“All in good time.”
Her hands clasp together, knuckles whitening. “I’m not sitting here reminiscing about bad decisions and three mediocre dates, Kade. Did you really think reminding me about sex and nostalgia would make me fall back into your arms?”
“Of course not,” I lie.
“Good.” Her eyes don’t leave mine. “Let’s talk about visitation.”
I ignore her and pull a folded leaflet from my pocket, sliding it across the table. “I booked us in for this.”
She snatches it up, scanning it quickly. “I’m already registered.”
“I know. The woman running it told me. I added my name.”
Her glare is sharp enough to cut. “Why?”
I shrug, honest for once. “Because I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, and apparently, these classes help.”
“You won’t be at the birth,” she says, anger shaking her voice.
I smile, slow and certain. “Oh, I absolutely will.”
Her eye twitches—there it is—and before she can explode, I reach across and take her hand.
“I didn’t say it enough,” I murmur, “but I love you, Queenie.”
She yanks her hand back like I burned her.
“Don’t call me that,” she hisses.
And just like that, the distance between us stretches wide again. It’s like we have two steps forward and three back.
The desserts arrive. Two lemon meringues. Identical, neat peaks of toasted sugar with bright yellow centres. The smell hitsme first, sharp and sweet, and it drags me back to a thousand small moments I didn’t realise were slipping through my fingers.
“You made this once,” I say thoughtfully.
“Several times, actually. I craved it at the beginning of my pregnancy.” Then she scoffs, cold and angry. “Oh, I forgot, you weren’t around then.”
I let it go, deciding that biting back won’t fix anything.
She doesn’t make any move to touch the dessert, and eventually, I look up. “You’re not eating.”
Her eyes flick up then away again. “I will.”
“You said that last time.”
Her jaw tightens. “I didn’t ask you to monitor me.”
I lean back in my chair, forcing my hands to stay flat on the table instead of reaching for her again. “Old habits.”
“Exactly,” she replies.
We fall silent, and the low hum of the room around us—cutlery clinking, murmured conversations, laughing—seems to grow louder. Everyone else is living their normal, uncomplicated lives while mine feels like it’s balancing on a blade.
“You looked happy last night,” I say after a moment. “When I walked in the pub.”
She stills, just for a second. It’s subtle, but I see it. “That was before,” she says quietly.
“Before I showed up?”
