Page 49

I only managed to get three hours of sleep. After last night’s shitshow, I stayed up late to see if Noah would come back downstairs, but of course he didn’t. When I went up to check on him, he wasn’t in my bed.

He’s slept in the spare room for two nights now. I’m starting to feel like I’m the one who needs him in my bed, not the other way around. It’s far too empty without him starfishing and kicking me throughout the night.

I forgot I set the alarm so early. I’m supposed to be starting a new morning gym routine, but I’m far too tired to be lifting weights. A run might be fine. Maybe it’ll help to clear my head and give me time to think about what to say to Noah without pissing him off even more.

I wash and get changed, then head out into the crisp morning air. Music blasts through my headphones as I run, but it does nothing to drown out my racing thoughts. I keep thinking about Richard finding out that I slept with Noah. My stomach twists itself into knots, and it becomes too hard to breathe and run at the same time. I stop and lean against a fence, blinking away the black spots in my eyes.

He doesn’t have to know. I doubt Noah would tell him. He probably wants to forget it happened in the first place, with the way he shouted at me last night.

I know I shouldn’t have pounced on him like that, bringing up his grief out of nowhere, but he should talk to someone. If he’s still struggling with the death of his ma and brother after twenty years, then I’m guessing he hasn’t confronted it.

Noah at eighteen and Noah at twenty-seven aren’t much different, immediately shutting down when I try to reach out. Maybe he thinks it’s none of my business, but if I can help him in some way, then I’ll damn well try.

I finish my run and let myself back into the house. I’m in the middle of a slow squat, rocking side to side to stretch my glutes, when the living room door opens behind me. There’s a pause of awkward silence before I hear Noah say, “What the hell are those?”

I look over my shoulder to find him staring wide-eyed at my arse.

“They’re sports tights,” I say, coming out of the squat.

“Clearly. They’re certainly tight … like super tight.”

“They’re nice to run in. My thighs don’t rub toge—you know what? I don’t need to explain myself to you or Luke, for that matter. They’re comfy as hell, and my arse looks fucking fabulous in them.”

He cocks a brow at me but stays silent.

“Why are you up so early, anyway?” I search his face, wondering if he had another nightmare while I was out of the house.

“I just need some water, then I’m going back to bed,” he says, turning away from me.

“What are you doing today?” I ask, hot on his heels as he climbs the stairs.

“Not sure. Jake wants to do something with Rich and me.” He stops outside the spare room and looks up at me. “Goodbye.”

Taking the hint that he’s done with this conversation, I let him disappear into the spare room. At least he’s talking to me again. As soon as I’m back from work, I’ll tell him about my ma and da and all the shit I went through afterwards.

“You okay?”

I look up to find Luke frowning at me as he rebaits the creel pots.

“I’m fine, why?”

“You’re awfully quiet for a Monday morning.”

I’m not sure what to say. I can’t tell anyone that I’m worried about Noah, because they’ll want to know why. If I tell Theo, he’ll tell me not to get involved, and might tell Bailey. If I tell Isla, she’ll tell Richard. I obviously can’t talk to Richard, because he’ll want to know how I know about the nightmares, and then he’ll know Noah’s been sleeping in my bed. And I can’t tell Luke, because he seems to be glued to Jake’s side whenever he’s not working.

Everyone is far too tangled up with each other in this family.

“I’m just tired, didn’t get much sleep last night.”

Luke grunts and continues working in silence, probably grateful for the rare reprieve I’m giving him. I zone out, working on autopilot until a drop of rain hits the back of my hand. I look up as darkness falls over us, a massive black cloud covering the sun.

“Um, Luke … did the forecast say anything about a storm?”

He looks at the sky warily, pulling out his phone. “No,” he murmurs. “It mentioned a storm was going to pass north of Skye. The wind must have changed direction.”

I instantly go on alert, scanning the churning water. I’ve been going out to sea since I was seventeen; spent years forcing myself to get used to it, learning not to constantly worry about the water. But every time there’s a storm, electricity thrums beneath my skin, and I think of my da, how he must have felt in his last moments—wondering if he was scared and alone, or if it happened so fast he didn’t have time to fear death.

I do. I’ve been fearing it for as long as I can remember. Not for myself, but for everyone I love. That fear has been clinging to me since I was fourteen—maybe even before that. I remember being scared every time Da went out to sea after Ma passed away. It got better with time, until my worst fears were proved true. I was right to be scared for him, and I was right to be scared of being left alone.