Callum huffs a breath.
“And now you’re cyberbullying me with rodent content.”
“Apparently.”
Another pause.
“How bad?” he asks calmly.
I stare at the counter.
At my own hand flat against the stone.
Bad enough that the kitchen feels wrong.
Bad enough that I considered texting about knitwear.
Bad enough that a hamster now has an online identity because I need somewhere to direct my attention before I do something stupid.
I exhale.
“Not great.”
Callum is quiet for a second.
“You really are fucked.”
I bark out a short laugh.
“Helpful.”
“I’m not trying to be helpful. I’m trying to establish the severity of the emergency.”
“There is no emergency.”
“You made an Instagram for a hamster.”
“I’m hanging up now.”
“No, you’re not,” Callum says. “Because I want the full story, and also Jasper is making me sit through airport delays, so frankly this is the best entertainment I’ve had all day.”
I smile.
Small.
Tired.
And lean back against the counter.
“Fine,” I say.
“It started at the pub.”
A week later, Heath has developed opinions about pasta night.
Namely that my eating it means he should also receive something of equal interest, and that sunflower seeds are apparently no longer sufficient compensation.
He stands at the bars of the cage, tiny paws gripping the plastic, watching me with the accusatory intensity of a disappointed landlord while I twirl spaghetti around a fork.
