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“Verity ducked out on the idea of us having dessert, so that’s what I think I want.”

I laugh because it feels so normal, and so much less emotionally charged than I expected this entire conversation to go. I know this isn’t resolved—not by a long shot—but this is a start. I’m sure it won’t take long for us to circle back to the same conversations, to argue about Hannah, to let our voices escalate—hers in anger, mine in passionate defiance—but for now, there’s nothing but peace and acceptance. And, apparently, dessert.

“I think I have something we can eat. Come on. Back to the kitchen,” I suggest.

I stand and she gets up with me, bringing her glass of wine as she follows me towards the kitchen.

Once in the kitchen, I gesture for her to sit on the sofa. I watch as she pulls her feet underneath her as she sits, tucking herself up on the cushion and looking comfortable. I open the freezer to check what I have in there.

“Do you remember that night after the play?” she calls.

“Which one?” I ask. There were a few we saw together, mostly because I started volunteering to attend with the theatre studies teachers. There are one or two that spring to mind more easily than the others. The Deep Blue Sea was the first we watched together when I first attended with her class, but Waiting for Godot feels far more important.

“The night I first called you.”

“I remember.” I focus on the items in the freezer, trying to decide between the berry crumble and the chocolate lava pudding, thinking about which one she would like most. I pick out the chocolate one. She always had a weakness for chocolate.

“Sometimes I wonder how different things would have been if I hadn’t called that night,” she states.

“I think things would have unfolded in exactly the same way. Maybe just at a different speed, but I always thought it was destiny,” I admit.

“Maybe,” she murmurs. She looks thoughtful.

I read through the heating instructions and go through the motions of preparing the dessert. I try, desperately, to stop my mind from wandering back to that time. From the expression on her face when I look over at her, I’m sure Delilah’s having the same trouble. Reminiscing down memory lanes, the ones carved by the repeated visits, where we walk the familiar paths and feel the familiar pain.

I wonder if she finds herself in the same predicament I do—stuck on those paths, unable to break free, and wondering if it’ll ever be possible to look back on them without feeling the pain. To think of our connection without the deceit. Pain that I caused. Pain that I’ll do anything to take back, so we can both look back on what happened and remember the connection rather than the agony, think of the hope rather than the burn.

Chapter eight

Delilah

Then—School

“So, what did you all think about the play?” Ms Castle asks as we all file out of the theatre, following the masses of people who are trying to exit and make their way to the public transportation.

She shivers slightly in the cool night air before pulling her jacket on. I immediately regret not having even a cardigan with me. It was warm this morning, and I carry enough crap in my bag to worry about stuffing in a cardigan or coat.

“It was good,” Amira calls.

“It wasn’t my favourite,” Martha says with a shrug and a wrinkle of her nose.

“I thought it was great,” Adam announces. I resist the urge to roll my eyes because he’s a giant suck-up in all his classes. He’ll likely be complaining about something to do with the play as we line up for our next lesson, but he’ll be full of compliments in front of Ms Castle when the lesson starts.

“Katie?” Ms Castle asks.

“I don’t think I really understood it,” she admits.

I let the conversations wash over me as we walk, and I’m grateful not to be called on to give my own assessment. Behind me is Mr Tooms, the other teacher for our course, and a bunch of other students. The chatter continues as I check my mobile, switching it back on after being in the theatre.

There are no concerning messages on my phone. Nothing from my mother to tell me that Duncan is around. Nothing from her at all. It isn’t unusual. Sometimes she disappears late into the early hours of the morning. Sometimes she disappears for days on end. I know she’s sometimes with a man who’s taken her eye, but mostly she doesn’t tell me where she’s going. Why would she? I’m just some inconvenient house guest to her. There’s nothing motherly or daughterly about our relationship. Messages are intermittent and cursory.

We barely speak when in the house together. I used to try so hard after Dad left. I couldn’t understand what happened, why my mother seemed to go from somebody who looked after me to being openly hostile and neglectful. Though I also hadn’t understood why my loving father had left me behind and I became very much “out of sight, out of mind.” Once, when I was about ten, I told Felix that my parents had clearly been kidnapped by aliens and replaced by replicas, though I’m sure somebody would have done a better job with a replica if the intention was to pass them off as loving people.

Satisfied there is nothing concerning on my phone, I feel some of the tension leave my body. It’s always like this before I’m supposed to go home late. I’ve had it happen before where a night out at the theatre as part of my studies turned into having to go out late at night. It was an inconvenience because my mother had texted to say a man was staying—one of those who trailed only behind Duncan in the shitty stakes—so I had to go through the rigmarole of having the teachers drive me home, only for me to do a U-turn and go back to town to find a place to stay.

The tension about going home doesn’t go away entirely, as I’m sure I won’t feel fully relaxed until I’m out of that house and living with Felix, but it goes far enough for me to join the conversation. I tell Ms Castle what I thought about the play. I talk to Katie about the scenes she found difficult to engage with. I ask Amira whether she’s up-to-date with her design technology coursework.

I’m comfortable enough to laugh and joke with everybody as Ms Castle drives us on a convoluted route back from town towards school, dropping students off at their homes. I know the school takes this seriously, to make sure all students get home safely. I appreciate it, but at the same time, I hate it because I’m usually dropped off in the middle of the students, and I can’t stand the idea that they look down at the house I live in.