goodbye.’
‘Tonight isn’t goodbye, anyway. We’re coming to see you off tomorrow morning.’
‘Are you?’ It feels safe to look at him again.
‘Yeah, I need my tent and outdoor table back.’
I bump against his side, smiling. We both know he could get them back from Justin and Julia at any point.
‘Tomorrow wouldn’t have been goodbye, anyway,’ he says seriously. ‘We’re staying in touch, right?’
‘Definitely,’ I reply.
But it won’t be the same. It will never be the same. A few days here, a week there... I’ll never have an excuse to come and stay for eight weeks of summer again. And, who knows, maybe I’ll be living in Australia by next year?
The thought hurts.
That doesn’t bode well for the future. For now, I bank my reaction to the idea of moving, but I know full well that it’s something I’m going to have to come back to.
Later, we make our way down the hill.
‘Do you have to take April home? Can’t she stay with me? Can’t you just kip over?’ I ask the three questions in quick succession, not giving him a chance to reply.
‘There’s something I need to do.’ He answers my third question first.
‘That sounds cryptic.’ He doesn’t want to elaborate so I don’t force the issue. He had to mysteriously nip into Polperro on our way home, too – April and I waited in the pickup while he went to get whatever it was he needed.
‘April can stay with you if you want her to,’ he says.
‘Really?’ My eyes light up.
‘I can come back early in the morning to help you get packed up.’
‘Are you worried about me taking down your tent wrong?’ I tease.
‘No, I’m worried aboutyou,’ he says categorically, wrapping one arm around my shoulder and giving me a squeeze. I really don’t want him to let me go.
The next morning, I wake before April. Dad told me to set off early if I didn’t want to get caught in London’s Friday rush hour – in fact, he said I should drive through the night if I really wanted an easy journey – but I can’t quite bring myself to get up and start quietly packing my things away.
I lie there for a long time, staring at April’s little face, so peaceful in sleep. I watch the gentle rise and fall of her ribcage and want to place my hand over her heart, but I’m too scared about disturbing her. I’m going to struggle to leave her today.
I’m going to struggle to leave Charlie, too.
When I’m finally packed up and ready to go, I stand facing Charlie with April in his arms. There’s an ugly yellow patch of grass from where his tent has been standing, stagnant, for the last six weeks or so. When I drive away, I’ll leave behind aHermie-shaped patch, too. I tell Charlie that he can come back and look at it if he ever misses me, but my comment barely raises a smile.
‘Thank you,’ he whispers, wrapping one arm around me and pulling me in for a three-way hug with him and his daughter. ‘You’ve done more for us than you know.’
‘Stop,’ I say, because I don’t want to cry. ‘I’ll see you next weekend, right?’
‘We’ll be there,’ he promises.
I give them both one last hug before climbing into the van. Charlie motions for me to put the window down.
‘This is just something small. Open it when you’re home.’ He passes me a tiny parcel, gift-wrapped with the same paper he used for April’s birthday presents.
‘Can’t I open it now?’ I ask with a smile.
‘No.’ He shakes his head with determination and his cheeks brighten.
