Page 37 of How To Not Need You

Business as usual. Which is fortunate, because I ‘m contributing absolutely nothing to it. My laptop sits open in front of me. The project hasn't had a single edit in a while. My flat white has long since surrendered any claim to being hot. Instead, I'm staring at my phone. Again. A photo filled the screen. Hades, Jake's outrageously ungrateful cat, had somehow folded himself inside one of Jake's firefighter boots, bright green eyes half closed as though he'd personally conquered Everest instead of a size twelve work boot.

Jake: He's claimed it. This is his property now.

My mouth betrays me by smiling. Once I realise, I immediately stop smiling. Then, because apparently I enjoy embarrassing myself in private, I look at the photo again. I turn my phone face down with considerably more force than necessary. The coffee beside it rippled.

“Pathetic,” I mutter to absolutely no one. Then I look around to confirm that no one heard me. The café is busy enough that nobody cares, which is exactly what I wanted, except now I’m sitting alone arguing with a phone and a lukewarm coffee, so maybe what I actually wanted was for someone to catch me so I’d have an excuse to stop this embarrassing spiral.

Three weeks.

It’s been three weeks since I stood on Jake’s porch with absolutely no intention of kissing anyone. Three weeks since Tilly fell asleep on my lap and Hades decided I was worthy of his affection despite Jake being the one who literally saved his life. Three weeks since Jake’s hand found my jaw and his mouth found mine and my entire carefully constructed system of emotional self-defence apparently decided to clock off early.

I should be more concerned about that than I am.

The three-week montage plays in my head whether I want it to or not. Jake showing up at Page & Grounds every morning before his shift, always at the same time, always ordering the same thing: black coffee, no sugar.

Until I caught myself waving Mia off one morning with “Black, no sugar” before he’d even reached the counter.

He'd looked at me. I'd looked at him. The barista had looked at both of us with the sort of smug smile that practically screamed, I knew it.

I swear, if she wasn't so good at her job, I'd ask Luca and Elsie to fire her. Not that they would. Mia has only worked at Page & Grounds for a few weeks. At eighteen, she somehow managed to remember every regular's coffee order, carry four mugs at once without spilling a drop, and make everyone who walked through the door feel like they'd just arrived at a friend's house. The electric blue braids she changed every few weeks somehow suited her, and I wasn't entirely convinced she'd ever experienced a bad mood.

Besides, firing someone for correctly identifying that I had a crush felt excessive.

“You remembered my order,” he’d said.

“I have an excellent memory.”

“For coffee or everything.”

“For coffee,” I’d clarified, and pretended not to notice the way his smile made the creases at the corners of his eyes deepen.

Then there was the Sunday walk along the Seabrook foreshore where the wind wouldn’t stop. My hair kept blowing into my mouth, my eyes, my coffee cup, and after the fifth time I’d shoved it back with what I’m sure was an extremely elegant expression of frustration, Jake reached over and tucked it behind my ear. His fingers brushed my cheek. He didn’t make a production of it or linger. He just fixed it, like this was a thing people did for each other, and then kept walking like nothing had happened.

I’d spent the next twenty minutes trying to decide whether I was more annoyed by the wind or by how completely undone I was by the simple act of someone tucking my hair behind my ear.

Then there was the wobbly table at Page & Grounds. I’d complained about it once. “This fucking thing is trying to kill my coffee.”

Jake had looked under the table, finished his coffee, and disappeared for only about thirty seconds.

When he came back, he had a screwdriver.

“Why do you have that?”

“Luca.” He said simply. As though it explained everything. Which, it kind of did.

He crouched down, tightened the loose bracket, tested the table once with his hand and sat back down.

The table never wobbled again.

I hated how much I noticed things like that.

Three weeks in, he'd never once made me feel like I owed him something because he'd been kind to me. He never reached for my hand unless I reached for his first. Never pushed for more time together than I wanted to give. Never treated my caution like a problem he needed to solve. I'd spent those first couple of weeks waiting for the catch.

For the version of Jake I'd been shown to quietly disappear and be replaced by the man who became impatient. The man who decided my walls were an inconvenience instead of something built for a reason. The man who would slowly make me feel like being with him meant giving things up. My time. My space. My independence. Me.

Every day I expected that man to arrive. Every day Jake proved he didn't exist. And somewhere along the way, without me noticing exactly when it happened, I'd stopped waiting for him to prove my demons right.

I tap my pen against my notebook, watching the ink leave little half-moon impressions on the paper. This is the part where I’m supposed to be terrified. This is the part where my past experience and my carefully maintained cynicism and my entire worldview should be screaming at me to run.