Page 71 of Second Song

“The Arabic ones?” Luke clears his throat. “He’s naming everyone in his family. His parents. All of his siblings. Every auntie on that bridge. Each uncle. He’s telling them that he’s being a good big brother to Jamila. For all of them. And”—he clears his throat again—“that he’s happy.” Clearing his throat again doesn’t make this next any less strangled. “PTSD doesn’t have to be forever. Even complex PTSD like his. I know that, like I know recovery has to be slow—it’s a delicate balance because too many reminders all at once could set him back.” He repeats my own thoughts about a journey taken over so much more than a plank bridge. “But actually getting to see him healing?” He’s so, so hoarse. “Thank you.”

Hadi sees his dad then. His song stops, but he doesn’t hop off the bridge to join him. He runs its full length, taking a leap of faith that someone will be at the far end to catch him.

I want to do the same the moment the bell rings for home time—want to throw myself at Liam all over again, only not for him to save me, because I got to catch him too, didn’t I?

Yes, we both fell when that old bridge creaked and splintered, but it was me who shored him when he lost his footing in the water, and I’d never felt stronger.

For now, I clear up art supplies and gather up homemade shakers that have filled this final week with music. I also check my phone to read messages that have arrived while I’ve been working.

Liam: Almost done. Back tomorrow.

Wings flutter inside me, rising at that prospect. They sink at what comes next.

Liam: Probably won’t need to call the team in. I’ll handle the bridge rebuild myself.

Is that change of mind because of what I told him? Maybe not. Wings flutter again.

Liam: But if they did come, I know they’d love you.

Liam: Like me x

Who knows how long I cradle my phone. All I know is that I’ve had the best day ever at work and Liam loves me. That feels like a prize worth winning.

The children get ready to leave for their half-term break as I tidy away percussion instruments we’ve made together. Dried peas rattle as they chatter. Then horns sound, a sudden cacophony that lures me away from my clean-up operation, and I walk through a now empty classroom.

The outdoor space is also deserted. Even the sandpit is abandoned, and I see why—a school minibus is back a day earlier than expected.

It’s surrounded by students welcoming friends and returning teachers, and I open the gate to join them. Then I hesitate, wondering where I’ll fit into this reunion.

These teachers shouldering rucksacks and looking tired and rumpled are permanent team members. I’m temporary. I hang back as students who went to France are swarmed by friends who stayed in Cornwall. One returning student stands on the minibus steps, scanning the crowd, his hair a blue-black reminder of Liam, only his eyes are darker. They’re just as piercing as he searches faces, skimming mine and then moving on, still searching before his gaze jerks back.

This double take is almost comical, and I’m not sure how to respond to it.

I smile.

He doesn’t.

He only stares, then he shakes his head as if to clear it and keeps scanning the crowd.

“Cameron! Cam!”

I don’t need to look back at the main school entrance to know who just shouted—Teo runs past, and that boy on the minibus steps launches himself just like Hadi did at his father, and like I did in the woods at Liam. Only Cameron is almost as big as Teo, who crumples.

They go down laughing.

That’s another Liam reminder. From Teo, the sound is magic. So is seeing him sling an easy arm around this stranger’s shoulders once they’re both back on their feet, drawing him away from a crowd that includes Hadi high up on Luke’s shoulders. He shouts too, only he yells, “Daddy,” and wriggles down to run to who I guess is Luke’s husband.

Their reunion slams me straight in the chest. Not because I won’t be needed for long now that Nathan’s back. This slam is because I witness how a father and son should be, only I can’t feel bad that I’ve never had anything like it, not when Hadi’s sandwiched with the kind of love I want for every kid here. It’s beautiful, and I can’t blame this case of blurred vision on my dirty glasses, but I still take them off and wipe their lenses to give myself a moment.

Maybe that’s a mistake.

Putting them back on only means I get a clear view of dark eyes that don’t belong to Hadi or to Teo. They belong to the best friend he’s missed. A gifted artist, I remember. One with almost perfect visual recall. With sight that misses nothing. There’s no avoiding that his eyes widen right in front of me again, and now that I’ve had so much practice, of course I can read what they show.

Fuck.

He knows me.

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