Page 69 of Leaning In

“I’m inviting myself over for dinner if that’s alright.” She holds up one of the bags. “I’ve bought pasta. Your speciality. And Kath told me your address ages ago and I thought that this was a good time to talk.”

Ummm. What? My brain can’t keep up with what’s happening right now. Claire’s at my house? A blur of grey fur races down the hall and then flops at her feet.

“Oh my god. Is this your neighbour’s trespassing cat?”

“Yep, I’m babysitting him temporarily. He’s a menace.”

Croissant gives me a betrayed look and then starts purring loudly at Claire, who’s bent down to scratch behind his ears.

I look at Claire more closely. Something seems different about her, though I can’t pinpoint exactly what. She looks like she’s come straight from somewhere fancy, though I have no idea how she’s found the time given we got back from the trip a few hours ago.

I cock my head, still warring between caution and optimism.

“If you’re busy I can leave,” Claire says, suddenly looking nervous. “Or if you’ve already eaten. Sorry, I hadn’t thought about that.”

“No, I’m done with my admin for the evening anyway.” I gesture for her to come in. “I was procrastinating from cooking, so I’d love to have dinner with you.”

She gives me a blinding smile, and then steps into the flat.

I shut the door after she passes me, and trail behind her down the corridor, nearly tripping over the cat twice. Thank goodness I did some tidying on Friday before we left on the trip, and immediately unpacked my bag. I wonder what she thinks when she looks around the cramped space. It’s small but cosy, with shelves of books lining the living room, a mixture of history books, old paperbacks with cracked spines and school textbooks for reference. There’s an eclectic collection of furniture, given the recent move. But at least I have a sofa now. I wonder if she’ll notice that some of the photos on the wall include her.

Claire puts the bags on the table and we start unpacking.

“This is a lot of pasta.” I hold up the third packet.

“I might have panic-bought.” She gives me a self-deprecating smile.

We fall into a quiet rhythm, opening cupboards, handing each other tins, loading a stray glass into the dishwasher. The space is tiny, and we keep bumping into each other. Every circuit from bag to cupboard involves a negotiation of shoulders and elbows, and I become rapidly aware of all of it; her arm grazing mine as we reach for the same tin, the warmth of her at my back as she slides past to the fridge. One of her hands lands briefly on my waist to steer herself around me in a gesture so unthinking that I’m fairly sure she doesn’t notice doing it.

I notice. I notice so hard I nearly put the olive oil in the fridge.

“Tom,” Claire says quietly. “This morning you said we should talk. And I agree. But before you say anything else I want to apologise to you about the gala.”

I freeze for a second, hand wrapped around a tin of chopped tomatoes.

“Oh… I mean, sure.”

Her fingers worry at the corner of a packet of basil.

“I…” She swallows. “I handled things badly. Really badly. I shouldn’t have just ghosted you afterwards.”

Claire looks up at me, and the expression in her eyes is raw enough that I want to reach out an arm to reassure her.

“You didn’t deserve that,” she says. “I need you to know it wasn’t because I didn’t care. Or because I didn’t want anything to happen. I panicked—” Her voice catches. “And, instead of talking to you, I just ran away, and then it made it impossible to come back because I was so embarrassed.”

Claire presses her lips together and takes another breath. “I’m sorry. Truly. I hate that I hurt you and I hate that I let a voice in my head drown out what I was really thinking. But would you… well, would you give me another chance?”

I look down at the tin still in my hand for a second, turning it over once between my palms as I try to steady myself. Because god, I want this. Months ago I was desperate for this conversation. But I also remember the hollow feeling of being shut out with no explanation.

When I look back at her, my voice is still gentle, but more serious than before.

“Claire… I’m not asking you to be perfect. I’m just asking for honesty. If things get hard again, or if your mum says something, I need you to talk to me instead of disappearing.”

She nods quickly, but I’m not convinced.

“No. Don’t just say yes because you want this. I need… reassurance. I need to know what’s changed. Not everything, I don’t expect you to tell me that. But something to help me understand.”

Claire takes a small breath. “What’s changed is that I finally stood up to her. It’s stupid, because I should’ve done it years ago.” Claire huffs out an annoyed sound. “I’m trying. I’m— I’ve been seeing a therapist, and tonight I finally just realised I was constantly chasing Mum’s approval instead of letting myself be happy, and there wasn’t any real point to that. It was a pattern I’d fallen into, and I needed to break.” She looks at me. “And when I asked myself what I actually wanted it was embarrassingly specific. To see you.”