Page 63 of How To Not Need You

I step into the circle. Harper shifts to make space without a word. Freya’s hand finds the small of my back, just for a second, light enough that I could pretend I didn’t feel it. I could still walk away. Nobody would stop me.

Instead, I wrap my arms around Natalie.

For approximately half a second, I have no idea what to do with my hands.

Right. Holding. I can do holding. So I do.

When she turns her face into my shoulder, I feel her breath warm against my collarbone, feel the dampness of her tears soaking into the fabric of my sweater.

One of her hands finds my waist and grips it gently. Just holding on, the way drowning people hold onto whatever is solid enough to keep them afloat.

I don’t say anything. There isn’t anything to say that wouldn’t sound hollow or rehearsed or worse, sentimental. So I just stand there. I hold her. I let her cry against my shoulder and I do not let go.

Paint flakes from Natalie’s unfinished bakery dust the crown of my head, tiny flecks of pale yellow that catch the light when I move. I can feel them there.

Then I step back. Natalie doesn’t try to keep me there. Her hand slides away from my waist, and she gives me a smile so watery it barely qualifies, but it’s still there. She is still standing.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

I nod because I'm not emotionally reckless enough to attempt words right now.

Luca is already reaching for the tissue box behind the counter. Harper is murmuring something low and steady into Natalie’s ear. Freya has produced a fresh cup of tea from somewhere, steam rising in lazy curls toward the ceiling. Elsie hasn’t moved, one arm still looped around Natalie’s waist, her cheek still resting against Natalie’s shoulder like she could stand there forever if that’s what it took.

I return to my position near my roller and watch as Natalie wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. Takes a shaky breath. Looks down at her phone on the table, and something changes in her expression.

“We keep going,” she says. Her voice gaining strength. “Even if he ends up hating me more. He doesn’t deserve this.”

Nobody argues. I don't either.

Although right now, I'm not feeling particularly charitable towards Matthew.

He can get fucked for at least the next twenty-four hours.

Chapter

Twelve

Jake

Stupid door. The key is sticking in the lock again. I take a deep breath before trying again. Thankfully, Tilly doesn’t notice. She’s mid-sentence about a playground argument involving a boy named Felix and apparently a very important stick, and nothing as trivial as a stuck lock is going to interrupt her flow.

“…and then Miss Penny said we had to share the stick, but Felix said it was HIS stick because HE found it FIRST, but I said that’s not how sharing WORKS, Dad, and then…”

I jiggle the key. The lock gives. YES!

“…Felix started CRYING and Miss Penny said…”

Tilly darts past me before the door is even fully open, kicking off her shoes somewhere near the entrance without the slightest concern for where they'll end up.

"Home!"

I smile despite myself and follow her inside. I love this house. It's nothing fancy. A little white weatherboard with dark green shutters and a wraparound verandah that I'd fallen in love with the first time I saw it after the divorce. Most people would've walked straight past it looking for something newer. Bigger. Less tired.

I'd seen home.

The kitchen sits right in the middle of the house, connecting everything else together. It desperately needs renovating. The cupboards are original, the laminate bench tops have seen better decades and one of the drawers only opens if you lift it slightly first. I keep telling myself I'll replace it one day.

For now, it works.