Page 32 of How To Not Need You

There’s a comfortable silence. We’ve been doing this long enough that silence isn’t awkward anymore. Then her eyes drift past me, through the open door, into the kitchen. She sees the flowers on the counter. The plastic wrap. The dark blue shirt with the buttons that I am wearing. Her gaze flicks back to my face, and there’s a moment where her expression changes from tired to curious to something warmer.

“Did you have a date?” she asks.

I scratch the back of my neck. The gesture is so transparent I might as well hold up a sign that says YES AND I AM NERVOUS ABOUT IT.

“Yeah.”

“With Liv?”

I blink. “How did you know?”

“Tilly.”

Right on cue, like she’s been summoned by the sound of her own name, Tilly reappears in the doorway. She’s changed out of her school uniform into what appears to be pyjama pants and a t-shirt that says “UNICORNS DON’T DO CHORES” in block letters across the chest. Her hair is already a disaster. She looks at me, then at Megan.

“Liv’s pretty.”

I close my eyes. “Tilly.”

“She smells like flowers.” Tilly continues, undeterred. She holds up one finger like she’s listing evidence. “And she has sparkly earrings. And she laughed at my joke about the dog with one leg.”

“Bug,” I try again to interrupt her tirade.

“And she’s funny.” Tilly nods once, decisively, as if this settles the matter for all time. Then she turns and disappears back into the living room, leaving a trail of dirty footprints I will definitely find later.

Megan is laughing, her shoulders shake so hard that she has to set the coffee cup down on the porch railing before she drops it.

“I’m sorry,” she says, wiping her eyes. “I’m so sorry. She’s been like this for days. I tried to get her to talk about anything else. School, chocolate, the meaning of life. Nothing. Just Liv, Liv, Liv.”

I stand in the doorway feeling about two feet tall and also, somehow, absurdly proud. Apparently Liv has received the Tilly Reid seal of approval, previously reserved for ice cream, trampolines and Hades.

“It’s fine,” I mutter. “Really. It’s fine.”

Megan’s laughter settles. She picks up the coffee again, takes another sip, and looks at me with that expression I know well, the one that says she’s seeing something she likes.

“I’m glad,” she says simply. “I’m glad you’re putting yourself out there again.”

The words take me by surprise. I look up. Not that I’m surprised she’s on board with this. I’ve met her boyfriend. She’s laughed at my previous attempts at dating. It’s the seriousness of her tone that catches me off guard.

I swallow before I respond. “I really like her.”

“I know.”

“You do?”

She smiles. “Our daughter has spent four days talking about nothing else. I think I know more about Liv than I do about most of my own friends.” She drains the last of the coffee, hands me back the empty cup. “She sounds good, Jake. Really good.”

There’s no weirdness in it. No jealousy. Megan moved on a long time ago. So did I. We’re better at this version of us anyway.

“Thanks,” I say. It doesn’t feel like enough, but it’s all I’ve got.

Megan squeezes my arm once, briefly, the way you might squeeze a friend’s shoulder after they’ve told you something important. Then she’s back down the steps, into her car, waving once through the windshield before she pulls away.

I stand in the doorway holding the empty coffee cup. Inside, Tilly has spread herself cross-legged on the living room floor and is narrating something to Hades that he seems to be paying his full attention to.

Date: officially, completely, undeniably cancelled. I set the cup on the counter. Pick up my phone. Open the text thread with Liv. Time to tell her the truth. I type the text slowly. Delete it. Type it again.

Hey. I’m really sorry. Megan had a work emergency and I’ve got Tilly tonight. Rain check?