Page 5 of Second Song

Today?

I bellow.

“You told me to throw it away, didn’t you? You practically told me to feck it into the Atlantic.”

He doesn’t answer right away. A surprise hand clamps on the back of my neck, the grip much less gentle than when he nudged my face against him and told me not to look down. Now he’s effortlessly forceful, hauling me back to the edge, and my stomach lurches.

For one too-long moment, I think he’ll really push me.

He points down instead.

“Did you keep your glasses on for long enough to see who was at the base of the cliff?”

I guess he’s talking about that other surfer.

“Because yes, I did tell you to throw the lamb, but that means it would have missed the rocks, and Matt would have scooped it out of the water before it had a chance to become fish food.” His grip doesn’t let up, and I don’t need my glasses to see what else he points out. “Do you know why he stayed down there until you were safe or why he risked his life fighting the current to stay that close to those rocks? Because I’ll tell you this for nothing. It wasn’t to give a lamb a swimming lesson.”

I can guess the real answer.

He tells me regardless, his grip easing enough that I can shift back a step to face a bleak and stony profile. It’s the one solid landmark in a blurred world, and it’s the worst possible time to take in that he’s good-looking, if grim, but that isn’t what almost floors me when he shifts and our eyes meet.

It’s seeing this much kindness. That’s what he hits me with next. His voice drops, and it’s devastating. “He stayed for you. For you. I hauled you up for the same reason.”

We aren’t close to the edge now, but I’m falling all over again. That’s how it feels to hear that I’m worth saving.

There’s no avoiding how much he means this. “For you, not for any runaway livestock.” He touches the lamb’s ears. “Even cute runaway livestock like this.” His gaze lifts again. “And not because you’re almost as cute, at least when you aren’t yelling at me.”

I’m caught between flustered and flattered, but he isn’t done yet.

“For you,” he repeats softly, which only makes the following starkness all the more shocking. “Because if you’d fallen, you could have been dead before you hit the water. Or you’d have drowned while unconscious. You’d have broken every single bone in your body and ruined that pretty face forever, but Matt would have still fished your bleeding carcass from the water. And he still would have paddled your body ashore. Fuck knows he’s done versions of that enough times already. We both have.” He winces as if admitting all of that is painful, then he rubs at the side of his head.

Did he hit it on the cliff while hauling us up? I didn’t notice while we were spinning on that rope, and I don’t get a chance to ask him now because he isn’t finished.

“It would have been as grim as hell for him,” he says, still wincing. Then he adds more quietly, “But he would have done it so we had something to bring home to your family.” He can’t know that no one would grieve my absence apart from a pack of little Irish cousins. I don’t interrupt while he sounds this wrecked. “Because do you know what’s worse than losing someone for a pointless reason?” He then answers for me. “It’s being the one who couldn’t save them.”

I’ve never heard anyone sound so certain. He is about what he says next as well, and I don’t only believe him because he goes on to use familiar phrasing. I’m convinced by his hand slipping from my neck to my back, which he pats as if in consolation. “Trust me, you’re welcome to play as many stupid games as you like just as long as you know this—it won’t ever be only you who’ll win stupid prizes. Going over the edge after an animal was stupid, and today this is what you get for playing. Not a missed interview. Not sheep shit all over your suit. You won two men risking their lives when you could have saved your own first.”

His inhale is ragged, frayed around its edges like his next suggestion.

“Think about who would win that prize the next time you get the urge to be a hero, yeah? Better yet, leave it to us professionals.” Another wince follows. “Or ex-professionals.” This comes out so softly. “Trust me, even professionals can’t live with that prize. You know what it’s called?”

Guilt.

I nod, and he grasps my shoulder and squeezes. It’s both firm and grounding. So is him saying, “I’ll give you this for nothing. You’ve got plenty of grit.”

That’s so far from the truth, but the sick spin of the world stops at what sounds like praise, and I think he’s done.

He isn’t. He holds out both hands. For the lamb, I realise.

We’re still on the edge of the cliff. Still right beside a long drop with only rocks and waves beneath us. But this time?

I trust him.

3

ROWAN

I also trust him when he steers me to my car and tells me that he’ll be right back. Not that I have any other choice than to wait because he moves fast, gone across the coast road, lamb in hand. That’s where I know farmland rises up to wilder moorland. I can’t see it without my glasses. I can only make out that tors rise fuzzily in the distance if I squint. He’s a much clearer if half-dressed outline when he comes back.

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