Page 10 of Second Song

“You’re definitely gonna take those demolition jobs up-country?”

“You say up-country like I’ll be on the dark side of the moon.”

“Might as well be,” he grumbles. “Have you said yes to all of them?”

I should do. Demolition is my bread and butter these days, and the York job will pay top whack for my explosives licence. “I’ve agreed to one next week and to a couple of short gigs in Blackpool. And if I’m up there anyway, I might as well take the York job.” And it will put hundreds of miles and a long drive between me and another looming meetup invite that I can’t face yet.

Yet?

It’s been almost two years. I’m no closer now than ever.

I still dredge up more excuses. “Plus, it’s closer to my folks. Been a while since I saw them.” I ignore that it’s been even longer since I saw the rest of the crew I used to live and work with. And their families. Their wives and husbands. Their kids.

I get back to climbing, taking another gritty step without him.

Matt doesn’t let up, following my every footstep and still peppering me with questions. “So why are you bothering to meet?—”

“Dominic Dymond? Because I already did a demo job for someone he used to work with. Jason asked me to take a look at this project for him, so I said I would. It looks…” Interesting might not sum up a partial demolition to most people. They only think my job means making tall factory chimneys fall down neatly, or they picture clouds of dust after I make high-rise buildings slump and crumple. This project means removing the side of an old building, stone by stone most likely, no explosives needed. “It looks a challenge.”

I’d need to take my time, not hurry, and…

I’m so tired of all this running.

Matt hooks on to something different. “If this job keeps you down here in the West Country for a while, take it instead of the York job, yeah? At least think about it.”

“I will.”

I won’t.

His footsteps stop as if he hears that, and here’s the real kicker—even after almost two years?

I still hate moving on without him.

Dominic Dymond has a firm handshake. “Good to meet you.” He shows me through a renovated cottage. In contrast to the pair I’ve worked on with Matt, this one is finished and fucking gorgeous. It’s also a family home rather than a showpiece—dollies having a tea party in the kitchen are evidence of that, and that’s where he leads me. He moves one doll from a stool that he pushes out for me. “Please, make yourself at home. And thanks for coming here rather than to the Porthperrin office.” He sets the dolly down with the others at a child-sized table. “My daughter is under the weather so I’m on Daddy duty.”

“No problem. Can you tell me more about the project, Mr. Dymond? About why you said it was nonstandard.”

“Dom, please.” He spreads out plans on a kitchen island, skylights above us illuminating an interesting challenge. “This is the second part of a rolling programme of renovation at an old private school.”

That gives me pause. “A school?”

“Yes.” He brings up photos on an iPad. “Glynn Harber hasn’t been well maintained, and extra rooms have been tacked on over the years in a mishmash. This is where we started.” He shows me a ramshackle Gothic building, then scrolls through a start-to-finish montage. “And this is it now.” The end result is stunning. “We didn’t need any demolition work there. The bones of the building were sound, and we managed to reuse and repurpose what was there already, which is always my preference. The library though?” He sucks his teeth. “It’s a whole other kettle of fish.”

“You’ve got surveys I can take a look at?”

That’s how we spend the next half hour poring over reports and sketches. By the time we finish, we’ve been joined by a little girl with a snotty nose who sucks her thumb while in her daddy’s arms. Her curls are a wild tangle in a bittersweet reminder of another little girl who must be the same age by now. She’s also wary, which is another reminder—this time of someone whose glasses couldn’t mask his worry when he left me.

I’m not surprised she’s cautious. I know what I look like, so I try to take up less space and to smile instead of scare her. I speak softly, hoping my voice isn’t too much of a growl. “Is that a mermaid on your T-shirt?”

The little girl nods, smiling around her thumb, and her daddy sighs. “Maisie here thinks she is one. The worst thing about living with a sea view is trying to keep her out of the water twenty-four seven.” He tilts his head at the iPad. “So, what do you think?”

“I think that if you take out even part of this wall, the rest of the school building could?—”

“Is that Peppa Pig I hear?”

His reason for cutting me off is clear once his daughter scampers back to wherever she was watching TV. He still lowers his voice like she might overhear him.

“Maisie’s very attached to her school. You were about to tell me it would collapse, right?”

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