Page 87 of How To Not Need You

Who knew? Certainly not me. Jake rinses another plate and passes it over. I take it.

“She’s got that parent-teacher thing Wednesday,” he adds. “So it works out better this way.”

“Mm.” I dry the plate and put it away without needing to ask where it goes. That probably deserves examination too. Not tonight.

Jake reaches for the pot. “I’ve sorted someone from the station to check on Hades while I’m gone. Martinez owes me a favour from that cliff rescue last month.”

“I can feed him.” The words are out before I’ve really thought about them. Jake looks over his shoulder.

“You don’t have to.”

“I know.” I attack another patch of paprika to distract from the feeling of his eyes on me. He keeps looking at me.

“I’m working from home anyway,” I add in my most non-challant tone. “I can come over. Feed him. Make sure he hasn’t destroyed anything important. Check for bodies.” From the top of the fridge, Hades blinks.

“I think he heard you.”

“Good.”

“You really don’t have to.”

I stop wiping and look at him. “Jake.”

“Liv.”

“I offered.”

Something changes in his expression at my statement and then he nods. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

He dries his hands on the tea towel, drops it beside the sink and walks out of the kitchen. I watch him disappear down the hallway.

“Where are you going?” No answer. I glance at Hades. He glances back.

“You are such a big help.” A drawer opens somewhere down the hall. Then Jake reappears. He’s holding a key. I stop moving.

Well.

Shit.

It’s completely ordinary. Brass. Slightly scratched. Attached to a plain metal ring.

Still a key. To his house. This house.

The little white weatherboard with the green shutters and the verandah wrapped around it. The house with Tilly’s drawings covering half the fridge and Hades systematically murdering every plant Jake is optimistic enough to bring through the front door. The house where I know the coffee is in the cupboard beside the stove and the good mugs are on the second shelf because the bottom shelf contains three chipped ones Jake refuses to throw away.

The house where his boots are always beside the front door and Tilly’s shoes are never beside anything useful.

Where Tilly leaves toys in places designed specifically to break adult ankles.

Where I know which floorboard outside her bedroom creaks.

Where I know which side of Jake’s bed gets the morning sun.

I know this house.

Apparently well enough that Jake Reid has decided I should have a key to it. He holds it out and I just stare at his hand.