Hana notices Seth’s response to the muted reply: how he’s subtly examining Caleb. He’s clearly discomforted by Caleb’s body language, or rather the lack of it—the fact that he isn’t trying to be matey.
Maya leans in, lowering her voice. “So what do you make of that? When Bea canceled, I thought he would too.”
“You knew she wasn’t coming?” Hana picks up on Maya’s use of the past tense.
“Yes. Jo messaged a few weeks ago.”
Hana nods and it dawns on her that it wasn’t an oversight—Jo not telling her—she withheld the information deliberately so that Hana wouldn’t cancel too. She’s not sure she would have come if she’d known Bea wasn’t—they’d always needed all three of the sisters to balance one another.
Bea and Jo were two extremes—quiet versus loud. Introvert versus extrovert. Academic versus sporty. Hana, in the middle, found that if she was with one without the other it felt wrong, like she was pulled too much to either extreme.
“I’m glad you made it,” Maya says quietly. “I keep thinking, we let the whole promise thing slide, didn’t we?”
The promise: Stick together. Never forget. Hana flinches at the naivete in the phrase. They’d made “the promise” as kids, after the fire at Maya’s house during a family sleepover, a fire that devastated not only their house, but their family too. They’d all managed to escape, except Sofia, Maya’s younger sister. Her room was empty when they searched, so her parents assumed she’d already gone out ahead of them. When they realized she hadn’t, they tried to head back in, but the fire crew stopped them. They were the ones to eventually find her, hidden, frightened, under her bed, but by the time they did her burns were so severe, they led to a devastating stroke. The resulting brain damage and care requirements had proved too much for Maya’s parents, and Sofia now lived in a residential care facility outside of Bristol.
The promise was to stick together, the three sisters and Maya, but their once unshakable bond didn’t survive late adolescence.
“We’re here!” Jo’s already gathering up her bags as the boat approaches the jetty. A member of staff is standing by, holding a tray of juice in tall glasses, the liquid inside a dramatic sunset orange. “Those look incredible—just what we need before kayaking.”
Maya looks at her quizzically. “Kayaking? We’ve only just arrived.”
“I’ve booked us a slot in”—Jo glances at her Fitbit—“half an hour.”
“What about unpacking?”
“I thought everyone would be desperate to get in the water.”
Maya nods, face impassive.
When the boat comes to a stop a few minutes later, Jo’s the first to get out.
Turning, she thrusts out a hand to Hana. “Sorry for what I said, before, asking if you were okay,” she murmurs, helping her up onto the jetty. “I just want this to go well . . .”
There’s a vulnerability in her expression as she searches Hana’s face for a reaction. Jo doesn’t usually do this—show her feelings, let alone apologize—and it makes Hana start to doubt her earlier assumption about the letter she’d found. Maybe this is all it was—an apology for not being around. Nothing more.
But as Jo loops an arm through hers, Hana can’t help but stiffen.
She should know better than to let down her guard.
6
Elin picks halfheartedly at the remaining piece of grilled chicken on her plate before pushing it aside. Although the doors to the restaurant terrace are open, there’s no breeze and the space is packed, only intensifying the heat. Three or four large groups are clustered by the bar, overspill leaking into the seating area.
Will squeezes her hand and Elin smiles. With the sweet-sour tang of wine on her tongue, it feels like their early dates—the ritual and festivity of eating out; the choosing of drinks and food, people watching.
“Hey, budgie alert.” Will points to the doors at the back of the restaurant.
Elin follows his gaze. A man in his sixties is striding up the beach in a green pair of budgie smugglers. It’s her and Will’s in-joke during summer. They’ve become connoisseurs; grading swimwear according to the cut on the butt, waist height, color, transparency.
“What do you reckon? A nine?”
“Nah . . . seven,” she replies, deadpan. “There’s coverage in key areas.”
Will laughs, but as it winds down she senses a tension in his expression. “On a more serious note, there’s something I wanted to ask you.”