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“I should put the cake out,” he says eventually, when the silence has gone on too long to survive. He doesn’t sound angry anymore. He sounds like someone giving up.

“Tom—”

“It’s fine, Claire.” He picks up the cake tin. “You don’t have to explain anything else. I get it.”

I don’t think he does. I don’t think I do. But I let him walk away anyway, because apparently that’s the only thing I know how to do well.

Chapter 14

Claire

Irub my eyes as I stare at my screen. I’m not sleeping well, and it’s ruining my concentration. Kath’s party was great, but I spent the whole of the day after rotting in bed, and somehow it’s Monday again.

My inbox is open in front of me, but I’ve reread the same email four times and retained exactly none of it. I always find reading harder when I’m tired, the letters dancing across the screen, tangling and changing meaning. I’m struggling to work out whether this message is about a client pitch, or a meeting reschedule, or maybe a budget spreadsheet. Hard to tell when all the words have turned into grey soup.

The noise in the office isn’t helping. The printer is coughing like it has asthma and someone is laughing obnoxiously loudly nearby. Ugh, happy people. How annoying.

At least it’s nearly lunchtime. Though I have a pre-arranged lunch date with Kath, which isn’t helping my nerves. At her birthday party she mentioned talking about the gala and Tom, and I waved her off saying it wasn’t the time because she should focus on having fun. But today I really don’t have an excuse.

She’s my best friend, and I need to buckle up and face the music.

I look back at my screen and start slowly deciphering the email.

Twenty minutes and zero productivity later, I grab my coat and shove my phone into my pocket, trying to look like a woman leaving for a normal lunch break rather than one heading toward an emotional reckoning. The walk to the café is lovely, the air crisp with autumn, and leaves just starting to lose some of their vivid green. People still don’t have jackets on, and one woman’s wearing sandals. I admire her optimism.

Kath waves at me as I enter the café. She’s wearing the look I recognise from revising for exams. The “I’m concerned, but it’s time for tough love” look. I can imagine her using it on her patients in the hospital.

“Hi,” she says.

“Hi,” I echo, looking for a menu I can use to distract myself.

“You look tired.”

“Thanks?” I raise an eyebrow at her. Damn. I thought I had applied my makeup better than that, though it took several layers of concealer to hide the bags under my eyes this morning.

She nudges my ankle under the table. “Are you alright?”

I pick up a napkin and start folding it. Then, I take a deep breath and mentally strap myself in for emotional turbulence.

“I know I haven’t spoken about it properly, but I’m so sorry the gala felt so awkward. I had hoped we’d all get a chance to have fun together but we all kept being pulled in separate directions and I know it wasn’t what we thought it would be.” I rip off the plaster, hoping that will at least make things minorly better.

Kath lets out a controlled exhale and sits back in her chair. “Claire… I’m not going to lie to you. You’ve had better nights.”

Ouch.

Fair. But ouch.

Her expression has morphed from the tough love look to something sadder, or maybe even frustrated.

I open my mouth, but she holds up a hand.

“I’m not saying that to punish you. I’m saying it because you need to hear it. Tom and I heard your mum insulting him, and you didn’t say anything to stop her. And then you’ve been avoiding him ever since. And Tom—” She shakes her head. “He really liked you.”

He liked.

In the past tense.

“I’m sorry.” I stop myself from saying more. I can’t admit out loud how much I like him. Like him in the present tense.