Page 79 of A Wedding in a Week

“Good to see you, Stefan. How’s our Marc, and little Noah?”

“Good, and Noah isn’t so little, but he’s doing a lot better.” I wince, and not because Carl shakes my hand again, his grip even firmer. It’s down to having to tell him this truth. “Marc’s going for kinship care, like you talked me through when I called you.”

“So he said. He spoke to me and Susan about it this morning.”

It’s good they’ve talked. I don’t know if Marc’s mentioned what I skirt around, not sure how to phrase it.

Carl does it for me. “He told us he might need to stay in London to do it.”

“He’s got a guaranteed job there.” One that will start at the end of the summer, locking him into a life away from here, barring holidays, for a few years at least. That’s the sword I mentioned—Damocles has nothing on me, not when securing another option is my new race against time. “But if he didn’t need to stay in London, I wondered what kinship care would involve here. I mean, what would Social Services need to see to approve it?”

Carl squints. “You mean here with me and Susan like when we looked after Marc?” The deck of the boat rocks under my feet, my stomach lurching, but his gaze is steady. “Or do you mean with you, Stefan?”

“Yes. With me. And with Marc. Together. All three of us on the farm.” It feels so right. So needed. I have to make it happen. “Because Noah would be safe at Kara-Tir, I promise.”

Carl says nothing.

I rush to fill his silence, and that’s an old trick, isn’t it? It’s also part of pushing myself, and I’m so much better at it with this incentive. “And because I love Marc, and he loves me, but he’s got to put his brother first.”

I’ve done the same in the past, carrying a load that Lukas has so much more than paid back by doing something hard that makes him happy, but that’s families, isn’t it? We take turns at giving and taking, so I understand Marc’s reasons.

“He’s protective. Wants to give Noah a safe base, and I know what that takes, but kinship care can’t only be about having cash for a decent place to live, can it? Having time to be around and listen has to be important too, right?” Marc would have precious little of that once he’s on a big-firm accountancy treadmill.

Carl nods. “It isn’t about cash,” he rumbles. “There’s even some financial help for caring. It’s more about providing stability. Security. A launch pad to jump from when things go right and a soft landing when things go wrong. There’s a lot of that ahead, Stefan. A lot of potential for falls and crash landings—for things to get worse before they get better. Kids are the best. They’re also the worst. Are you prepared to put your heart through that crusher for someone who isn’t related to you?”

Prepared?

I’m already a crushed-heart expert.

Carl must see that. He takes my hand again, only this time he’s gentler. He helps me back onto the harbourside, walking me to a cottage that’s cramped considering how many kids he and Susan have sheltered. It’s also full of photos. I spot one of Marc a heartbeat, drawn to the auburn beacon that lights my whole existence.

He smiles out of a framed photo on the Lawsons’ living room wall, and I’ve only been home without him for a week. Missing him is no reason for my eyes to sting, not when we’re in touch daily.

It’s seeing this eight-year version of him again now that I know where he came from and what he went through. And it’s knowing how he clawed his way out, still fighting, which means I need to fight too.

“I want Noah to have what Marc did.”

Carl clasps my shoulder. “Seems like wanting that for him is half the battle.” He nods towards a sagging sofa that’s seen hard use, like mine. It can also fit a growing family, or at least it fits Carl and Susan along with a farmer who has no clue about the practicalities of what he wants most. “I’ve got plenty more photos,” Carl says. “Some with you and Lukas from Marc’s first farm visits. Want to text Marc? See if he can video call to look through them with us?”

Marc can.

Surprisingly, Noah can as well, and that has to be a sign that his recovery is speeding ahead if he’s been moved to a ward where phone use isn’t a problem.

We look through photos and chat, Marc sharing his phone with his brother.

Noah’s quiet to start, which isn’t unexpected when we’re all strangers to him. He soon asks questions.

“You were here, weren’t you?”

“Me?” I nod. “In London? I was.”

“You’re Marc’s boyfriend.” He’s pokerfaced, his accent a reminder of Marc before Cornwall softened his city edges. It’s hard to tell what Noah’s thinking or how to respond. I stick to the truth, keeping it simple.

“Yep.”

We look through more farm photos featuring his brother. In one, a ten-year-old Marc curls in a dog basket with a pile of puppies.

“You’ve got sheep dogs.”

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