Page 7 of How To Not Need You

"You've had exactly three facial expressions since I've known you." I fold my arms.

"I have at least five."

She nods thoughtfully. "I'll keep looking."

Dammit, she isn’t going to let this go. At all.

Chapter

Two

Jake

By the time we leave Page & Grounds, Tilly has decided we're coming back tomorrow.

"She'll probably be here again," she says, skipping three steps ahead before turning to make sure I'm listening.

"Maybe."

“Definitely.”

I smile at her slight sass. “You’re very confident.”

"We're friends now."

“Is that how it works?”

She looks at me like I’ve asked whether the sky is green. “Obviously.”

I chuckle, shaking my head. “Right. Obviously.”

Her backpack bounces against her shoulders as we head towards school, the fairy skirt she’d somehow found again peeking out beneath her uniform. I'm almost certain Megan donated it a month ago. I'm equally certain Tilly somehow staged a rescue mission.

"You like Liv too," Tilly says matter-of-factly. I raise an eyebrow at her bluntness.

"Do I?"

"Yep."

"Based on?"

"You smiled at her."

"I smile at lots of people." She gives me a look that says she isn't buying it for a second.

"Not like that."

Kids notice everything. I try to ignore her and focus on the walk to school. It’s a clear morning. The path along the river is dry for once, no puddles, no slick of mud to test the grip of my boots. Salt air moves through the grass and the little blue windbreaks that shield the houses from the worst of the onshore gusts. Tilly’s hair catches the light in frizzy golden spirals. She’s narrating the entire journey now, which means there’s zero chance I’ll forget anything important. Or about Liv, who, as of the wedding, is apparently her favourite adult.

“And if Liv likes giraffes then that’s what I’ll draw her,” Tilly declares, punctuating it with a sideways leap over a lump in the footpath. I clear my throat, mostly to buy myself a second. I’m not totally sure where this logic chain started, but as with most Tilly logic, I suspect there’s no clean beginning or end. Just a series of enthusiastic restarts.

“She might be more of a dog person,” I say. “Or rocks. I heard she collects those now.”

Tilly does not appreciate my contribution.

“Daddy.” She comes to a full stop, pivots, and fixes me with the unimpressed stare she reserves for grown-ups who have missed an obvious point. “I have to ask first. Because what if she’s allergic to giraffes?”

I want to ask if it’s possible to be allergic to giraffes, but decide to let it go. We’re late enough as it is, and Tilly’s teacher sends home passive-aggressive notes when we miss the morning assembly. I nudge her gently toward the pedestrian crossing, but she’s got other plans, namely, to walk the entire length of the white stripes with her arms out like an airplane.