Page 86 of How To Not Need You

I squeeze back.

Six months ago, the word again would have felt like a warning.

Tonight, it feels suspiciously like something to look forward to.

It doesn’t take much longer for Tilly to crash. One story becomes two because apparently the first one doesn’t count when there’s still another book within reaching distance. Then we spend several minutes debating the existence of unicorns, during which Tilly informs me that they are obviously real and the fact that I’ve never seen one is less an argument against their existence and more evidence that I’m not very observant.

I’m a graphic designer. Observation is pretty much eighty percent of my job. She remains unconvinced. By the time Jake comes in to rescue me, she’s asleep sideways across her bed with one leg hanging over the edge and a stuffed dog trapped beneath her arm.

Jake looks at her, then at me.

“I thought you were putting her to bed.”

“I did.”

He gestures at the position she’s managed to achieve.

“She’s in the bed.”

“Technically.”

“Sounds like success to me.”

He shakes his head, but he’s smiling as he crosses the room. I step aside while he carefully extracts the dog, lifts Tilly into his arms and settles her properly beneath the covers.

She doesn’t even wake up. I watch him tuck the blanket around her, brush a curl away from her face and press a kiss to her forehead.

There’s that feeling again. I really need to stop having those. I wait for him in the hallway while he switches on her little blue night-light and leaves the door cracked open.

“She’s out cold.”

“I noticed.”

“She likes you reading to her.”

My eyes flick towards him. “She likes anyone willing to listen to her argue that unicorns are real.”

“You argued?”

“I presented reasonable counterpoints to her beliefs.”

Jake laughs quietly as we head back towards the kitchen. “Rookie mistake.”

The remains of dinner are still spread across the table, along with the bread flower Tilly apparently decided was too artistically important to eat.

We clean up without discussing it. That’s become another thing we do. I scrape the leftovers into a container while Jake starts on the dishes. He washes, I wipe down the counters, Hades relocates to the top of the fridge and watches the entire operation with the detached interest of a supervisor who has contributed nothing and still intends to take full credit.

There is paprika everywhere. I wipe at a red smear near the stove. It spreads. Excellent.

“You’re back Sunday?” I ask.

“Yeah. Around ten, probably.”

I spray the counter again. “And Tilly?”

“Megan’s bringing her back Monday after school.” I nod. Six months in and I’m still occasionally caught off guard by how easy it is for him to say Megan’s name.

No hesitation or sudden tightening around his mouth. No bitterness hiding beneath an otherwise normal sentence. Apparently two people can end a marriage and then continue existing in the same universe without attempting to emotionally disembowel each other.