Page 55 of Take Me Away

I’m a special occasion. Not sure what to think of that.

‘I should get dressed then,’ I say, glancing at my overnight bag.

‘Okay.’ Maisie doesn’t move.

‘I need some privacy,’ I clarify.

‘Oh!’ Her eyes widen. ‘Right. Sorry. I’ll tell Dad you’re awake.’

She dashes out, closing the door with a bang, and I sink back against the pillows, heart still racing from the surprise wake-up call. The clock on the bedside table reads 7:36 am.

My foot throbs dully as I ease out of bed, and I spend a moment or two testing my weight. It’s okay, to be fair. I’ve had much worse. I dress quickly in the jeans and sweater I turned up in; I only packed clean underwear, not wanting to make Kit wait too long for me yesterday when he turned up with a face like miserable thunder and invited me over like he was asking the devil for tea. I run fingers through my hopeless hair, and attempt to make Kit’s bed with military precision. No trace – just respect, not permanence.

The smell of cooking greets me as I limp downstairs. The kitchen is warm and bright, morning sunlight pooling across the floorboards. Kit stands at the stove, flipping pancakes like he’s done it a thousand times, and something in my chest constricts. It’s a vision I never expected to see. Domestic Kit. Grown-up Kit. Deep, dark, locked away in my fantasies Kit.

How things could have been if I hadn’t left. If what happened next hadn’t happened.

He glances back. ‘Morning.’

‘Morning,’ I manage.

In daylight, our midnight confessions feel like a dream – something that happened to other people in another time.

‘How’s the foot?’ he asks, sliding a pancake onto a plate.

‘Better,’ I say. ‘Just stiff, I think.’

‘Sit.’ He nods towards the table. ‘Breakfast’s almost ready. Unless you want your foot up? You can sit in the armchair, and I’ll bring it over.’

‘No, no, this is fine.’ I take a seat across from Maisie, who beams at me.

‘Dad makes the best pancakes. They’re fluffy.’

‘They look amazing,’ I say, and they do – golden and perfect.

Kit places a plate in front of me, then Maisie, before making one for himself. There’s an easy domesticity to his movements that makes my chest hollow.

‘Syrup?’ Maisie offers, pushing a bottle towards me.

‘Thanks.’ I eye her stack. She’s attacking it with almost military precision, cutting away at the crispy edges and leaving the fluffy middles to last. ‘You know in America they have stacks of pancakes twenty high, per person.’

Her eyes pop open. ‘Awwwesome.’

‘And they put syrup on their bacon too.’

She pauses, fork midway between plate and her mouth, and her cute little nose wrinkles up. ‘Ewww.’

‘I agree. Very much ewww.’

Kit’s glance flickers between us, before doubling down on his own breakfast.

We lapse into what should be awkward silence, but Maisie fills it with cheerful chatter about her upcoming school day, a project about the solar system, and whether plesiosaurs could actually still exist in deep ocean trenches.

I focus on my pancakes, which are indeed excellent. The kitchen is cosy and lived-in. Glitter-bomb pictures five deep on the fridge. A calendar on the wall packed with reminders – swimming lessons, dental appointments, school events. Real life, scheduled and organised. I want to ask why Kit’s bedroom is so utilitarian, but I think discussing home decor choices might push it a step too far.

‘Can I take a picture with you before school?’ Maisie asks suddenly. ‘None of my friends believe I know you.’

I glance at Kit, whose jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. ‘That’s up to your dad,’ I say.