Page 111 of How To Not Need You

The front door flies open before I can reach it. Tilly barrels through the gap like she’s been launched from a cannon, her backpack hitting the floor with a thud that shakes the side table, her voice already going at full volume about something involving a seagull, a chip, and what appears to be a moral quandary about bird feeding etiquette.

“…and Mum said no but the seagull looked really hungry, Dad, and it had one leg…”

Hades materialises from whatever dimension he’s been occupying and winds himself around her ankles with the timing of a creature who understands exactly where he gets extra attention from.

“…and I told Mum that if it has one leg it probably needs extra chips…”

I let her carry on. The words wash over me, familiar and warm and completely incomprehensible in the way that only a five-year-old’s logic can be. She’s wearing mismatched everything, one pink sock, one blue, a shirt that might have started the day clean, shoes on the wrong feet because she insists on doing it herself, and her hair is a golden disaster that suggests Megan lost the brushing battle that seems to have turned into an ongoing war now that Tilly believes that she is capable of doing it on her own. Newsflash. She can’t.

Megan lingers in the doorway. She’s in jeans and a sweater, her car keys still in her hand, watching Tilly with the same exhausted expression that I am sure I wear after listening to a child that speaks more words in ten minutes than I do all day.

Our eyes meet over Tilly’s head. She nods towards the verandah.

“Alright Tils, go pop your bag away and I will say bye to your mother.”

She huffs at the interruption to her tirade but complies. Thank god, my brain already feels mildly like a soup with the lack of sleep catching up to me.

I follow Megan out onto the deck.

The afternoon light catches the edge of the railing. Autumn in Seabrook is one of my favourite parts of living hear, the pink-orange sky is a thing of beauty. The verandah steps still creak. I kick myself yet again for not having fixed them yet. My procrastination skills seems to be more powerful than my adulting ones. Maybe I can partly blame Tilly because she insists the creak is the house’s way of saying hello, and I can’t bring myself to correct her. Yea, let’s go with that.

Megan leans against the railing. I lean beside her. We’ve stood like this a thousand times. Different conversations. Different problems. But we each migrate to our regular spots.

“I’m so sorry,” she says. The words come out quietly and I can tell how sincere she is.

“You didn’t do anything.”

“I answered your door practically naked, Jake.”

I wince at that reminder. “You were wearing a towel.” I try to protest lightly.

She gives me a flat look that could freeze water. “That is not the defence you think it is.”

I almost smile. Almost. There’s something about arguing with Megan that has always been strangely comfortable. We disagree without any real anger behind it. We can argue without being cruel. Six years of marriage taught us how to fight effectively, and four years of co-parenting has sanded the edges off whatever rough edges were left over.

“I can call her,” she says. “Explain exactly what happened.”

“No.”

“Jake.” She turns her body to face mine. “I can tell her exactly what happened and why I asked to use your place when my water went out. The timing of it. Everything. She’ll believe it coming from me.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure.”

“Then let me try at least. This is my fault.”

I shake my head. The damp hair at the back of my neck feels colder now. “No.”

“Why not?”

I scrub a hand over my face. The stubble rasps against my palm. I haven’t shaved in days. I look like shit. I feel like shit. And the part that’s been sitting in my chest since Luca told me what happened is finally ready to come out.

“I should have told her.”

Megan frowns. “What?”

“After you called about the shower. I should have sent Liv a message.”

“You were working.”