Page 114 of How To Not Need You

I let out a breath. “Thanks.”

Megan starts down the verandah steps before stopping and turning back.

“The offer stands. If you change your mind, I’m happy to talk to her. I can explain exactly what happened.”

“I know.”

“I mean it. And next time, I will use Jason’s apartment, even if his shower cleanliness concerns me.”

“I know you do, and I wouldn’t subject you to those conditions.” I force a small laugh.

She studies me for another second, then gives me a small smile.

“She’ll come around.”

I wish I had her confidence. “Go sell a house.”

“That’s the plan.” She heads down the path towards her car, already digging through her bag for something as she goes.

I stay on the verandah until her car disappears down the street. Behind me, the house has gone suspiciously quiet. I turn towards the open front door.

Fantastic.

Apparently I've managed to piss off my girlfriend and my five-year-old in the space of one weekend.

Impressive, even for me. I should go to her. I know I should.

But right now, the weight of that quiet door click is sitting on my chest like a physical pain, and I need a minute before I can figure out how to be the father she deserves when I can’t even fix the thing that broke.

So, I stand on the verandah.

And I listen to my daughter tell a cat about whatever it is that five-year-olds need to say when the adults in their lives have proven themselves, temporarily but conclusively, to be stupid through her half open window.

I’m making pasta because pasta is the food equivalent of autopilot. Boil water. Add noodles. Drain. Stir in sauce from a jar because the woman who makes goulash from scratch is currently not speaking to me, and my culinary ambitions have retreated to the basement of basic survival.

The pot bubbles on the stove as I stir absent-mindedly. I’ve been standing here long enough that whatever I’m making should probably have my full attention, but I couldn’t tell you the last thing I added.

I lift the spoon and stare at it. It’s a sauce. Good start.

I taste it. Hmm, needs salt. Probably. I add some anyway, cooking has never been my strong suit but I don’t have the option of giving up. I have a child to feed and Seabrook only holds a few takeaways. That isn’t really conducive to living off of it or appropriately nourishing a small child.

Behind me, the kitchen table is set with the two bowls I set down earlier, by arm automatically reached for a third and it sent another wave of pain through me.

“Tilly!” I call towards the hallway. “Dinner!”

Nothing, no answering shout of little feet. I turn the heat down and wait for a second more. Still nothing. This is new.

Usually the word dinner gets an immediate response, even if that response is a detailed interrogation about what dinner actually is, whether it contains vegetables, and why those vegetables are necessary.

“Tils?” More silence.

I wipe my hands on the tea towel and head towards her room when there’s a knock at the front door.

Two quick taps, followed by a pause, then a third that lands with the particular smugness of someone who knows exactly what they’re doing.

I know that knock without looking. Ben carries his casual arrogance like a badge of pride. I change direction and open the door.

Ben stands on my verandah holding a six-pack of lemonade in one hand and a bag of Chinese takeaway in the other. He’s changed clothes since I left him, jeans, boots, a flannel shirt that looks like it’s been washed more times than he has showered in his whole life, but the dark circles under his eyes are identical to mine. We worked the same shift. We smelled the same smoke. We drank the same vending machine coffee that tasted like battery acid.