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“Did you move in with Felix?” I ask. It was always her plan to move in with him. She spoke about it with such enthusiasm.

“Not immediately. I actually moved in with Dad and Verity for a bit. They relocated here just before I turned nineteen. Dad came to the house and saw the way Mum was living, and he told me he wasn’t going to let me live another second like that.” She sounds so nonchalant, but it tugs at my heart.

“I don’t want to sound like a judgemental asshole, but you shouldn’t have had a single moment living the way you did, let alone ten years of it,” I mutter.

How her mother treated her was always something I hated. Right from the first night in the fast-food restaurant, I hated it. I hated knowing her mother chose to put everybody else’s needs before her own flesh and blood. Despite the way Delilah speaks now about her father—a mixture of love and reverence—I’m not sure whether he deserves it. I may have had some frustrations over having strict parents myself, but at least I could always rely on them.

“I told you before, he didn’t really know. Remember, I kept the truth from everybody. People at school didn’t know. Felix’s parents didn’t know either, because I made him keep it a secret, too, and to some extent, I kept some of it from him. Yes, I know Dad could have spent more time with me, and I should have probably asked him if I could move in with him, but I didn’t ask for help. I can’t blame him for that. What I can acknowledge is how far he went to make sure my life got better once he knew the full extent of what was happening. He moved me into his house. I stayed with him for a year before I moved in with Felix, and he was the best support I could have asked for. We rebuilt our relationship during that time.”

Her tone is low and even the whole time she speaks, and I can’t detect any hurt or annoyance. I can convince myself that maybe she and her dad did build bridges, that they did put everything behind them. If that’s the case, it’s a relationship I shouldn’t comment on.

“I’m sorry if I’ve upset you,” I offer.

“It’s fine. I’m not upset. I’ve made my peace with my past. For the most part, anyway.”

“Still things that keep you up in the middle of the night?” I prod.

She huffs out a laugh. “Yes, but isn’t that part of the human condition? Regrets that keep us up at night?”

“Yeah, I think you’re right,” I murmur.

She shifts a little in her seat, angling herself towards me. The movement makes her perfume waft my way. The scent of it takes my breath away; it’s intoxicating and stuns me into silence.

“Yeah, what do you regret?” she asks. She seems oblivious to my stunned state.

“Seriously?” I scoff. “You don’t think about our past and what I did and immediately know what I regret?”

“Well, maybe you didn’t regret what you did. Some people don’t ever feel remorse,” she points out.

“Dee.” I sigh and the sound seems to echo around the car. “If you don’t think I’ve regretted what I did to you every second of my life, you’re wrong.”

“How much of it do you regret?” she whispers.

“Not all of it. Just everything from the second I walked away,” I clarify.

“That makes me feel a little better,” she admits.

“Do you have regrets?” I query.

“Not what we did. Like you said, just everything after, I guess.”

Pulling the car to a stop at the end of a road with a give-way sign, I take the opportunity to look at her properly. Even in the dimness in the car, her eyes look like they’re shining. I can’t work out whether it looks like she has tears in her eyes or if it’s just the reminder of what a beautiful colour they are.

“Are you sure you want to come to mine?” I ask.

It wouldn’t be a hardship to turn around and take her back, but I desperately don’t want her to go. I want to sit together at my house, go through the painful process of unravelling the past, and then see what the hell we’re supposed to do next. I don’t want to accept that there wasn’t a reason that I walked into her shop. More than that—even spilling my coffee feels like it was divine intervention. I rarely drink in the car, but last night I did, and it led me straight to her. It must mean something. Even if all we do is make peace with the past, there’s been a divinity moving parts to push our paths together again.

“I’m sure.” She nods as she talks. “Unless you’ve changed your mind,” she adds.

“No.”

“So, carry on driving. I’m intrigued now about how the rich and famous live,” she jokes.

“I think you’re going to be sadly disappointed.” I laugh.

Neither of us adds the sentence that would be so obvious, that it wouldn’t be the first time she was disappointed because of me.

I turn onto the next road. She doesn’t reply to my comment, and I concentrate on driving rather than digging into the past. I know we have lots to talk about, but it will be better to do it at my house. I get a vision of us drinking coffee in the kitchen, sitting at the dining table and reminiscing about the past. I imagine the hundred apologies I need to give her—the ones that are currently weighing on my chest and keeping all the other words stuck in my throat.