Page 121 of ICED
“We’re not staying,” he says immediately. “Grab what you need. We’re going to my house.”
“Owen, I…”
“No.” His voice is soft, but there’s steel beneath it. “You don’t need to decide anything permanent. But you’re not staying in a place with a broken window and a broken lock.”
I cross my arms. I can feel my pride rising like a tide. “I’ve worked so hard to have this space. To stand on my own. To give Lila a home that’s just ours.”
He nods. “And you still have. Nothing about that changes. You’re not giving anything up by accepting help. You’readdingsafety, not subtracting independence.”
It’s the right thing to say. Of course it is. But I still feel the ache of old wounds trying to reopen.
I remember the way my ex used to sneer when I wanted to decorate the nursery. “Why bother? Not like you’ll stay.” I remember the way he ripped the fairy decals off the wall when we moved again, Lila not even six months old.
I remember what it felt like to teach myself not to get attached to anything.
“I don’t want her to think we’re running,” I whisper.
“She won’t,” Owen says. “Because we’re not. We’re choosing to move somewhere safe while we figure this out. And she trusts you. More than anyone.”
I look at him. Lila’s head is resting on his shoulder; her little fingers curled against his chest. She lookssafethere.
And maybe, so do I.
“Okay,” I say. “Just for a while.”
Jacko’s house is lit up when we arrive. Warm light pouring through the windows. The kind of place that looks like someone loves it and lives in it.
He takes Lila straight upstairs, lays her gently in the guest bed and I stay downstairs and hover in the living room like a ghost. When he comes back, I’m sitting on thecouch with my arms wrapped around a throw pillow like armour.
“She needs her own room,” he says, like he’s been thinking about it the whole way back.
I blink. “What?”
“If you’re here more than a few nights, she should have a space that’s hers. Not just the guest bed. A real room. With stuff she picked.”
“She won’t want to leave if you do that.”
His mouth tips in a half-smile. “Good.”
It pulls something in me tight. “I don’t want to raise her in borrowed spaces again,” I say. “We moved so much when she was little. Every flat was temporary. Every cupboard was half-empty. I used to keep her toys in plastic bins so they were easier to carry.”
“You don’t have to live like that anymore.”
I nod, slowly.
“She’d want purple,” I say. “Not lavender,purple.Like the unicorn on her backpack. And she has this star projector; I didn’t pack it. It’s still at the flat.”
“I’ll go get it,” he says immediately.
I shake my head. “No. I mean…not yet. But she’ll ask for it soon. She likes the stars to move while she sleeps. She says they keep the bad dreams away.”
He smiles again. Softly. “We’ll get new ones if we need to. Ones that shine on the ceilingandthe walls.”
“And she’ll want a bookshelf. For the dozen dog-eared books she insists on bringing everywhere. And a blanket that smells like home.”
“You can both have that,” he says.
I meet his eyes. “I don’t want her to get attached and then have to leave again.”
