Page 33 of How To Not Need You

I set the phone face-down on the counter and start pulling pasta out of the cupboard. Tilly has migrated to the kitchen stool, legs swinging, already deep in conversation with Hades, who has followed her, about whether or not he can eat pasta. The phone buzzes. I pick it up.

Liv: That's okay. Tell your tiny saboteur I said hi.

Then another message comes through within seconds.

Liv: And obviously it's fine. Tilly comes first.

I pick the phone back up when I come up with a crazy idea. Type. Delete. Type again.

This is probably a terrible idea but would you want to come over anyway? I’m making pasta. Tilly has already informed me it’s movie night.

I add, because it feels necessary: No pressure.

Send. The typing bubble appears. Disappears. Appears again. My heart does a twist in my chest that I decide to ignore.

Then: Does this technically count as a date if we have a tiny chaperone?

I laugh out loud. The sound bounces off the kitchen walls, and Tilly looks up from her conversation with suspicion.

“What’s funny?”

“Nothing, bug. Just Liv.”

Tilly considers this, then nods as if this explains everything. “She’s funny.”

“I know.”

I type back: I think so.

Her reply comes seconds later: Then yes.

I make quick work of sending her my address before I put the phone down and stare at the stove like it might have answers. It does not. Tilly slides off the stool and wraps herself around my leg.

“Is Liv coming for dinner?”

“Yep.”

“YAY!” She releases my leg only to launch into a spontaneous dance that involves a lot of spinning and several enthusiastic fist pumps. Then she stops, mid-spin, and fixes me with a look of sudden seriousness. “We need to clean.”

“We do?”

“Yes. Liv likes clean. She said so at the art thing. She said messy tables make her brain feel messy.” Tilly nods once, decisively, and marches toward the living room.

I turn back to the stove and decide that I will deal with whatever mayhem Tils can create after cooking. Garlic in the pan. Too much heat. I know it’s too much heat because the garlic has gone from pale to brown to actively threatening the smoke alarm in approximately eleven seconds.

“Dad,” Tilly says from the doorway. “It’s smoking.”

“I can see that.”

“Are you making fire?”

“No.”

“Because you’re a firefighter.”

“That actually makes this worse, bug.”

I kill the heat and stare at the pan. Right. Plan B. Jar sauce.