Page 5

“Because that’s nothing but a tale, Kiernan. A legend.” I lift a hand, glimpsing the scar on my palm. “And if by some twist of fate it was real, I’d tell it to its face it did a shit job since it failed to save Pops.” Blowing out a breath, I shake away the thought. “Monsters don’t exist.”

Kiernan sips his drink, then puts it down on the tabletop next to him.

“Always a cynic, my friend.”

I scoff. “I’m not a cynic. I’m a realist.”

“You’re a grumpy ass. But I love you,” he says affectionately before changing the conversation by pointing to a small crowd chatting in the centre of the village hall. “Great turnout. Everyone loved Pops.”

“Yeah, they did.”

And why wouldn’t they? My grandfather, Lionel Brody, was a pure ray of sunshine. He knew everyone in Newbridge by name. He knew their stories and their birthdays and not a day went by that he didn’t get caught up in conversation with one of them. He was the heart and soul of our sleepy little village.

My eyes land on a man in a black suit who looks completely out of place in this brightly decorated village hall. His shoulders are tense as he shakes the hand of Louis, the town’s mechanic, all while looking like he wants to be anywhere but here.

Dad.

The long-lost son who left Newbridge Cove after school to pursue a legal career in London and never returned.

Until now.

“That your dad?” Kiernan asks, tipping his chin towards the older man, and I nod in reply. “Looks just like you. Better dressed, though.”

I look down at my outfit – one I chose because it would have made Pops smile. A black shirt open over a tee with a huge cephalopod and the words ‘you gotta be squidding me’ printed across the chest, and a pair of light blue jeans ripped at the knees. I can’t help comparing it to the sharply cut suit adorning my father’s equally sharp figure, showing off just how different we are.

Polar opposites. We always have been.

Dad must sense me staring, because he looks up, and our eyes meet. A soft smile graces his face as he excuses himself from the conversation and makes a beeline in my direction.

“Oh yay. Let’s get this outta the way,” I mutter under my breath. Kiernan raises a brow and I rub a hand down my t-shirt, straightening out an invisible wrinkle.

“Dad,” I say in greeting when he reaches us.

“Son. It’s good to see you.” His voice is the same neutral timbre I remember it to be.

“Likewise,” I reply, my voice equally flat. “This is my friend, Kiernan.”

My dad shakes Kee’s hand and introduces himself, then turns his attention back to me.

“You put together a beautiful funeral, Caspian. The sea shanties in place of hymns were an unexpected touch. A little unconventional, if you ask me.”

I didn’t ask him. No one did. Because he didn’t know Pops the way I did. And he certainly doesn’t know me.

My dad isn’t a bad guy. But we’re more like acquaintances than family. We have little in common and the older I get, the more I’m aware of our differences. He likes sports; I don’t. He has a keen interest in the law and politics. I would rather discuss underrated flavours in baked goods, or the strange family of sea lions that have taken up home beneath the lighthouse. Dad wanted me to follow in his footsteps and become a lawyer, and I wanted to help Pops on the farm and open my bakery — Iona’s Delights.

Unlike Pops, Dad also never grasped that my aversion to certain textures and fabrics wasn’t me being difficult. Or that the way I become easily overwhelmed in large crowds or noisy environments isn’t me trying to ‘make a scene’. It’s just who I am.

But who I am is not the son he wished for. He made that clear so many times in my childhood. Not directly, but through enough little comments that it soon became engrained in my story. Sad, little Caspian. Bullied at school. Managed at home. No friends, no social life.

“I’m glad you could make it,” I say, ignoring his jab about the hymns. “I know you were probably very busy.” I emphasise the word, well aware that I sound like a dick but not caring. I catch Kiernan grinning out the side of my eye. “I appreciate you taking the time to be here.”

Dad’s nostrils flare and he undoes the button on his black suit jacket.

“He was my father, Caspian. Of course I would be here.”

I don’t point out that he didn’t make the trip after his mother passed because he couldn’t get away from work, so I had a valid reason to believe he wouldn’t show today.

I nod, choosing not to engage the conversation further, then look past him towards a group of people browsing the photos of Pops that Kiernan and I stuck up on the wall. My favourite photo of the three of us on the Aurora sits in the centre of them all.