Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
MAYA
Ikiss Lila’s forehead outside the nursery door, heart tugging with that familiar ache. She’s gripping her stuffed bunny like a knight clutching a sword. I crouch beside her, brushing a rogue curl from her forehead.
“You’ll have fun today, yeah?” I ask, managing a smile that feels thinner than yesterday’s croissant dough.
Lila nods solemnly, then leans in to whisper, “Tell Bunbun I’ll share snacktime.”
I smile for real this time. “Deal.”
But my fingers twitch as I wave goodbye. I watch her go inside, hand-in-hand with her key worker. I know she’s safe. I know the staff are trained, background-checked, endlessly patient. But fear isn’t rational. It clings to every corner of my brain. What if today is the day something goes wrong?
I shake myself out of it. One foot in front of the other, Maya.
The bakery at the community centre is already warm when I arrive, the scent of warm sugar curling into my coat before I even take it off. I hang up my scarf, tuck my phone into my apron pocket, and take a deep breath.
Pastry smells better than anxiety. For a few hours, at least.
Simone is fussing with an industrial-sized bag of flour in the corner. “Morning, love. Got a few school kids coming in at ten for their workshop. You alright doing the dough demo?”
“Sure,” I say, already rolling up my sleeves.
I lose myself in the rhythm of measuring, and kneading, setting trays into the humming ovens. My hands know what to do. It’s the closest I get to peace these days.
But still. Every time the door creaks open, my heart stutters. The sound of raised voices outside? My mind goes blank. A man’s laugh that echoes too loud? My stomach clenches.
It’s stupid. Irrational. He doesn’t know where we are. Except it’s not stupid. Not really. Because he has found us before.
By mid-afternoon, I’m pretending to laugh at something Simone says while my eyes flick to the door again.
It’s not that I expect Jamie to walk through it. He wouldn’t come here, not with people around, not when I’ve kept our new address buried under layers of silence and caution.
But even the possibility keeps me tightly wound. Like I’ll snap at any second.
I mess up a custard ratio and have to bin a whole tray of eclairs. My hands shake a little while I start over. No one notices. I’m good at hiding things.
By the time the clock ticks toward four, the bakery slows. Janine’s gone home. The student volunteers have drifted out. I’m finishing off the washing-up, heart already lifting at the thought of seeing Lila again.
She should be here soon. Her childminder, Nadine, usually drops her off at four on the dot after nursery.
Four-oh-five.
Four-ten.
I glance at my phone again. Nothing.
The old, familiar panic begins to slide under my skin like ice water. My hands go cold even though the kitchen’s still warm from the ovens.
She’s just late. Probably traffic. Or maybe Lila wanted a snack. Nothing to worry about. But the lie doesn’t sit well in my chest.
The bell over the front door rings and I nearly drop the spatula I’m holding.
It’s not Nadine. It’s Owen.
He fills the doorway like a misplaced grizzly bear in a hoodie, holding a pink box of something from the posh patisserie down the road.
“Alright?” he says, that easy, lopsided grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Thought I’d trade in for a decent éclair and get scowled at by professionals.”
I try to smile but my lips don’t move right.
“Everything okay?” he asks, immediately frowning. “You look a bit... I dunno. Pale.”
“I’m fine,” I lie. “Just waiting for Lila. She’s usually here by now.”
He glances at the clock, then back at me. “How late is she?”
“Fifteen minutes.” I sound calm. I do not feel calm.
Owen crosses the room in a few long strides and sets the box down. “Want me to call someone?”
“No. No, it’s fine. I’m sure they’re just stuck somewhere.” My fingers press into the countertop and my throat tightens.
He doesn’t argue or tell me to calm down. Just opens the pastry box and starts unpacking it, deliberately slow.
“Look at this,” he says casually. “They put gold leaf on a bloody éclair. You ever seen anything more pretentious?”
I huff a tiny breath that could be a laugh. Or a sob. I can’t tell the difference anymore.
“I mean, come on,” he continues, holding it up like it’s evidence. “You could charge tuition for this. Want half?”
I shake my head. My stomach is a knot.
Owen eats it anyway, taking a ridiculous bite and getting chocolate on his cheek.
“Suppose I shouldn’t be slagging it off while also hoovering it down,” he mutters.
“I just…” I choke on the words. “I need her to walk through that door.”
His eyes soften. He puts down the half-eaten éclair and turns to face me properly.
“You ever want to tell me why this scares you so much,” he says gently, “I’ll listen.”
I nod, but I don’t speak. I can’t. The words are stuck behind a wall I built brick by brick for survival.
He doesn’t push.
Instead, he leans against the counter and starts talking nonsense. Something about Murphy losing a bet and having to do laps in a tutu, and Dylan ordering five boxes of protein bars that turned out to be vegan lies.
I don’t follow all of it. But the sound of his voice is something to hold onto.
Then the bell rings again.
Lila.
I bolt to the door before Nadine’s finished apologising about a flat tyre and a dead mobile. I scoop Lila into my arms and hold her too tight.
She pulls back just enough to blink up at me. “Mummy, it’s okay.”
I nod, my throat too tight to answer.
Then she looks over my shoulder and sees Owen.
“Mr Bear!” she shouts gleefully. “Look, I’ve got raisins in my pocket!”
Owen laughs like she’s just given him a Christmas present.
“You do?” he says, mock serious. “Sharing policy?”
Lila wiggles free of my arms and trots over to him, fishing out two raisins and holding them up in her sticky palm.
“For you.”
“Honoured,” he says solemnly, taking them and pretending to tuck them in his pocket.
I watch them, this unlikely pair, my daughter and this massive man who keeps showing up with gold-leaf pastries and a smile that doesn’t ask too much.
I’m still scared. Still jumpy. But in this moment, I’m also something else.
Grateful.