Page 64 of Pretend You Love Me

Liv hands me an iced coffee without being asked, already moving toward the play mat where Maisie is currently examining a wooden ring with the focus of someone conducting important scientific research. “This table arrangement is offensive,” she says, pointing at the cupcakes. “The colour distribution is clearly uneven. You’ve got all the yellow sprinkles on one side and all the blue on the other.”

“I didn’t arrange them,” Harper says. “Luca rearranged them after I set them out.”

“I’m fixing it,” Luca says. “The emotional temperature was all wrong.”

Liv picks up Maisie with her free hand, the baby going to her immediately, and carries her to the cupcake table. “I’m going to fix this,” she says, already moving cupcakes with her elbow. “Not because I care. Because my brain will not allow me to leave it like this.”

“We all have our burdens,” Noah says, catching my eye with a small smile.

From his position by the window, Leo is now attempting to organize the napkins by colour, his small face arranged in a perfect replica of Luca’s concentrated expression. Harper watches this with something complicated moving across her face, not quite pride, more like the particular fondness that appears when your child does something that reminds you of someone you love.

The door opens again and Clara appears, wearing a soft blazer and carrying a bottle of prosecco and a small card. She stands in the doorway for a moment, taking in the balloon clusters, the hand-lettered banner, the mismatched armchairs pushed to the walls, and the general chaos of four adults and three children in a space that’s definitely not designed for birthday party volume.

“I brought sparkling wine,” she says, her voice carrying the same calm, administrative tone she used to discuss custody arrangements and asset division. “And a card. For the twins.”

“Clara,” I say, already crossing to her with my arms out. “You didn’t have to come all this way.”

She accepts the hug with the slightly stiff posture of someone who is professionally warm but personally reserved, and hands me the prosecco and card with careful attention. “I wanted to,” she says simply. “They’re a year old. That’s… significant.”

I know what she means without her having to say it. A year since they were born. Just over a year since Daniel started messaging other women. A year since my life became something I no longer recognized. A year of putting myself back together, piece by piece, while two tiny humans looked to me to figure out how to keep them alive.

The moment sits between us, weighty and entirely present, and then Leo appears at my elbow with a napkin in his hand. Adrian interrupts the moment and greets Clara.

“Auntie Elsie,” he says with all the gravity his six-year-old body can produce. “These napkins have to go in a circle. Uncle Luca said it’s very important for the spiritual centre of the room.”

“Did he,” I say, already reaching for the napkin. “That’s good to know.”

Throughout all of this, Noah moves through the space like he’s been doing it for years. He retrieves a dropped cupcake topper without making a production of it, places it back on the table with care. He catches Milo mid-toddle toward the banner, redirects him with a board book and patience that seems genuinely endless. He appears at my elbow with a fresh coffee, the exact kind I like, at the same moment I realize I’ve been holding an empty cup for the past ten minutes.

“You should drink that,” he says, his voice low enough that only I can hear it. “Before it goes cold again.”

I accept the coffee with a small smile that feels like it comes from somewhere deep in my chest, and for a moment, just a moment, we stand side by side in the mayhem, watching Milo attempt to organize napkins with Leo’s help while Maisie instructs Liv on the proper arrangement of cupcakes, and I realize I’m not bracing for something to go wrong. Not waiting for the other shoe to drop. Not carrying that low-grade dread that used to live in my chest like a second heartbeat, the one that kept me upright through divorce papers and custody arrangements and the particular hell of learning to exist in a world where the person who promised to love you has decided he’d rather be elsewhere.

I notice its absence, the strange, wonderful lightness of being where I’m supposed to be with people who love me as I am.

Forty minutes into the party, the door opens, and the room doesn’t go quiet, but it does that thing where everyone notices but pretends they don’t. Daniel stands in the doorway with two wrapped gifts in his hands and a reusable bag slung over one shoulder, and beside him is Jessica, mid-thirties, dark hair pulled back in a neat ponytail, wearing a pale green top and an expression that’s trying very hard to be gracious while internally screaming that this is the most awkward situation she’s ever been in. I watch them for a second from across the room, Daniel scanning for me, Jessica doing a quick assessment of the café with the focus of someone trying to understand what they’ve walked into.

The gifts will be practical. Age appropriate. Probably wooden blocks or books or the type of stuffed animal that’s labelled “educational” because Daniel has always handled logistics even when he failed at everything else. The bag likely contains backup outfits and diapers and the particular brand of teething biscuits that Milo prefers, because Daniel has learned, in the months since our divorce, to pack for emergencies even when they’re only going to the park.

Around the room, people make small, subtle adjustments to their postures. Luca’s hand pauses at the coffee machine, just for a second. Liv’s eyes cut sideways toward the door, then back to Maisie, her expression not changing but something moving behind her eyes. Harper straightens slightly in her seat, one arm moving to rest on Leo’s back. It’s not dramatic. It’s barely perceptible. But I notice it because I’m looking for it, the small ways we all register that Daniel’s presence still means something complicated.

Then Milo spots him.

He’s across the room, sitting on the play mat with a wooden ring clutched in each hand, and something about the angle must have lined up because his entire face lights up like Christmas morning. “Da!” he announces, already launching himself to his feet with the focus of someone who has located their mission objective and will not be distracted. He toddles across the room, still wobbly, still learning, but utterly committed to his course, his arms outstretched, whole body angled toward Daniel with the complete absence of self-consciousness that only small children can manage.

The tension in the room shatters. Everyone exhales at once. Leo watches Milo with wide eyes. Liv’s shoulders drop half an inch. Clara continues her conversation with Harper and Adrian but the tone of it changes.

Daniel crouches as Milo reaches him, catching the boy with both hands as he lunges forward, already laughing. “Hey, buddy,” he says, lifting Milo carefully. “Happy birthday. My God, look at you. You’re getting so big.”

I watch them for a second, Daniel with his face turned toward Milo’s, his entire body angled to support the small weight against his chest and feel something tender move through my chest. Not jealousy or regret. Something closer to the awareness of damage that was real and painful but is now something you live with rather than something that defines you.

I set my coffee down and cross the room before I can decide whether it’s the right thing to do. “Hey,” I say, already reaching for Maisie who has spotted the commotion and is watching from her position by the cupcakes with the particular stillness she brings to moments of great interest. “You made it.”

Daniel looks up, Milo balanced against one hip. “Wouldn’t miss it,” he says simply. “Thanks for the invite.”

Our exchange has the particular brevity of people who share a complicated history and are trying very hard not to focus on any particular part of it. How was the drive. The twins look enormous. Milo’s still Milo. Maisie’s still Maisie. All of it true and none of it the thing we’re actually saying. We’ve gotten good at this, the careful dance of necessary information and complete avoidance. It’s not comfortable but it’s not unbearable either. It’s just what happens now.

Jessica steps forward with her hand already extended. “Hi,” she says, her voice carrying a warmth of someone who is trying very hard to be appropriate. “I’m Jessica. It’s lovely to meet you properly.”