KEISHA’S POV
"What?" I asked.
Nadia looked at her phone like she was checking it was still saying what it had been saying.
"Mara." She muttered. "She announced it the mont they got back to Coldridge apparently." She turned the screen toward . "She’s pregnant."
I looked at the post on the screen. A photograph of Mara and Riven, her hand on her stomach, both of them smiling. The caption was sothing about new beginnings and blessings and the Coldridge Pack family growing.
I looked at it for a mont. "Okay." I simply said.
Nadia stared at . "Okay?"
"Okay." I said again and I sat down on the edge of the bed.
"Keisha." She started.
"I heard you." I said. "Mara is pregnant. That’s—" I paused. "That’s their news. Good for them."
Nadia was looking at with the expression she got when she was trying to read sothing. "You don’t have to pretend." She said gently. "It’s okay if it—"
"Nadia." I looked at her. "I’m genuinely okay."
"You loved him." She said. "You were with him for three years and now he’s having a baby with soone else and you’re—"
"Over it." I shrugged. "I’m over it." I looked at her. "I know that sounds—"
"Impossible." She rolled her eyes.
"It’s not impossible." I sighed, unsure how I wanted to explain. "It’s just true." I looked at my hands. "When I saw him this week I felt nothing except tired. Tired of the conversation, tired of the history, tired of him showing up and wanting sothing I don’t have to give him anymore." I paused. "The Riven part of my life is done. I an that."
Nadia looked at for a long mont. "Okay." She said quietly. "I believe you."
"Thank you." I said.
She looked at her phone again and put it face down on the bed. "Still." She said. "The timing of it. Announcing it the mont they got back. She wanted people to see it."
"She wanted to see it." I sighed.
"Yes." Nadia said. "She absolutely did."
"Let her." I shrugged. "It doesn’t change anything for ."
Nadia looked at one more ti. Then she nodded, reached over, squeezed my hand once and let it go.
We sat in the quiet of the room and I thought about how strange it was that news which would have broken four months ago could land so flat now.
We talked for a while after that about other things.
Eventually, Nadia fell asleep mid-sentence, which was sothing she had always been able to do — just close her eyes and be gone, fully and imdiately, like sleep was sothing she could switch on at will. I pulled the blanket up over her, turned the lamp off and lay down on the guest side and stared at the ceiling.
I couldn’t sleep.
I lay there for an hour, then gave up and got up quietly and went downstairs for water.
The kitchen was dark when I pushed the door open.
Or mostly dark.
Soone had the hob light on, the small one over the cooker, and Callum was standing in front of it with a box of matches looking at the burner.
I stopped in the doorway.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
He looked up. His expression shifted into sothing that was almost embarrassed. "The ignition is broken." He sighed. "I was trying to light it manually."
"With matches?" I frowned.
"Yes." He said.
"At—" I looked at the clock on the wall. "Half past one in the morning."
"I was hungry." He said. "I didn’t want to wake Becca."
I looked at him standing there with his matches. "What were you going to make?" I asked.
"Pasta." He said.
"You cook?" I raised a brow.
He looked at . "I cook." He replied with the mild offence of soone whose competence had been questioned.
"Okay." I ca into the kitchen, went to the drawer beside the cooker, found the long nosed lighter at the back and held it out to him.
He looked at it.
"The matches are going to take forever." I told him. "This works better."
He took it and tried it. The burner caught imdiately.
He looked at the fla, then at . "Thank you." He muttered.
"What kind of pasta?" I asked.
"Whatever is in the cupboard." He said and he was already looking through them.
"Move." I raised a brow.
He looked at .
"Move." I said again. "Sit down. I’ll make it."
"You don’t have to—"
"I know I don’t have to." I told him. "Sit."
He sat.
I found the pasta and the ingredients and started cooking.
The kitchen was quiet around us and Callum sat at the counter and watched work with his chin resting on his hand and didn’t say anything for a while.
"Your sister." He said eventually. "How is she?"
I glanced at him. "Fine I think." I said. "We talked recently. She seed okay." I paused. "She’s back in Coldridge now."
"With Riven’s pack." He said.
"Yes." I nodded and kept my eyes on the pan. "She found out tonight apparently. About Mara."
"The announcent." He sighed.
"You saw it." I looked at him.
"Dane told ." He said.
Of course Dane had told him. I stirred the pasta and thought about Lyra’s voice on the phone. All n are scum, she had said. Every single one.
"She’ll be okay." I finally said. "Lyra is tougher than she looks."
"Like her sister." He smirked.
I looked at him sideways.
He looked back at steadily and I turned back to the stove.
"What kind of pasta is this?" He said, watching add ingredients.
"Italian." I said. "Proper Italian. Not the kind from a jar."
"What’s the difference?" He asked.
I looked at him. "You said you could cook." I said.
"I can cook." He huffed. "I just don’t make pasta."
"What do you make?" I said.
"Things that don’t require precise timing." He shrugged.
"Everything requires precise timing." I said.
"Things that are more forgiving of imprecision." He smiled.
I pressed my lips together.
"What goes in this?" He said, nodding at the pan.
"If I tell you then you’ll make it yourself next ti and not need ." I said.
He looked at and sothing pulled at the corner of his mouth. "Is that a problem?"
"Depends." I looked away.
"On what?" He said.
"On whether you want an excuse to co downstairs at half past one in the morning pretending your ignition is broken." I said.
The kitchen was quiet for a second. "My ignition is broken." He said.
"I’m sure it is." I said.
I kept cooking and he kept watching and the kitchen slled good as I thought about how Lyra used to make this exact pasta on Sunday evenings and how she had taught and how she would make stand beside her at the stove and narrate every step even though I had watched her make it a hundred tis.
She said cooking was only useful if you could teach it. I had disagreed at fifteen. I had co to understand what she ant by twenty.
"My sister loves this." I muttered.
"The pasta?" He said.
"She makes it differently." I said. "Her version has more garlic. She says mine is too subtle."
"Is she right?" He questioned.
"Yes." I said. "But I’m not going to tell her that."
He almost smiled. "What else does she make?"
"Everything." I said. "She’s a better cook than . Better at most things than actually." I paused. "She’d hate saying that."
"Why?" He said.
"Because she thinks I’m better than her at most things." I said. "We’ve been having the sa argunt about it since we were children."
"Who’s right?" He said.
I thought about it. "Neither of us." I said. "We’re just different."
He looked at for a mont. "You miss her." He said.
"Always." I said.
The pasta was done. I plated it and turned around and he was already standing, having moved without noticing, and he was close.
"Eat with ." He muttered. "Don’t go back up yet."
I looked at him.
"Please." He said.
I looked at the two plates.
"Okay." I agreed.
What could go wrong?
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