“She is indeed,” I reply, smiling despite myself. “Please, sit. Dad, how are you feeling?”
“Better than ever. Glad to be home.” He looks between us, his grin widening. “Everything alright with work?”
“Yes, work’s fine,” I say, ignoring the curious flicker in Matilda’s eyes. “What have you two been up to all day?”
“Oh, just talking. Mostly about you.”
Matilda’s cheeks flush instantly, and I raise a brow. “All good things, I hope.”
“Of course,” my dad chuckles. “Now, tell me you’re staying for dinner. We’ve eaten all the biscuits, and I’m starving.”
I glance at Matilda, then at the clock. “We’ve got that five o’clock meeting.”
“Well, have your meeting here, you fool,” Dad says, waving a hand. “She’s right there. And Matilda, darling, you’ll stay for dinner, won’t you?”
Matilda hesitates, glancing between me and the floor.
“You should stay,” I say quietly.
She looks up and smiles. “Okay. Thanks.”
Dad claps his hands together. “Fantastic! Now, what are we eating?”
We raid the fridge and manage to cobble together pasta with tomatoes, garlic, and dried basil — hardly gourmet, but it’ll do. Matilda helps without being asked, and somehow even that feels intimate.
As I chop tomatoes, I finally speak. “Thank you for helping my dad today. I really appreciate it.”
“You’re welcome,” she says softly. “He’s pretty amazing.”
So are you,I almost say, but swallow it down.
“It was nice hearing him laugh again,” I admit instead. “It’s been a while.”
She pauses, knife halfway to the board. “What do you mean?”
“At the start of lockdown, he fell. No one knew. He was on the floor for almost a day before I found him. That’s when he lost a part of himself. He hasn’t really… been the same since.”
Her eyes soften. She places a hand on my forearm, and the touch sends a shiver up my arm.
“Henry, that’s awful. I had no idea.”
“Why would you?” I manage a smile. “I don’t talk about it. Or much of anything personal, really.”
“What about friends? Or… girlfriends?” she asks, her hand slipping away. “Do you talk to them about personal stuff?”
“There’s only one person I really talk to — Jas, my oldest friend. She’s known my family forever. Other than that, no. And I don’t have girlfriends.”
“Right.”
Her tone is quiet, unreadable.
“I’m glad you were with him today,” I say after a moment. “He’s been asking about you for weeks.”
“Really?” she beams.
“Yeah. You’re the closest thing to a girlfriend I’ve had in years. We’re practically married in his eyes.”
Her mouth falls open. My brain catches up half a second too late. “Sorry — I meant because we work so closely together. Not—”
