Come Back To Me

COME BACK TO ME

Mila Gray is the pseudonym for author Sarah

Alderson. Having spent most of her life in London,

Sarah quit her job in the non-profit sector in 2009 and

took off on a round-the-world trip with her husband

and tutu-wearing daughter on a mission to find a

new place to call home. She now lives in Bali.

She is the author of several YA novels, including

Hunting Lila
and
Losing Lila.

www.milagray.com

@MilaGrayBooks

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COME

BACK

TO ME

Mila Gray

PAn BOOKS

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First published 2014 by Pan Books

an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited

Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR

Basingstoke and Oxford

Associated companies throughout the world

www.panmacmillan.com

ISBN 978-1-4472-7440-7

Copyright © Mila Gray 2014

The right of Mila Gray to be identified as the

author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance

with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

The poem that appears on page 303 is used by kind permission of Finn Butler,

http://greatestreality.tumblr.com

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,

stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form,

or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise)

without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does

any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to

criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

The Macmillan Group has no responsibility for the information provided by

any author websites whose address you obtain from this book (‘author websites’).

The inclusion of author website addresses in this book does not constitute

an endorsement by or association with us of such sites or the content,

products, advertising or other materials presented on such sites.

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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Typeset by Ellipsis Digital Limited, Glasgow

Printed and bound in Great Britain by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way

of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated

without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than

that in which it is published and without a similar condition including

this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Visit www.panmacmillan.com to read more about all our books

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For Venetia & Amanda

‘You only live once. But if you do it right,

once is all you need.’

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Jessa

A whorl in the glass distorts the picture, like a thumb-

print smear over a lens. I’m halfway down the stairs,

gathering my hair into a ponytail, thoughts a million

miles away, when a blur outside the window pulls me up

short.

I take another step, the view clears, and when I realize

what I’m seeing,
who
I’m seeing, my stomach plummets

and the air leaves my lungs like a final exhalation. My

arms fall slowly to my sides. My body’s instinct is to turn

and run back upstairs, to tear into the bathroom and lock

the door, but I’m frozen. This is the moment you have

nightmares about, play over in your mind, the darkest of

daydreams, furnished by movies and by real-life stories

you’ve overheard your whole life.

You imagine over and over how you’ll cope, what

you’ll say, how you’ll act when you open the door and

find them standing there. You pray to every god you can

dream up that this moment won’t ever happen. You make

bargains, promises, desperate barters. And you live each

day with the murmur of those prayers playing on a loop

in the background of your mind, an endless chant. And

then the moment happens and you realize it was all for

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Mila Gray

nothing. The prayers went unheard. There was no bar-

gain to make. Was it your fault? Did you fail to keep your

promise?

Time seems to have slowed. Kit’s father hasn’t moved.

He’s standing at the end of the driveway staring up at the

house, squinting against the early morning glare. He’s

wearing his Dress Blues. It’s that fact which registered

before all else, which told me all I needed to know. That

and the fact that he’s here at all. Kit’s father has never

once been to the house. There is only one reason why he

would ever come.

He hasn’t taken a step and I will him not to. I will him

to turn around and get back into the dark sedan car sit-

ting at the kerb. A shadowy figure in uniform sits at the

wheel.
Please. Get back in and drive away
. I start making

futile bargains with some nameless god. If he gets back in

the car and drives away, I’ll do anything. But he doesn’t.

He takes a step down the driveway towards the house,

and that’s when I know for certain that either Riley or Kit

is dead.

A scream, or maybe a sob, tries to struggle up my

throat, but it’s blocked by a solid wave of nausea. I grab

for the banister to stay upright. Who? Which one? My

brother or my boyfriend? Oh God. Oh God. My legs are

shaking. I watch Kit’s father walk slowly up the drive,

head bowed.

Memories, images, words, flicker through my mind

like scratched fragments of film: Kit’s arms around my

waist drawing me closer, our first kiss under the cover of

darkness just by the back door, the smile on his face the

first time we slept together, the blue of his eyes lit up by

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COME BACK TO ME

the sparks from a Chinese lantern, the fierceness in his

voice when he told me he was going to love me forever.

Come back to me
. That was the very last thing I said to

him.
Come back to me
.

Always.
The very last thing he said to me.

Then I see Riley as a kid throwing a toy train down the

stairs, dive-bombing into the pool, holding my hand at

our grandfather’s funeral, grinning and high-fiving Kit

after they’d enlisted. The snapshot of him in his uniform

on graduation day. The circles under his eyes the last time

I saw him.

The door buzzes. I jump. But I stay where I am, frozen

halfway up the stairs. If I don’t answer the door maybe

he’ll go away. Maybe this won’t be happening. But the

doorbell sounds again. And then I hear footsteps on the

landing above me. My mother’s voice, sleepy and con-

fused. ‘Jessa? Who is it? Why are you just standing there?’

Then she sees. She peers through the window and I

hear the intake of air, the ragged ‘no’ she utters in re-

sponse. She too knows that a military car parked outside

the house at seven a.m. can signify only one thing.

I turn to her. Her hand is pressed to her mouth. Stand-

ing in her nightdress, her hair unbrushed, the blood rush-

ing from her face, she looks like she’s seen a ghost. No.

That’s wrong. She looks like she is a ghost.

The bell buzzes for a third time.

‘Get the door, Jessa,’ my mother says in a strange voice

I don’t recognize. It startles me enough that I start to walk

down the stairs. I feel calmer all of a sudden, like I’m float-

ing outside my body. This can’t be happening. It’s not

real. It’s just a dream.

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Mila Gray

I find myself standing somehow in front of the door. I

unlock it. I open it. Kit. Riley. Kit. Riley. Their names circle

my mind like birds of prey in a cloudless blue sky. Kit.

Riley. Which is it? Is Kit’s father here in his Dress Blues

with his Chaplain insignia to tell us that my brother has

been killed in action or that his son – my boyfriend – has

been killed in action? He would come either way. He

would want to be the one to tell me. He would want to be

the one to tell my mom.

Kit’s father blinks at me. He’s been crying. His eyes are

red, his cheeks wet. He’s still crying, in fact. I watch the

tears slide down his face and realize that I’ve never seen

him cry before. It automatically makes me want to com-

fort him, but even if I could find the words my throat is

so dry I couldn’t speak them.

‘Jessa,’ Kit’s father says in a husky voice.

I hold onto the doorframe, keeping my back straight.

I’m aware that my mother has followed me down the stairs

and is standing right behind me. Kit’s father glances at her

over my shoulder. He takes a deep breath, lifts his chin and

removes his hat before his eyes flicker back to me.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says.

‘Who?’ I hear myself ask. ‘Who is it?’

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Jessa

three months earlier . . .

‘Oh dear God, who in the name of heaven is
he
?’

Didi’s grip on my arm is enough to raise bruises. I look

up. And I see him. He’s staring at me, grinning, and I

have to bite back my own grin. My stomach starts somer-

saulting, my insides twisting into knots.

‘Kit,’ I say, half in answer to Didi, half just for the

chance to say his name out loud after so long. My eyes

are locked with Kit’s, and when he hears me speak his

name he smiles even wider and walks across the living

room towards me.

‘Hey, Jessa,’ he says. His eyes travel over me, taking me

in, before settling on my face. He rubs a hand over his

shorn head, a self-conscious gesture that makes the

somersaults double in speed. He’s still grinning at me but

more sheepishly now.

‘Hi,’ I say, swallowing. I’m nervous all of a sudden. I

haven’t seen him in nine months. I wasn’t sure he was

going to be here today and though I’ve run through this

moment dozens − hell, thousands − of times in my head, I

find I’m completely unprepared for it now it’s actually

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Mila Gray

happening. In all those imaginings I never once factored

in the way he’d make me feel – as though I’ve just taken

a running leap off a cliff edge. I’m breathless, almost

shaking, finding it hard to hold his steady blue gaze.

He looks older than his twenty-one years. His shoul-

ders are broader and he’s even more tanned than usual,

both facts well emphasized by the white T-shirt he’s