Page 9

‘Okay,’ he says behind me. ‘Calm down.’

My lips press into a tight line and I release a long, tired sigh through my nose.

‘It’s boiling in here, Hols.’ He taps the digital panel on the wall that operates the heating.

‘It’s pleasant in here and freezing outside.’

‘We don’t need it on twenty-four degrees. Keep it on twenty. It’s the ideal temperature for cost efficiency.’

Tom sits opposite and I glare at him, not only for telling me to calm down but for schooling me on the heating every night.

‘Here I am. Panic over,’ he says.

‘There’s no panic. I’ve made us a lovely meal, and it would be nice if you appreciated it and came when I called you.’

His lips twitch – his standard response when he thinks I’m overreacting. ‘You know I appreciate it. Smells great,’ he says, zigzagging gravy over his dinner.

I wait for a thank you, but he cuts through the chicken breast and shoves a chunk in his mouth. There’s a sting in my chest that he can’t voice his appreciation with two simple words, but last week’s argument about dinner is still fresh in my mind, so I quickly take a bite, not trusting myself to speak.

Once he swallows, he asks, ‘How was your day? Work busier?’

I nudge the carrots with my fork. ‘It’s quiet, but a new project will come in soon.’ My workload has steadily decreased over the past few months, and rapidly decreased in the past few weeks, but I don’t want to worry Tom. He frets if I buy the expensive milk; he won’t cope if he thinks my job is at risk.

‘Isn’t your campus planning a revamp of the Swanston Street building? That will go to your department, won’t it?’

I work for the Melbourne University of Technology as a project manager, and that revamp has been given to my department, except it’s gone to the newly formed team that focuses on buildings and physical spaces. A team I’m not part of because I didn’t apply for one of the new roles, despite my manager urging me to do so.

I nod and take a mouthful. ‘Mmhmm.’

Seemingly satisfied with that response, Tom scoops a mix of potato and peas into his mouth and chews while his eyes drift from his meal to me and back to his plate. I watch him, waiting for the date to register, or for him to question why we’re having a roast on a Wednesday night, but his face is blank. I take another bite and give him a moment longer, but the only sounds are the clink of cutlery against crockery, the gentle hum of the ducted heating blowing through the vents and the noise of my own chewing.

I relent. ‘Anything you want to say to me?’

A flicker of surprise crosses his face, like he’s just realised I’m in the room. ‘Um … this is nice?’

I stare at him, my fork carrying a bite of roast potato paused in mid-air.

He continues eating, peering at me with a creased brow.

‘You don’t want to say, “Happy anniversary”?’ I ask, my tone tart.

His eyes widen. He places the cutlery down and dabs his mouth with a napkin. ‘It’s our anniversary?’

I nod, dropping my fork and gulping down some water, like it will diffuse my rising body temperature.

‘Shit, Holly. I’m sorry.’ He reaches across the table for my hand. ‘You know I’m no good with that sort of thing. Why didn’t you remind me?’

Because the date should be scorched into your memory. You should message me all day about how much you love me and come home with flowers or wine or chocolates or puppies, just fucking something.

‘I thought you might have remembered,’ I say.

He adjusts his glasses and hangs his head. ‘I’m sorry. Happy anniversary.’

I retract my hand. ‘Do you even know how many years?’

He gives a short laugh. ‘Course I do. Two…’ His eyes dart around the kitchen as he searches that part of his brain I call his relationship black hole. It’s where everything about us being together falls, never to be seen again. ‘Yeah, two … incredible years.’

My jaw tightens. ‘Three. We’ve been together three years, Tom.’