Page 89 of ICED
I retreat to the kitchen, swallow the lump in my throat, and eat alone, standing over the sink. I wash the dishes in silence. I check on the baby. I tiptoe.
And later, when I slide into bed next to him, he rolls over without a word.
My eyes sting as I zone back in to the present.
I sip my now-cold tea, gripping the mug a little tighter than necessary. That was my life for so long, I almost forgot what it was like tonotlive like that. To not measure every word, every breath, every second.
And yet, Owen walks into my home like it’s the most natural thing in the world tobe kind. Like warmth is his baseline setting.
I don’t know what to do with that. I don’t know how to trust it.
But God, I want to.
Finishing my tea, I rinse the mug and turn out the lights. My limbs feel heavy as I drag myself toward the bedroom. I don’t bother with pyjamas, just strip off my jeans, tug on a soft T-shirt, and climb into bed. The sheets are warm from the radiator heat, and my pillow still faintly smells like fabric softener.
I check my phone one last time. There’s a message from Owen.
Owen: Text me if you need anything, yeah? Anything at all.
I type out three different replies before deleting them all.
In the end, I send a simple response.
MAYA: Thanks. Night, Bear.
His reply is instant.
OWEN: Night, Jellybean’s Mum
I smile despite myself. My heart tugs in that unfamiliar, unguarded way it’s started doing lately. And even though I don’t want to name it, even though I’m not ready for everything it might mean.
I fall asleep thinking about him.
The sound tears through the flat like a gunshot.
I jolt upright in bed, my heart immediately racing, breath caught in my throat.
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
The alarm.
The front door sensor. Triggered.
It’s 2:17 a.m.
I scramble out of bed, disoriented and barefoot. My legs feel like jelly. I grab the baseball bat from under my bed that’s always therejust in case. The alarm’s still going, loud and shrill. Lila. I need to get to Lila.
I fly down the hallway, adrenaline making everything sharp and slow at once. The floor’s cold under my feet. I burst into her room and she’s sitting up in bed, confused, sleepy-eyed and scared.
“Mummy?”
“It’s okay, baby,” I whisper, heart hammering. “Stay here. Don’t move.”
I shut her door quietly, then inch back toward the front hallway. The alarm light is blinking red.Door open. But nothing looks disturbed. No broken glass. No sounds.
I edge closer, bat raised.
The front door is shut.
