I take the bag, mortified and warmed in equal measure.
“Thank you,” I mutter.
“Feel better,” he says, already stepping back.
I watch him mount his bike, then turn towards the stairs and I retreat upstairs, paper bag in hand, dignity dragging somewhere behind me.
Once inside my flat, I lock the door and lean against it for a moment, breathing like I’ve just completed something athletic rather than walked up two flights of stairs while hormonal.
I place the bag on the living room table.
Brown paper withSainsbury’sprinted in a bold font. Sturdy. Judgement-free.
“Fine,” I tell it. “Show me what you’ve got.”
I open it.
Painkillers. The decent ones. Not the sort that require faith or supplements. I nod approvingly.
A brand-new hot water bottle, still folded, tag attached. I pause, then set it down carefully, like it deserves respect.
A large bar of proper chocolate. Milk. Maybe even hazelnut. Absolutely not dark. I exhale in relief.
“Thank you,” I say aloud to no one in particular.
Two packets of Bourbon biscuits. Two. Which feels less indulgent and more strategic.
A family-size bag of crisps. Salt and vinegar. Aggressive flavouring. No restraint.
Peppermint tea. Not aspirational. Not calming meadow nonsense. Peppermint. Specific. Practical.
I keep unpacking.
A pair of fluffy socks. Thick. Grey. Sensible. I stare at them for a moment longer than necessary.
A packet of baby wipes.
I narrow my eyes.
“Oh my god,” I mutter. I don’t want to explore further what Tom’s reasoning behind them was.
There’s also a microwave wheat bag, lavender-scented, and a small bottle of electrolyte drink that tastes like lemons.
At the bottom of the bag is something thinner. Lighter.
A paperback.
Children’s section thin.
I pull it out.
A cartoon hen, arms crossed, expression murderous.
I snort before I can stop myself and immediately regret it, pain flaring in protest.
“Why the fuck did he send me this?” I mutter.
I turn it over, then back again, and finally read the title.
