Page 118 of How To Not Need You

“I know I usually fix things,” I say. “That’s the job. That’s the whole plan I have for my life. Problem. Solution. Hands on the work. If a building is on fire, I put it out. If someone’s trapped, I get them out. If Tilly’s scared of the dark, I put on a night light.”

I look at my hands. They’re capable hands. Strong. Useful. Right now they feel completely fucking useless. “There’s nothing here I can physically do. Nothing to grab. Nothing to move. Nothing to put back together. I just have to sit here and wait for her to decide whether I’m worth the risk, and I hate it.”

Ben is quiet for another moment. Then he sets his chopsticks down, leans forward, and says the simplest thing I’ve heard all day.

“Then don’t fix it. Just be there when she’s ready.”

I stare at him. He shrugs. “Not everything needs solving, Jake. Sometimes the solution is just showing up.”

I hate that answer, but I have to admit he is also frustratingly right.

After dinner, I check the hallway. Tilly’s bowl is empty. The rice is gone. The spring roll has been dismantled like some sort of science experiment.

I knock softly on her door. No answer again.

I open it a crack. The blue night light casts everything in a soft, underwater glow. Tilly is asleep. One arm flung above her head, the other curled around Hades, who has arranged himself against her with the same possessive devotion he has always given his tiny person. Her hair is spread across the pillow. Her mouth is slightly open. She looks so small. So completely, trustingly asleep.

On the pillow near her head is a book.

I recognise it immediately. The neon pink cover stark against her pale sheets. Block letters in a font showing the title GIRLS DON’T FART. The book Liv read to her the last time she was here, doing voices, making sound effects, committing to it with the same intensity she brings to everything.

Tilly kept it by her pillow. I close the door quietly as my heart hurts for her.

Back in the kitchen, Ben has washed the dishes. Two bowls sit upside-down on the drying rack. One glass. The takeaway containers stacked neatly beside the bin. The kitchen is clean in a way that really surprises me.

I pick up my phone from the counter and open our message thread. My thumbs hover over the screen.

I type I miss you. That’s crap, delete it. I type Tilly misses you.

Delete that too. It’s true. God knows it’s true. But it feels like I’m being manipulative, and I won’t do that to her. I won’t use my daughter as a bargaining chip, even if the chip is genuine.

Finally, I type I’m here when you’re ready.

I send it.

The message shows it’s delivered with that damn tick. The read receipt disabled though, because Liv has her settings locked down the way she locks down everything, thoroughly, deliberately, with the understanding that knowledge is power and she is not giving hers away for free.

I lock the screen and drop it back onto the table. Behind me, the tap shuts off.

“Right.” Ben dries his hands on the tea towel and tosses it onto the counter. “I’m going home before I fall asleep standing up.”

“Probably wise.”

He grabs his keys but pauses before heading for the door. “Unless you want me to stay.”

I look at him. “What?”

“I can crash on the couch.” He shrugs, like offering to sacrifice the sleep he’s been talking about for the last sixty hours is nothing. “Keep you company. Make sure you don't spend the night staring at your phone like a Victorian woman waiting for her husband to return from sea.”

I stare at him. “That was weirdly specific.”

“I'm tired.”

“Clearly.”

He waits me out. The humour is still there, but I know Ben. He means it.

“I’m okay.”