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I want to tell her I feel the same, that I’m so glad she exists and chose to gate-crash my lonely existence, but I can’t bring myself to set something in motion that I’ve already lived through once and barely survived.

Because I would have to tell her.

I won’t make that mistake again. If I were to pursue anything with Alice, then that dreaded conversation would have to happen first, and it would probably end things before they’d even begun.

And all of this hinges on Alice being interested in me in the first place. Right now, she’s made it clear we are friends, and if that’s the only capacity I can spend time with Alice Sutton, then I’d rather have that than not have her at all.

“Are you still okay for tomorrow night?” I ask, trying to move things along.

“Of course. Should I bring anything? Dips, bread rolls, a bottle of wine, cheese, crackers?”

“You don’t have to bring anything.”

“Maybe just some flowers, then. I can’t arrive empty-handed.”

“I never bring anything with me other than sour cream and sometimes wraps if Smithy forgets to buy them.”

Alice frowns. “That’s very specific.”

“Thursday night is chilli night,” I explain. “Smithy’s chilli is amazing. I promise you won’t have tasted anything like it.”

“Sounds great. I could bring nachos, and maybe some hummus.”

I wrinkle my nose up as Alice adds, “Just kidding.”

“We need to be at Smithy’s by six, so I can pick you up if it’s easier,” I suggest, assessing the colour of my tea to make sure it’s the perfect shade of toffee.

“That would be great if you’re sure,” Alice says, and I’m about to respond when I notice the teabag floating in her mug as she puts the milk back in the fridge.

“Are you not taking the bag out?” I enquire as Alice returns to her tea.

She glances down at the bag floundering in the milky mixture.

“No. I’ll just leave it in there and fish it out at the end,” she says with a shrug, like this is the most natural thing in the world when, inside, my stomach is coiling in on itself.

I’m not sure what Alice sees on my face or whether she reads my thoughts, but she waits a second before opening the drawer, taking out a teaspoon, and squishing the teabag to the side of the mug as if trying to squeeze the life out of it before she extracts it and puts it in the food waste bin.

“Is that better?” she asks.

“Much.” I exhale, my shoulders relaxing.

“I’ll text you my address,” she says, seemingly unfazed by my near panic attack about the teabag.

Raising my cup, I nod at the door. “Better get back to it. Those kitchens aren’t going to design themselves.”

“No.” Alice smiles and picks up her now bagless tea as I head for the door.

“Owen,” she calls just as I reach the exit. “Just so you know, I’m here if you ever want to talk about anything.”

I clench my jaw. Not at her offer, but at the number of times I’ve heard these words. It’s with a heavy heart that I know therein lies my problem. I don’t want to talk about any of it, and people just don’t seem to understand this.

But then Alice adds, “But equally, I’m here if you don’t. Either way, I’m just letting you know I’m here.”

She reads minds. This woman who talks for England can also read minds.

“Thanks.” I nod before walking out of the staffroom.

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