Page 74 of Two Hit Wonder

Maeve had found the mugs without being told where they were. She'd made tea while Iona showered, leaving it on the bathroom counter saying, "Drink this, you look dehydrated." She'd complained about the state of Iona's spice rack and then reorganized it alphabetically while Iona watched in bemused silence.

It felt like something. It felt like the beginning of something, anyway.

"Lunch is served," Iona announced, sliding a bowl across the table. "Please note that I'm not a chef and adjust your expectations accordingly."

Maeve examined the pasta. "Is that the courgette?"

"What's left of it."

"Brave." But she took a bite, and her expression softened into something that might have been approval. "Not bad."

"High praise from the woman who once ate a four day old pizza slice off the top of an amp."

"That was years ago. And it was delicious."

They ate in comfortable silence for a while. Iona found herself watching Maeve, the way she hunched over her bowl, the way her hair fell across her face when she leaned forward. The way she looked up and caught Iona staring and raised an eyebrow but didn't tell her to stop.

After lunch, Maeve helped wash up without being asked. She stood at the sink, sleeves pushed up, scrubbing at the pasta pot with more vigor than strictly necessary. And she started humming.

It took Iona a moment to realize it was a song. Not one she recognized. Something new, something still taking shape. The melody was simple, but it hooked into her chest and wouldn't let go.

"What's that?" she asked.

Maeve stopped humming immediately. "Nothing."

"It didn't sound like nothing."

"It's not finished." Maeve attacked the pot with renewed intensity. "It's barely started, actually. Forget I did that."

Iona came up behind her, close enough to feel the warmth of her through the borrowed cardigan. "I liked it."

"You heard four bars."

"They were good bars."

Maeve made a dismissive noise, but she didn't move away. Iona went up on tiptoes and rested her chin on Maeve's shoulder and watched her scrub the already-clean pot for another thirty seconds.

"I'm sorry," Iona said quietly. "Again. About the whiskey thing. I know I already apologized, but I keep thinking about how I made you feel, and I hate it."

Maeve set the pot down. Turned off the tap. Stood very still for a moment.

"It's okay," she said finally.

"It's not, though. You've worked so hard, and I looked at you like you were about to throw it all away. That wasn't fair."

"No. It wasn't." Maeve turned around, leaning back against the sink. Her expression was hard to read. "But here's the thing. I'm always going to be an alcoholic. That's not something that goes away. It's just a question of whether I'm practicing or not."

"Practicing?"

"Like being a Catholic." The corner of Maeve's mouth twitched. "You can lapse, but you never really leave. The guilt follows you everywhere."

Iona laughed, surprised. "Is that how it feels?"

"Sometimes. Mostly it just feels like being very, very tired of thinking about it." Maeve shrugged. "I've made my peace with it. You're going to have to make yours too. I can't spend the rest of my life proving I'm not going to fall apart. At some point, you either trust me or you don't."

The rest of my life. Iona noticed the phrase and tucked it away somewhere warm. "It takes a strong woman to realize her faults and fix them," she said.

Maeve's eyes darkened. "It takes a stronger woman to make a strong woman beg and moan."