Page 65 of How To Not Need You

I set the knife down. “You are the worst cat in the history of cats.”

Hades blinks at me before deciding that I am unimportant and starting to wash his paws.

The doorbell rings. I close my eyes and count to three before opening them again. Hades is still licking his paw, utterly unbothered by the fact that he has just destroyed my kitchen and possibly my evening.

The doorbell rings again.

“I’ll get it!” Tilly shouts from the living room, and then there’s the sound of small feet hitting hardwood at a speed that suggests running in socks is an excellent idea, followed by the thud of something, probably the fossil, being dropped.

I abandon the stove, grab the dustpan and brush from under the sink, and start sweeping soil while listening to the front door open and Tilly’s voice rise two octaves in what can only be described as delight.

“LIV! You’re HERE! Dad didn’t TELL me you were COMING!”

Liv’s voice, warm and slightly amused: “He didn’t know I was coming. I just thought I would visit you guys.”

“That’s allowed?”

“I am not sure yet.”

I’m on my knees in a pile of dirt when Liv appears in the kitchen doorway. She takes in the scene, me crouched on the floor with a dustpan, soil everywhere, Hades sitting in the epicentre like he’s king of the mess. The twitch at one corner that means she’s trying not to laugh and failing.

“Having fun?” she asks, smiling.

“Absolutely having the time of my life.” I reply in a deadpan tone.

That does it. A laugh escapes before she can stop it.

"I'm sorry," she says, although she doesn't sound remotely sorry.

"I know."

She sets her bag beside the door, slips off her shoes and rolls her sleeves to her elbows.

Without asking a single question, she surveys the kitchen like she's assessing a crime scene.

“You were making pasta I assume?” I look up just in time to catch the cheeky glint in her green eyes. Butterflies. Actual bloody butterflies. It's honestly a little embarrassing.

“Yeah. Or trying to, at least.”

She reaches past me for the onion and starts chopping like she’s done this a hundred times. A minute later, she scrapes it into the pan with the edge of the knife, adjusts the heat, then grabs the jar of sauce.

Tilly materialises at her side, pressed against Liv’s hip like a barnacle, chin resting on the counter’s edge, watching with the wide-eyed fascination of a child who has decided that Liv performing basic cooking tasks is the most fascinating entertainment available.

“Liv makes the best pasta,” Tilly announces to the empty kitchen. “Better than you Dad.” She tacks on. Gotta love kids for keeping you humble.

“Thank you for that endorsement,” I mutter, sweeping the last of the soil into the dustpan.

“You’re welcome.”

I dump the soil in the bin, rinse the dustpan, and stand there for a moment with my hands on the edge of the sink, watching them. Liv at the stove, one hand on the wooden spoon, the other resting lightly on Tilly’s shoulder. Tilly’s small body curled against her side. They look like they’ve been doing this for years instead of weeks.

Tilly says something to Liv which causes her to laugh and my heart swells. She fits. Here, and with us.

Dinner is loud. Tilly talks through most of it, a running commentary that covers unicorns (specifically whether they are real, which they obviously are, and whether they prefer strawberries or apples, which is apparently a matter of some urgency, and whether Hades has ever seen one, which Tilly believes he has based on the way he sometimes stares at the wall), the fossil rock (which is now sitting in the centre of the table like a centrepiece), a detailed account of Felix’s crying technique (“he does this thing with his face, Dad, it’s very dramatic”), and a firm declaration that asparagus is, in fact, poison, and she will not be elaborating.

Hades positions himself under the table directly beside my chair and stares at my plate as though the pasta on my fork belongs to him. I ignore him. He increases the intensity of his stare. I break off a tiny piece, drop it on the floor. He sniffs it, looks offended, and walks away.

Liv catches my eye across the table. Her mouth quirks. “You’re a softie aren’t you?”