Page 19

‘I guess I hope someone would repay the favour for me when I’m hungover,’ Nick says.

‘Right.’ I hope he doesn’t think that someone is me, and I also hope he does. I don’t know anymore.

‘Anyone ever tell you you’re cute when you’re puzzled?’

‘Hmm.’ I turn for the bathroom. ‘Just a cup of tea. There’s milk in the fridge.’

He grins. ‘Knew it.’

I almost smile.

As the water slides down my body, I think

of him

not you,

taking over my flat and cooking

(not lizard but toast),

and of him in my bed, only taking up a little room

(hardly touching, really).

His shirt is wrinkled now, his hair is dirtier than blond,

his smile wide and entirely his.

Maybe, I think.

Maybe.

When I come out of the shower, there’s no sign of Nick. No boiling kettle, no click of the toaster. It’s as silent as outside. But he’s still here, I know it—I feel it. Anxiety swirls inside me.What’s he doing? Throwing on a dressing gown, I pad to the kitchen, where I find him stooping over the table, his back to me.

‘Couldn’t you find the teabags?’ I say.

He jumps up, his shirt hanging open as he turns to me.

‘I…ah…uh…’

I almost laugh at how flustered he is, then I see what is in his hand. The letter. Your release date. I stop still. He’s been looking in my handbag.

‘What are you doing with that?’

He comes towards me, his arms outstretched, as if he’s apologising, but he doesn’t say sorry, only gives an embarrassed laugh. ‘What is it?’

I shake my head. ‘Nothing.’

‘Who’s Tyler Andrew MacFarlane? Who’s Gemma Grace Toombs?’

Fuck. Fuck. FUCK.

‘You didn’t even boil the kettle,’ I say, sharper than I mean to.

‘I was about to.’ He doesn’t move. He keeps his hands up, placating, the letter just out of my reach. ‘I was looking for the door key in your bag. I wanted to go out and get us croissants.’

‘You were snooping.’