Page 133 of How To Not Need You

“So,” I say.

Brilliant start.

Jake and I stand in the hallway staring at each other, apparently waiting to see which one of us remembers how speaking works first.

It’s not me.

In my defence, I arrived here only three minutes ago believing he’d fallen off his verandah and possibly concussed himself. Instead, I’ve discovered he’s perfectly fine, his five-year-old daughter is a criminal mastermind, and I am now standing less than six feet from the man I’ve spent the last three days deliberately avoiding.

There really should have been a transition period.

A pamphlet. Perhaps refreshments. Jake rubs a hand over the back of his neck.

“So.” He repeats.

I stare at him. “Oh, good. We’re both bringing our best material.”

His mouth twitches. Mine threatens to do the same, which feels deeply inappropriate considering I’m supposed to be emotionally traumatised.

Fucking Tilly.

“Apparently,” Jake says, and the corner of his mouth does this thing, this tiny, involuntary twitch that I have spent six months learning to read, “I fell off my verandah.”

I glance toward the front door. The offending step sits there, wooden and weathered and absolutely, completely fine. No blood. No evidence of structural failure. No sign that a firefighter has recently been launched from its surface into what Tilly implied was certain death.

“Apparently,” I say before adding, “you said a bad word too. A really bad one.”

“Did I now?”

“According to your daughter. She was vague on specifics.”

“Probably for the best.” His mouth twitches.

Mine does too before I can stop it. Traitorous fucking mouth.

Three days. I’ve spent three days ignoring his messages, eating my feelings and generally behaving like a woman who should not be trusted with access to sad playlists, and apparently all it takes is thirty seconds in the same room with Jake Reid for my face to forget we’re upset with him.

Fantastic.

“Thanks for coming,” he says. And there goes the humour.

I look away. “I thought you were hurt.”

“I gathered that.”

“Tilly made it sound like you’d taken yourself out on the verandah.”

“She’s imaginative.”

“She’s terrifying.”

“Also true.”

I risk looking at him again. Bad idea.

He isn’t smiling now. He’s just looking at me with those stupid warm brown eyes, and suddenly I remember exactly why avoiding him has been considerably easier when he wasn’t standing directly in front of me.

“Of course I came,” I say, quieter than I intended.