Page 30 of Pretend You Love Me

It’s such a normal question and I am ashamed to say that it warms me inside. “Probably,” I say, aiming for casual and landing somewhere closer to self-conscious. “If the tax law doesn’t finish me first.”

She laughs, the sound bright in the quiet café. “We’ll have a memorial service,” she promises. “Very dignified. Possibly with cake.”

“I’d appreciate that,” I tell her, and mean it more than I should.

Luca looks up from the table he’s wiping, his expression caught between amusement and something that might be concern. “Goodnight, Window Guy,” he says, the nickname delivered with the emphasis of someone who’s decided it’s funny and is committed to the bit. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

I wave at them both and push out into the cold.

My car sits where I left it this morning. I unlock it with a click that seems too loud in the quiet evening, slide into the driver’s seat, and set Elsie’s book on the passenger seat beside me.

My laptop bag sits in the back. I drove here telling myself I needed a change of scenery for the manuscript, that the café would provide the right balance of noise and human presence. A complete lie. I drove here because I looked for her car in the car park before I even got out of my own.

I pick up the book from the passenger seat, turning it over in my hands. The cover feels slightly textured under my fingers, the title embossed in letters just raised enough to catch the light. I open to a random page, read a single paragraph about a woman standing in her kitchen while her life falls apart around her, and close it again.

Somewhere between the cold coffee and the accidental baby diplomacy and the conversation about endings that went twenty minutes longer than it should have, Page & Grounds stopped being a place I worked. It became something else. Not quite a second home, that would be presumptuous, and also not quite accurate, but not just a café either. Something in between, a space that exists that’s entirely its own.

Ten

I’m so exhausted by the time we sit down for dinner that the food on my plate looks like it’s from another dimension. Daniel made his speciality: penne with tomato sauce from a jar that he’s doctored with enough garlic and red pepper flakes to technically count as cooking. It’s fine. It’s food. It’s also the only thing we’ve eaten that didn’t come from Page & Grounds in three days, so I’m shovelling it into my mouth like I’m being timed while bouncing Milo’s bouncer with my foot.

The kitchen table is chaos in its most specific form, mismatched placemats because we can’t agree on which set to register for (we’ve been married for four years), two bouncy chairs positioned within arm’s reach, and at least three different containers of baby supplies taking up what would normally be serving space. Maisie sits in her chair watching everything with her usual unsettling calm.

Daniel eats with the relaxed confidence of a man who has never once worried about whether his body will return to its pre-baby shape. He’s scrolling briefly on his phone, thumb moving with practiced efficiency, then sets it face-down beside his plate with a small, satisfied nod.

“Oh,” he says, somewhere between a forkful of pasta and a comment about whether the recycling has been put out, “Mum’s organised a family gathering. In two weeks.”

The words shock me. I chew, swallow, reach for my water glass, and say nothing while my brain catalogues everything I know about Diane Quinn’s “relaxed” events.

Diane Quinn does not do “relaxed.” Diane Quinn does “performatively perfect.” The serving platters match. The silverware is polished. The children are freshly bathed and wearing outfits with price tags that would make a small nation reconsider its annual budget. The compliments come with hooks inside them, “Elsie, that colour is so brave on you” and “Daniel mentioned you’ve been so tired lately, isn’t it wonderful he’s so understanding?”

“Just a relaxed family lunch,” Daniel continues, already reaching for the salt. “She misses seeing everyone together.”

Everyone. Together. Everyone means I will have an audience. Together means another performance. And “relaxed family lunch” means I will spend approximately seventeen hours making appetizers that match Diane’s serving platters while answering questions about whether I’m “still working at that little bookshop” with the smile that suggests the appropriate female response to motherhood is complete economic surrender.

“She said to bring the twins, obviously,” Daniel adds, already moving on to his next bite. “Everyone’s excited to see how much they’ve grown.”

I nod, keeping my face arranged in what I hope is pleasant neutrality rather than the internal screaming that’s currently happening behind my ribs. Daniel continues eating, mildly distracted, casually affectionate when Maisie makes a small noise from her bouncer. He has absolutely no idea that the woman across from him is mentally calculating how many weeks of legal preparation she has left and whether two more weeks of this will actually kill her.

“Sounds nice,” I say, the words coming out steadier than expected. “The twins would love to see everyone.”

It’s not even a lie. They would. Maisie would watch the proceedings with her usual suspicious expression, and Milo would immediately attempt to destroy something irreplaceable while shrieking with delight. At least one of us would be having a good time.

“Great,” Daniel says, already moving on. “I think the car might need a service before then, though. It’s making that weird noise again when I turn left.”

And just like that, we’re back in the rhythm of domestic conversation. I nod, suggest the garage on Elm Street that fixed our headlights last winter.

Milo makes an unhappy sound from his bouncer and Daniel reaches for him automatically, lifting him with confidence.

“What’s up, little man?” he asks, bouncing Milo gently against his chest. “Not happy with the dinner conversation? I agree, carburettors are boring.”

For a second, the hollow feeling in my chest is almost unbearable. This is what makes it so hard, not the big betrayals. It’s these moments, the perfect seconds when Daniel is the man I thought I married, that catch me off guard every time.

“I’ll get his bottle,” I say, already standing. “He’s probably hungry again.”

By the time we finish dinner, dishes stacked in the dishwasher, leftovers transferred to containers that may or may not make it to the refrigerator, Milo half-asleep against Daniel’s chest, three water glass refills. Zero projectiles. I’m basically a candidate for sainthood.

“I’m going to put him down,” Daniel says, already heading for the stairs. “Then I’ll grab a shower if that’s okay?”