Page 115 of How To Not Need You

He’s also wearing an expression I recognise all too well. The expression of a man who has absolutely decided he’s staying for dinner and is doing it to save me from myself.

“What are you doing here?” I ask redundantly.

“Eating.” He holds up the takeaway bag as if to say DUH.

“I didn’t invite you.”

“Yeah, but I’ve seen what you cook.” He gestures towards the kitchen with his chin. “Last time you made pasta, you forgot the sauce.”

“That was one time.”

“It was one of the worst meals I have ever eaten, and that’s saying a lot.”

I stare at him until he apparently decides he’s had enough and pushes past me into the house. He toes off his boots by the door, heads straight for the kitchen and dumps the bag and drinks on the counter before helping himself to a glass from the cupboard.

“You worked the same shift I did,” I say redundantly, closing the door behind him.

Ben has been there for me through some of the worst years of my life. The slow collapse of my marriage. The divorce. Those first months of fatherhood when I was convinced every noise Tilly made meant something was horribly wrong.

He’s the best friend I could’ve asked for.

But there are limits. And apparently those limits have always included sacrificing post-shift sleep. Ben protects his sleep with the same dedication most people reserve for their children.

So the fact that he’s standing in my kitchen right now, looking almost as wrecked as I feel, tells me more than asking if I’m okay ever could.

“And yet I remain capable of friendship.” He sets the soft drink on the counter and starts unpacking containers. “Inspirational, really.”

“You could’ve demonstrated that friendship tomorrow.”

“I could’ve.”

“After sleeping.”

“Yep.”

I watch him pull out enough food to feed at least four people. “But you’re here.”

“You are definitely in the wrong line of work with that deductive reasoning.”

I almost tell him to fuck off. Instead, I grab a glass for myself. Because Ben being here means he’s worried. And maybe I’m tired enough to admit I’m glad he came.

I fill both glasses with ice and pour the lemonade Ben brought while he starts pulling containers from the bag. The sharp fizz fills the kitchen, followed almost immediately by the smell of Chinese food as he cracks open the first lid.

My stomach growls. Apparently it has finally remembered food exists and my pasta was not up to standard.

I carry the glasses over and start helping him unpack.

Fried rice. Spring rolls. Sweet and sour pork, because Ben knows me well enough not to bother asking what I want. Then another paper bag, folded neatly at the top.

I know what’s inside before he opens it. Those weird little rice crackers Tilly loves. I look at him.

“You got the crackers.”

“Obviously.”

“Dinner’s ready!” I call out to Tilly, hoping the smell of Chinese will draw her out in a way my pasta didn’t.

Silence still from down the hallway.