I spin on her. “What’s gotten into you? This isn’t like you.”
She folds her arms. “I heard you,” she says quietly. “Sobbing. All night.” Heat floods my cheeks. “He deserves hell for upsetting you again,” she adds, her voice fierce now.
“I’m a mess,” I say, softer. “Hormones. And he never said he was here alone. He didn’t say he was here for me. He doesn’t owe me an explanation.”
She rolls her eyes, snatches the mug, and heads for the door. “Why can’t you just be mad for once?” she calls back. “Yell. Throw something. Slap him if it helps. Stop being so damn reasonable.”
The door closes behind her.
I exhale shakily. At least the coffee will warm him up.
When I step outside for my appointment, I don’t expect him to still be there.
So, when he stands, stiff and slow, offering me a weak smile, my heart squeezes.
I glance down and spot the coffee spilled on the stone beside where he sat.
“You didn’t want a hot drink?” I ask quietly.
He follows my gaze and huffs out a small, humourless laugh. “Didn’t get the chance. Martha tipped it out.”
I wince. “She’ll calm down.”
“I earned it. Look . . . about yesterday.”
I hold up a hand. “It’s fine. You don’t need to explain.”
“But I want to,” he cuts in. “It wasn’t how it looked. She turned up here expecting me to go to a business thing with her. I’m working with her father on some stuff.”
“Club stuff?” I ask.
He nods. “She wasn’t meant to be here. I left Diesel in charge of all that.”
“Okay.” It’s not like it’s my business anyway, and as much as I want to know how close they’ve gotten for her to think she can turn up here, I don’t probe further.
He hesitates, then gestures towards the house. “This is a big ask, but could I get cleaned up? I would’ve asked Martha, but I was genuinely afraid she’d follow me inside and murder me.”
Despite everything, a breathy laugh escapes me.
I glance back at the door then at him. If he’s inside getting cleaned up, he can’t show up at the class.
I hold out the key.
“Sure,” I say. “Just leave it with Mrs. Wainwright when you lock up.”
Relief flickers across his face. “Thanks.” And he heads inside.
The room smells faintly of must and disinfectant. Plastic chairs are arranged in a loose circle, most of them already occupied by couples leaning into each other, hands linked, knees touching. I take one of the empty seats near the edge and rest my bag at my feet, suddenly very aware of how alone I look.
I tell myself I don’t care.
I chose this.
The woman at the front claps her hands together with a bright, well-practised smile. She’s in her late forties, wearing a soft cardigan and sensible shoes—the sort of woman who looks like she’s delivered half the babies in the county.
“Morning, everyone,” she says. “I’m Jan, and I’ll be guiding you through the next few weeks. This class is about preparation, but more than that, it’s about support.”
Her gaze sweeps the room, lingering on couples, on hands resting protectively over bumps.
