Page 29 of Rebound

“I don’t have social media.”

“Take your boots off,” she instructs. I do the best I can to toe them off without having to put everything down and then arch an eyebrow. “I didn’t know you rode a bike.”

“Haven’t in a while, thought it made sense to bring her here.”

“Her?”

“Jealous, baby?”

She makes a pfft sound. “I know what it’s like to be ridden by you, I don’t have to be jealous of another woman.”

Jesus. I barely stifle my growl and she smirks. A minx, my girl.

“Then you know I’m not the bad one here.”

“Being good all the time is so boring anyway. Is that breakfast?”

I nod. “And all your mail. When was the last time you checked your box?”

“I always forget.” She gestures to the table on the other side of the door. “You can leave your helmet there.”

I do what I’m told and join her in the kitchen. I unload the food as she pulls out plates and cutlery. We move around each other like we’ve done this before and it feels good. I can see myself living in this apartment with her, conversation over coffee every morning, dinner at the counter and watching mindless television on the large couch. That’s also when I notice how spotless the flat is. It has a lived-in look, but definitely a space that’s been cleaned recently.

“You didn’t have to clean up for me,” I tease.

“This guy has been stalking me since I’m obviously the best he’s ever had. So we know he’s got good taste, but won’t leave me alone. Thought I’d put in some effort for him. What a menace.”

I laugh at her dramatic performance, comforted that she’s not treating me like a stranger. Once upon a time we knew each other’s favourite colours, song and time of day. Now we’re basically strangers. I hope she gives us a chance to catch up on everything we’ve missed, start over even though she’s already got our baby growing in her belly.

“You okay sitting on the couch?” Tamara serves the food onto two plates.

“Yeah, that’s fine.”

“Coffee?”

“You’re not supposed to drink coffee while pregnant,” I say and she waves me off.

“I bought some for you.”

Fucking hell. “In that case, yeah.”

“It’s one of those packets you add to milk,” she says, pointing to the pan on the stove and the brown packet beside it.

I don’t drink instant coffee since I developed a sophisticated palate for my morning coffee and prefer pressing a button and letting a machine do the work. This is only for now, so instant filter coffee will do. I fill a cup and grab my plate, then join Tamara on the couch. She’s got her legs crossed under her with the plate balancing on her lap as she scrolls through her phone.

I commit this moment to memory, because this feels normal.

I set my cup on a well-placed coaster on the table, cross one leg over the other, ankle to knee, and dig into my breakfast. From the corner of my eye, she does the same thing. We eat in silence, the only sounds coming from cutlery scraping against our plates. In any other situation, I’d hate this noise, but right now, I don’t care. I realise when it comes to Tamara, I don’t care about a lot of the things that usually bother me. Since I want more from her, I’ll take all the bad with the good.

When I finish, I swap my plate for my coffee. “Tell me about this internet and bikers thing.”

She shifts on the couch to face me. “They’re thirst traps. We never see their faces, but they’re fit, covered in tattoos, riding their bikes and being hot.” The whole time she speaks, she’s gesturing to the parts I have in common with these men. I try not to look too smug that she called me hot.

“That’s really a thing?”

Tamara nods, licking syrup off her lips. “I don’t know who started it or why, but it’s a nice distraction after a long day.”

“You don’t need that when you’ve got the real thing,” I tell her, I’m clearly everything the internet wants. “Bonus, you can see my face and you know what I look like under these clothes.”