Page 83 of How To Not Need You

Better to show up. Better to stand on his doorstep with a bag of groceries and a half-formed excuse and let the act itself do the talking.

My hands stay steady on the wheel, which feels like an achievement considering what I’m doing.

I am voluntarily driving to Jake’s house with groceries and my mother’s recipe card.

There should be some kind of warning siren for this level of emotional recklessness.

It’s just dinner. It’s just a recipe. It’s just three days I’ll spend missing people who, by any objective measure, should not have this much real estate in my life.

But they do.

And I’m driving toward them with a bag full of groceries and my mother’s recipe card tucked safely beside me.

I am well and truly a goner.

Jake opens the door and his expression shows his surprise, then his eyes drop to the grocery bag hanging from my wrist.

“What are you doing here?”

“Good evening to you too.”

“Are you moving in?” The question is delivered with humour that suggests he’s already decided this is delightful.

“Don’t be silly.” I push past him into the hallway. “I’m conducting a culinary experiment and your kitchen was closer than mine.”

Before he can call me on the obvious lie, there’s the sound of small feet hitting hardwood at a fast rate, followed by Tilly appearing at the end of the hallway.

“LIV!” She skids to a stop, nearly taking out the side table, and fixes her gaze on the bag. “What’s in there?”

“Dinner.”

Her eyes go wide. “Real dinner? Not takeaway?”

“The disrespect.” I clutch my chest. “I’ll have you know I have cooked before. Several times. I’ve made you pasta before.”

Jake leans against the doorframe. “Should I be worried?”

“You don’t get opinions when you manage to burn eggs.”

“That was one time.”

“Once is enough to disqualify you from culinary commentary.” I head for the kitchen, Tilly bouncing beside me with enough energy for all three of us.

Jake’s kitchen is exactly as I left it. The fridge is a gallery of Tilly’s artwork, stick figures with enormous smiles, a purple cat that might be Hades if Hades were having a particularly good day, a landscape in green crayon that Tilly insists is “the whole world, Dad, see?” The windowsill holds the dead succulent Jake has been meaning to replace for six months. And Hades, predictably, is already stationed on the countertop with the serene entitlement of a creature who pays no rent and expects full service.

“Right.” I set the bag down and start unpacking. “Tilly, you’re on bread duty. Rip that loaf into pieces. Small-ish. Not crumb size though.”

She accepts this assignment. “I am a great kitchen assistant.”

“I know you are, you are my biggest help here.”

Jake gives me the stink eye for that comment before he reaches for the knife block. “I can chop…”

“Nope.” I intercept his hand. “Other side of the island. You have been demoted to an observer only.”

“I live here.”

“And yet.” I push the cutting board toward myself and start on the onion. “Your knife skills are questionable at best.”