Page 88 of ICED
I nod. But it still sits heavy in my chest. All the hurt she’s been carrying.
“She deserves better. And so does Lila.”
Ollie claps me on the shoulder. “And they’ve got you now. That’s a fucking good start.”
I let that settle. Because maybe it is. And maybe I’m finally the kind of man someone like Maya can trust. Even if it takes time. I’ll wait.
For both of them, I’ll wait.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
MAYA
The flat is quiet now.
Too quiet, after the racket of the soft play, the chaos of toddlers colliding like bumper cars, the buzz of pub chatter, and Lila’s never-ending narration about trampolines and dinosaur nuggets. I half expect to hear her voice still bouncing off the walls, but no, it’s just me. Me and the hum of the boiler, the faint creak of pipes, the occasional groan from the old radiator.
Lila’s finally asleep, sprawled diagonally across her bed, one leg kicked out from under the covers. I had to peel her out of her leggings and coax her into a bath, and even then, she fought sleep like it was a personal insult. But exhaustion won eventually. She always gives in when I stroke her back long enough.
Now she’s out cold, cheeks still pink from running wild. Her curls are still damp, curling tighter at the tips and I linger by her doorway, watching the slow rise and fall of her little chest, just to be sure. Then I slip out, easing the door shut.
The quiet is dangerous. It makes space for thoughts I try not to let in.
I don’t turn on the telly. Don’t pick up my phone. Instead, I move around the kitchen in a kind of autopilot, wiping down the already-clean counters, putting away Lila’s lunchbox,folding a tea towel that doesn’t need folding. The silence grows, sticky and heavy.
Eventually, I give in and make tea. Not because I want it. It’s just something to hold. I curl up on the end of the sofa, hands wrapped around the chipped yellow mug, and let myself feel.
Owen, was so kind today. He always is. Thoughtful in ways most men wouldn’t even think to be. Quiet when I need quiet, silly with Lila when I don’t have the energy to be, solid in this way I can’t quite explain. Like he’s always there. Like he’s not going anywhere.
And that terrifies me more than I can say. Because what if I let myself believe it? What if I’m wrong?
It hits me then, like a cold breath down the back of my neck, how familiar this kind of night used to be. How normal. And how different it feels now, without the fear. Before, it was never this still.
There was always tension, coiled tight, buzzing in the air. Like you didn’t know when the next slam of a door would come, or whether you’d said the wrong thing without realising. I used to walk around our old house with my shoulders hunched up to my ears, bracing. Every cupboard I opened, every message I replied to, I asked myself, will this be the thing that sets him off today?
It didn’t matter how careful I was. I allow my mind to wonder.
He comes home late. The baby’s finally asleep, my hair still wet from the shower I managed to grab while she napped.
I’ve made dinner, nothing fancy, just pasta, but it’s hot and ready when he walks in. I think I’ve done everything right today. The house is clean. The baby’s fed. I didn’t text anyone he wouldn’t approve of. I’ve been good.
But he frowns the second he steps through the door.
“What’s that smell?” he says, wrinkling his nose.
I freeze mid-stir.
“Just pasta. With garlic. You like it.”
“Not when it stinks out the place. Jesus, Maya.”
My throat tightens. “I can open a window,”
“Don’t bother.” He kicks off his shoes. They land in the middle of the hallway. I don’t say anything. Just make a note to move them later so I don’t trip in the night.
He doesn’t eat the dinner. Just goes straight to the living room, turns on the TV loud enough to shake the baby monitor.
When I bring him a plate anyway, he waves it away. “I said I’m not hungry. Christ, do you ever listen?”
