Page 52 of Pretend You Love Me

I go still, a chair half-lifted in my hands. Noah continues before I can speak, his words coming out slightly faster than normal.

“I’m not asking for anything,” he says. “Honestly, I think you deserve time to breathe first. I just didn’t want you thinking I was only being kind because I felt sorry for you.”

I set the chair down with careful attention, suddenly unsure what to do with my hands. “I don’t think that,” I tell him, the words coming out steadier than expected. “I’ve never thought that.”

He nods, accepting this without pushing for more, and something confusing sinks into my bones, attraction, yes, but maybe a bit of hope too?

“I should go,” he says, already reaching for his jacket. “It’s late, and you’ve had... quite a day.”

I look at him, at the window seat where he first sat with his manuscript, at the door he held open without making a production of it, at the man who made me laugh on the worst days without ever asking me to explain them, and feel more hope spread through my chest. I am not quite ready to admit it though.

“Thank you,” I say simply instead. “For everything. For the coffee. For listening to Luca’s pastry rankings. For not making me feel like I’m broken.”

Noah smiles, the expression warming his entire face. “You’re not broken,” he says. “You’re just... figuring out what comes next.”

After Noah leaves, I lock the front door of Page & Grounds alone, the key turning in the familiar lock, the café warm and quiet behind me. I stand there for a moment in the soft light with the smell of coffee and old books around me, and the future, not empty or terrifying, just unknown, opens out ahead of me like the first page of something I haven’t read yet.

Eighteen

I’ve been cleaning the kitchen since five-thirty in the morning, two full hours before the twins woke up, and I’m pretty sure I’ve organized the junk drawer three times now. Each paperclip, loose battery, and mystery key has been repositioned with impressive focus, and the countertops have reached a level of cleanliness that makes Luca later describe them as “basically sending passive-aggressive messages to the rest of the house.” But I can’t stop. My hands keep moving, wiping, arranging, wiping again, while my brain cycles through the same thought on repeat: Today is the day Daniel comes to get his last things. Today is the day he returns his keys. Today is the day it’s officially, completely over.

The coffee in my mug has been reheated so many times that it’s taken on the quality that makes it barely drinkable, but I can’t bring myself to make a fresh cup. The thought of having to go through the entire process, kettle on, mug out, coffee in, wait, wait, wait, feels physically impossible, like asking someone to run a marathon in the middle of a hurricane.

From her position on the play mat, Maisie watches me move around the kitchen with her usual unsettling level of focus. Her eyes follow me from cabinet to counter to sink, one tiny eyebrow raised slightly as if she’s mentally correcting my technique. In his bouncer beside the table, Milo is having none of it. He’s currently engaged in a very passionate one-sided debate with a wooden spoon, his entire face scrunched in the expression that makes him look like a tiny CEO.

“Ma!” he announces, already launching into his next point. “Ma-ma-ma!”

“That’s definitely my name,” I tell him, reaching for the cloth I’ve just wiped down the bench with for the fourth time. “Whether you intend it to mean me however. Is debateable.”

The front door opens with a soft click, key in the lock, and Luca appears in the kitchen doorway with a takeaway coffee in each hand and a more cautious expression than I have seen in a while. His eyes move from the spotless counters to my untouched coffee to the reorganised spice rack (now arranged by frequency of use rather than alphabetical order), and his expression changes from casual to concerned in a single fluid motion.

“Absolutely not,” he says, already placing his bag on the counter. “You are not doing emotionally significant life moments alone like some kind of haunted indie film protagonist.”

He reaches for my mug without asking, dumps its contents directly into the sink, and replaces it with one of the takeaway coffees before I can protest. The smell of actual, fresh coffee, not the reheated abomination that’s been sitting on the counter since five-thirty, fills the kitchen, and I feel myself take a deep inhale.

“I’m fine,” I tell him, already reaching for the coffee. “Really. I’ve had months to prepare for this. I’ve literally color-coded the custody schedule. I’m emotionally stable to the point of being suspicious.”

Luca looks at me for a long moment, three seconds, five, ten, his face shows he is trying to make his mind up about something. He is not being dramatic, more like assessing the scene and determining the best steps to take next.

Then he turns to the baby monitor on the counter, checking the volume, adjusting the angle, like he’s making himself useful without being asked, and asks casually: “Did Adrian text you this morning? He said he was going to.”

I nod, already reaching for my phone. Adrian’s message sits in my inbox, the subject line, “Thinking of you today”, appearing as it has for the past three hours:

Just checking in. No pressure to respond. Standing by for whatever you need.

Such a simple sentence, an acknowledgment of what today means for me, for the twins. A way to ensure I know that I am not alone in this moment that I never expected to have when I walked down the aisle towards Daniel.

I’ve saved it like a small piece of ballast, something to hold onto when everything else feels like it’s too difficult and check it again without realising I’m doing it. The words remain as they were the first time, brief and entirely without expectation.

“He texted,” I tell Luca, already putting the phone down. “Just a quick check-in. Nothing too intense.”

He nods, accepting this without pushing for more, and then there’s a knock at the door, three soft, careful taps that mean only one thing.

Daniel.

I stand perfectly still in the kitchen, my coffee halfway to my mouth, and feel myself freeze. Then Luca makes a small sound and suddenly I’m moving again, crossing to the door with care, already reaching for the handle with my free hand.

Daniel is quieter than he’s been in any previous encounter, no charm offensive, no forthright apologies, just a tired man standing on my doorstep with a cardboard box and a bin bag. He’s wearing his standard weekend outfit, grey jumper, dark jeans, it makes him look like he stepped out of a family photograph, but something about him is different. Not in an outwardly spectacular way, more like all pretence has dropped.