Page 23 of Pretend You Love Me

“Alright,” Adrian says from the doorway, as if summoned by our conversation. “I have it in writing. ‘I, Luca Reyes, do solemnly swear to cook an actual meal that does not contain espresso in any form or poison my husband.’ Signed in blood. Or possibly red wine. The forensics were inconclusive.”

“I make excellent pasta,” Luca says, wounded. “And that one time with the salmon was not my fault. The recipe specifically said, ‘skin side down,’ which is obviously a translation error because who would voluntarily eat salmon skin? It’s like eating a scale-covered fish mermaid.”

“That’s not what a mermaid is,” I tell him.

“It’s exactly what a mermaid is,” he counters. “Half fish, half person. Very established in mythology. I will not be gaslit about mermaid physiology.”

Before I can respond, he crosses the room and kisses my cheek, a quick, casual gesture. “Text me,” he says, his voice deliberately light. “When you get home. So I know you’re not lying murdered in a ditch because you decided to take the scenic route again.”

“I’ll text,” I promise. “And I’m not taking the scenic route. I’m taking the route that doesn’t involve the roundabout where six roads meet at once with no clear right-of-way. It’s a safety issue.”

“Your inability to navigate a simple traffic circle is both charming and deeply concerning,” Luca says, already heading for the door. “We should discuss it at length. Possibly with maps. And those little toy cars they use to teach road rules.”

“I’m an excellent driver,” I call after him. “I just have a healthy respect for the inherent chaos of multiple roads converging at once with no clear rules.”

“That’s literally what a roundabout is for,” Adrian says, holding the door open. “Establishing clear rules for road convergence.”

“It’s a death trap with landscaping,” I tell him. “And I stand by that assessment.”

They leave together, Luca still talking, Adrian listening, and the café settles. The floor is still slightly sticky near the counter where someone spilled a caramel latte. The air smells like coffee grounds. The chairs sit upside-down on tables, their shadows stretching across the floor in the fading light.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, a message in the group chat, Harper’s name appearing next to a screenshot of a romance trope: “Enemies to Lovers BUT they’re actually just two people with terrible communication skills and one misunderstanding.” Below it, Liv has sent three insulting reactions, an eye roll, and a vomiting face, followed by a single heart emoji that she will absolutely deny sending tomorrow.

I smile despite myself, tucking the phone back into my pocket without responding. Across the room, Maisie is asleep in her carrier. Milo, who spent twenty solid minutes screaming with focused determination, is now a small, boneless, deeply peaceful lump in his carrier.

I stand near the front door with my keys in my hand and don’t immediately leave. I should head home to the careful dance of normality that waits for me there.

But for just a moment, I stand perfectly still in the middle of the empty café and breathe. And as I do, as my lungs fill with air that’s so familiar, soaking in this moment of peace, of pride.

I lock the front door, turn off the last light, and stand in the dark for one more moment, keys in hand, babies sleeping, and head to my car. The night is cool against my face, the street quiet at this hour, the houses around me lit with a golden warmth that means people are home.

This single moment hits me as I sit in my car after strapping the twins in, before I start the engine, sitting in the dark. For a little while today, in the normalcy of Page & Grounds with people who love me as I am, I was myself again.

Eight

The mug appears beside me without warning, fresh coffee, still steaming, handle angled toward my right hand. I glance up to find Daniel smiling at me, that half-smile that used to make my stomach flip but now makes me feel slightly ill. His eyes are fixed on mine with careful attention, like a man running diagnostics on a marriage he senses is malfunctioning without understanding why.

“Thanks,” I say, with the warmth I’ve perfected over the past three months. The words hang between us in the morning kitchen light.

I watch him move back to the counter where his phone sits face-down, his movements easy in a way that makes my chest ache. Three months ago, I wouldn’t have noticed how deliberately casual he is about picking it up. I wouldn’t have caught the subtle change in his posture, his shoulders relaxing, head tilting slightly, as he reads whatever’s on the screen. I wouldn’t have clocked the private smile that lifts the corner of his mouth before he catches himself and sets it down again.

But I notice everything now.

“Bins are out,” he says, reaching for his keys. “And I ordered more nappies. They’ll be here tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” I say again, the same carefully even tone. “Drive safe.”

“Love you,” he answers, the phrase delivered with the casual confidence of someone confirming the recycling has been collected. Not a meaningful declaration. Just a fact he takes for granted, like the existence of Mondays.

I nod, focusing on Maisie’s tiny face as she suckles at the bottle. “Love you too.”

The front door closes with a soft click that seems to echo through the entire house. I wait ten seconds, then fifteen, listening for the sound of his car starting. When it finally comes, my chest loosens, the tightness I'd been carrying since I opened my eyes finally releasing.

It’s the worst part, I think, the part that still catches me off guard: how physically exhausting it is to hold myself together all the time. My jaw aches from being held too tightly. My shoulders stay just below my ears, muscles tensed against the constant vigilance of not revealing what I know. Even my breathing has changed, shallow when he’s in the room, as if taking too deep a breath might accidentally let something slip.

I finish feeding Maisie and place her on her playmat, watching as she immediately starts grabbing for the stuffed octopus Luca bought her, a ridiculous creature with eight different textured tentacles and googly eyes that make me laugh despite everything. From the nursery, Milo makes a small, unhappy sound that quickly escalates into the cry that means “I have pooped and I am extremely disappointed in everyone involved.”

“Coming,” I call, already moving toward his room. “Keep your pants on.”