Page 48 of Pretend You Love Me

I push past the counter at Page & Grounds with Maisie strapped to my chest and a diaper bag slung over one shoulder, already bracing for Milo’s indignant shriek. He’s on the play mat behind the counter doing his very best to consume a board book about colours, and Luca is crouched next to him pretending to be horrified while simultaneously taking photos on his phone. The café smells like a kind of comfort that comes from a space that feels like home.

“And that,” Luca announces to no one in particular, “is going straight to the evidence board for when Milo Quinn gets his first Pulitzer. ‘Small man destroys literature in a single bite.’”

I drop the diaper bag by the counter and begin the careful process of extracting Maisie from the carrier. She makes a small sound of protest but doesn’t cry, just watches me with the look that she reserves for people who have wronged her.

“Sorry,” I tell her, already reaching for the change of clothes I know she’ll need in approximately three minutes. “We’re running behind. Blame your brother, who thought pooping three times before leaving the house was the ideal way to start the day.”

From behind the counter, Luca makes a sound of exaggerated disgust. “You know,” he says, already moving toward the coffee machine, “there was a time when you didn’t discuss human waste at the same volume as a sporting event. I miss that woman. She was classy.”

“Find her,” I tell him, already dropping into the armchair behind the counter. “I’ve looked everywhere.”

The café hums with its usual mid-morning rhythm, the espresso machine cycling through its mildly distressed sounds, regulars settling into the armchairs with their usual orders, soft music playing at a volume that Luca has decided “creates atmosphere without oppressing the soul.” Everything is as it should be, except that something has changed.

Me.

I catch myself not checking the door with dread, not rehearsing conversations in my head, not bracing for whatever happens next. Three weeks of sleeping through the night in a house that doesn’t contain Daniel has left a kind of hollow in my chest, not empty, just lighter, as if my body has been preparing for this exact moment of release.

“Small flat white, extra foam?” Luca asks, already reaching for the mug.

I nod, already settling Maisie on the mat next to her brother. “Please. I’ve been up since five.”

“Tell me something new,” Luca says, but his smile is warm. “And don’t look now, but your favourite translator is at the window seat with his manuscript.”

I don’t look. I don’t need to. Noah has become part of the furniture here, Luca arguing with him about pastry rankings, Harper dropping her laptop bag on his table without asking when she arrives late, Liv insulting his font choices while he helps her carry a box of stock from the back room without being asked. He’s been here every weekday for almost two months, arriving at nine, leaving at two, ordering the same coffee with quiet politeness, working through Italian manuscripts with careful attention.

From the play mat, Milo spots Noah across the café and makes a sound of aggressive recognition, reaching both arms outward with the dramatic flair he reserves for people he likes. Maisie watches Noah from the mat with the solemn, unblinking assessment.

“I think,” Luca says, sliding my coffee across the counter, “you have the only children in the world who prefer the boring man to my charming company.”

“They have standards,” I tell him. “You talk too much.”

“I am emotionally expressive,” he corrects, already moving toward the pastry case. “It’s different. And for the record, your daughter is the only person I’ve ever met who can make me feel like I’m being psychologically evaluated during naptime.”

I laugh and settle into the morning. Three more regulars. One book club meeting. One author signing Liv has organized with specific instructions not to “make it weird” because the author in question is, according to Liv, “the one living person who can make me feel sincere emotions about competitive crochet.” The café moves through its usual pattern, orders, conversations, arguments about what qualifies as “beach reading,” Luca’s increasingly dramatic attempts to get Milo to laugh for his Instagram, Harper’s quiet arrival with Leo in tow, the boy immediately commandeering the play mat to reenact the ice age with Milo.

Throughout it all, I notice Noah in small, accumulating flashes: the way he moves through the space without needing to announce himself, the way he holds the back door open with his shoulder while I navigate through with a box of stock and a baby, the way he doesn’t make a production of any of it. At one point, he takes Milo from my arms without being asked, settling the baby on his hip with ease while I ring up an order. Milo, never one to miss an opportunity for human contact, immediately grabs Noah’s glasses with both hands and attempts to remove them.

“Sorry,” I say, already reaching for my son.

“He’s fine,” Noah says, already adjusting his position so Milo can’t reach his face. “I’ve got him.”

And he does. With the same careful attention he gives everything else. Milo, sensing weakness, immediately launches into a dramatic monologue that appears to be about the existential crisis of having to wait for lunch, and Noah nods with serious attention.

“I agree,” he tells Milo, who stops mid-wail to blink at him in confusion. “The arbitrary distinction between ‘snack’ and ‘meal’ is a social construct designed to oppress those with alternate digestive timelines.”

Milo stares at him for one confused moment, then dissolves into giggles that seem to surprise even him. I watch them together, something complicated moving through my chest, and then my phone rings, Clara’s name on the screen.

“Hold on,” I tell Noah, already reaching for the phone. “I need to take this.”

He nods and turns back toward the window seat. I watch him go for a brief second, something warm filling me, and then step into the small back office.

The office is what it’s always been, the broken chair that tilts slightly to the left, the stack of invoices I keep meaning to file, the bulletin board covered in notes from Luca about “staff morale” and “appropriate emotional boundaries” and “please stop feeding the twins coffee even if they look sad.” I close the door carefully and take the call.

“Elsie,” Clara says, her voice carrying the same calm, administrative tone she uses for everything. “I wanted to let you know that the divorce is finalized. The papers came through this morning.”

The twins were nine months old, and after months of lawyers, paperwork, and learning how to co-parent with someone I'd barely recognized anymore, I was divorced.

I sit on the edge of the desk, suddenly unsure if my legs will hold me. “That’s... that’s it?” I ask, the words coming out slightly uneven. “It’s done?”