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“Want me to get that?”

I try not to visibly stiffen. At least he’s talking to me now.

“I’m fine,” I say quickly, wobbling on my high heels as I stretch further. “Totally within my vertical range.”

I can feel his warmth behind me, almost imagine every inch of the space between us.

“You sure?” he asks, still standing there.

“Positive.” But I wobble again as I stretch my arm as far as it will go.

He reaches past me and fixes the bunting in place without comment. I fight the urge to lean back. Instead, I step aside, biting back the stupid urge to fill the silence with something light. Then, I watch his back as he walks back towards the table on the other side of the room.

“Thanks. And again, I really appreciate you coming to help. It really does make setting up so much easier.”

Tom meets my eyes, for the first time since he arrived. “I know what you’re doing, Claire. You don’t have to be nice to me because you feel guilty for not replying to my texts. I don’t need apologies hidden in compliments. I need you to actually talk to me.”

I can see my hands shaking where they hold the napkins, but I feel oddly detached from them. “I know, I’m sorry.” My voice is barely audible.

There’s a pause, and then I feel his eyes on me again, watching me too carefully.

“Thanks,” he says. “But sorry still doesn’t tell me anything. Can you go for coffee with me tomorrow? I’ve found a new place that I think you might enjoy, their almond croissants are amazing.”

People are going to start arriving soon, and now isn’t the time. Tom’s looking at me like he genuinely wants to fix this, but I don’t know how to let him.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I whisper. “It’s nothing you’ve done. It’s not you. It’s me.”

I wince at the line and Tom scoffs. “I’ve literally heard you complain about guys who say that. Really, Claire, that’s the line you’re going to use…”

“But it’s true.”

“Is it?”

He steps closer, enough that I have to look up at him instead of past him. “Because I heard what your mum said that night, so to me it sounds an awful lot like it’s not you, it’s her.”

“That’s not—” I stop, because it is true, and we both know it is, and there’s something humiliating about being seen that clearly.

And wait? He heard what my mum said. Shit.

“Then tell me what it is.” His voice isn’t loud, but it’s not gentle anymore either. “Because I’ve spent a week trying to work out what I did wrong, and the answer keeps coming back nothing, which is somehow worse.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong.” The words come out too fast, and I bite my lip.

“Then why am I the one who got cut off?”

I press the napkins flat against the table, smoothing creases that don’t need smoothing, because it’s easier than looking at him. But I end up speaking before my brain can catch up with my mouth.

“Because she’s not going to change, and the easiest way to not lose something is to never really have it in the first place.”

I curse myself for blurting that out.

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” Tom says, but his tone doesn’t sound angry, and somehow that’s worse.

I frown. He doesn’t get it. It’s not that simple, it’s not something that can be explained away by practicalities and pragmatism.

Tom runs a hand through his hair, the gesture more frustrated than I’ve ever seen it on him. “Claire, I don’t care if your mum hates me. I care that you let her decide whether I get to exist in your life.”

I don’t have an answer for that. I want one, I’m scrambling for one, but everything I reach for sounds like another version of the line he already called out.