I turn back to the counter. “I am making food. She is unwell. This is a normal human response.”
“You’re making a lot of food,” Rupert says.
Glen shifts, finally fully awake now. “Leave him alone.”
Rupert looks affronted. “I’m observing.”
“You’re poking,” Glen corrects. He looks at me. “It’s okay.”
I pause.
“Is it?” I ask.
Glen nods. “You’re allowed to do nice things for people without turning it into a personality flaw.”
Rupert sighs theatrically. “I hate it when he’s right.”
“I know,” Glen says, kissing his temple. “You’ll survive.”
They drift off, Rupert still muttering something about emotional repression and casseroles.
I turn back to the stove.
Maybe this means nothing.
Maybe it’s just food.
But as I pack things up carefully, deliberately, making sure everything will travel properly, I have the distinct sense that I’m doing this for more than practical reasons.
And I don’t stop myself.
Not today.
Chapter 11
Chloe
Pain has weight.
It settles low, insistent, like it’s claimed squatter’s rights and plans to stay. I am wrapped in a blanket I don’t remember fetching, watching something I am not following, negotiating silently with my uterus like this is a hostage situation and I am very bad at bargaining.
The doorbell rings.
I stare at the ceiling.
No.
It rings again.
It is eleven thirty on a Sunday morning. Far too early for anything Tom-related. Even in a romcom fever dream he wouldn’t be delivering food yet. And nobody else has any business whatsoever to ring my doorbell. Not today of all days.
With a groan that feels earned, I haul myself off the sofa and shuffle to the intercom, pressing the button with all the enthusiasm of someone answering a summons.
“Yes,” I say. “Who is it?”
The intercom crackles.
“Delivery for Chloe.”
