Page 18 of That Reunited Feeling

She sucks in her lips. I swear to God she’s suppressing a giggle. But hell will freeze over before she shows any glimmer of joy in my presence.

She might despise me, but there’s no way I’m going to see her spend what little cash I imagine she has on food when it’s impossible for three humans without the appetites of blue whales to consume all this before it goes off.

I’ll put some stuff together, then she’ll have to take it.

I start opening cabinets, looking for containers. I know she’s staring at me—I can feel her eyes boring holes in the back of my head.

As I try a fifth cabinet, she can contain herself no longer. “What are you looking for?” She follows up with an exasperated sigh.

“Tupperware.”

She stomps around the kitchen island and snatches open a drawer two cabinets along from where I’m standing and points at its contents.

“Thank you.”

“What do you want Tupperware for?”

“To put together a takeaway box to end all takeaway boxes for you.”

“I’ve told you. I don’t need any food.”

“And I am ignoring you.” As I approach the Tupperware drawer, she takes a step back. But when I look at her, she doesn’t avoid my eyes. “You’re not the only one who can be stubborn and pigheaded, you know.”

She huffs, eyebrows raised, head tipped to one side. “I’m the only one who has a reason to be, though.”

I set out a bunch of Tupperware containers of various sizes on the counter and grab stuff from the fridge. There are bowls of different salads, plates of assorted cheeses and meats, a quiche of some sort, a rice thing, a pasta thing, something that’s pink so must have beetroot in it, and a couple things I’m not culinarily inclined enough to identify. Jesus, Maggie must have been at this all day.

I pull open another drawer. “You think you’re the only injured party here, huh?” Then I try another drawer.

“I’m absolutely fucking certain,” she says.

I try a third drawer. And a fourth.

“What are you looking for now?”

“A big spoon thing to dish out some of these salads.”

She leans across the counter in front of me and I catch a faint scent of something sweet that might be vanilla. With a rattle, she yanks a large metal spoon out of a pot markedUtensilssitting right behind where I’ve laid out the Tupperware.

“Here.” She slams one hand onto her hip and jabs the spoon toward me with the other like she’s an Olympic fencer.

I ease it from her grip. “Thank you.” I tip some leafy greens and tomatoes from a bowl into a container. “We were just kids, Hannah. And I was a mess. You know I was a mess. It’sbecauseI was a mess I went to London.”

Silence hangs between us for a moment as I await the next verbal swipe.

“You said you missed me.” Her voice is no longer strident—it’s more like it was back then. “You said I could come visit.” She hugs herself tight and rests a hip against the counter. “Then you just stopped replying to my emails.” The anger is gone now, replaced with disappointment. “You said you loved me.”

She falls silent, her head dropping forward, shoulders drooping. “And it was all bullshit,” she adds in a choked whisper.

I put the bowl on the counter and drop the spoon in it. “It wasn’t bullshit.” I reach toward her, but she takes a step back. It’s a slow step, but a retreat from me all the same. “Just because I couldn’t cope doesn’t mean it wasn’t real. It just means I couldn’t cope. I had a lot of things to figure out. And I was a teenager in London, for Christ’s sake. I was distracted.”

“And I was here.” She looks up at me and prods herself in the chest. “I was waiting for you to come home. I was waiting for you to at least reply to my fucking messages.”

Shit. Look at the hurt I’ve caused. All these years, and I had absolutely no idea of the consequences of my actions. Maybe I was the total dickwad she thinks I am.

But I sure as hell am not that teenaged dickwad now. And the pain in her face makes my chest ache.

“I’m so sorry, Hannah. I truly am. I was a stupid, thoughtless, selfish kid. And I’m sorry.”

---