Chapter 10
CHAPTER
TEN
He noticed. He noticed, and he cared.
I don’t like when my food touches. It sounds childish, like I hate crusts on my sarnies. I do, of course. The thought of so many mixed textures combining in my mouth or on my plate is repulsive. I gag just considering such a thing.
I peer over, noticing that he’s piled his curry directly on top of his rice, which only confirms my suspicions.
My eyes widen when I pick up the small fork he set on my plate instead of a regular dinner fork.
My close friends and family know these things about me.
They recognise that my brain works a little differently from theirs, and they’ve fallen into a habit of doing these same things for me.
But for him, a near stranger, to not only notice something so small but to implement it?
It has my eyes welling with hot tears that I’d never let fall.
If Mummy were here, she’d do the same for me. I miss her.
I push the curry around, checking for anything I won’t eat, and come up short, tucking into it.
The creamy coconut and savoury spices dance on my tongue, and once again, I find myself unbelievably thankful for the relatively large Indian population in the UK, because meals like these seem to be a staple for a lot of people here, not just those who share my family's cultural background.
A moan of satisfaction almost slips past my lips, but I reel that shite back in because I am not about to give my new flatmate the wrong idea about me.
“Is it okay?” he asks.
“It’s really great, Elijah. Thank you,” I say between bites. “Do you not eat meat?”
He clears his throat. “I do, but I noticed that you don’t, so…” He trails off, his cheeks flaming a cute rose colour that has me biting the inside of my cheek to stop myself laughing.
I’ve never met a man who blushes as much as him. Especially not one who mauls other men with no gear on for a living. I find it rather charming. Cute even.
“Thanks,” I say when I’m confident I won’t laugh.
“Yeah, uh, no problem.” He continues to eat in silence for a few more minutes while I pick at my food, careful not to eat too much, too quickly, unsure of whether my stomach will take the opportunity to turn against me.
“So, do you have kids?”
He sputters, coughing and covering his mouth with a paper towel. Did I say something wrong?
“Wh-why would you think that?” he chokes out.
I nod my chin towards the tea set at the end of the counter.
His light brows bunch, a line forming between them.
“Oh, God, no. I have sisters,” he explains, suddenly frantic as his eyes snap to the clock above the stove.
“Little sisters who are going to call me to have a tea party any minute, and I don’t have my tea ready.
” He shovels the last bite of food into his mouth, jumps down from his seat, and rounds the marble countertop.
It’s not my business whether he has children or not.
Hell, he could have a whole army of little thick-thighed hellions hidden somewhere, and it still wouldn’t concern me.
But something about this grown man buying a tea set to appease his baby sisters brings a smile to my face and warmth to my chest.
“I can do those, just worry about your tea,” I assure him, climbing down from the stool, careful not to make the dreaded noise again.
“No, really, it’s my mess. I can—” He stops when my hand grazes his as I reach around him to run the water in the sink, an unexplainable jolt zipping up my fingertips that causes me to pull back.
“You cooked, I ate, so I can do the dishes. It’s really okay, Elijah. Accept the help once in a while,” I tell him, brushing the sensation of his skin against mine out of my mind as I move around him to scrape my food into the bin.
Accept help. That’s an annoyingly humorous statement coming from me, of all people.
He thanks me and gets started on the tea.
I finish the dishes and open the box, unpacking the pink and purple plastic, placing it in the warm, soapy water.
Elijah dances around the kitchen, preparing a fragrant and light Darjeeling tea blend.
I peek over my shoulder occasionally, unusually enthralled by the broad set of his shoulders straining against the thin fabric of his white V-neck.
His biceps flex, the corded muscles rippling with each movement.
When the tea is steeped to the appropriate colour, he adds a couple of ice cubes from the freezer, peering at me sheepishly.
“I’m not looking to get cancer from drinking scalding tea from a plastic tea set,” he explains, the words slithering out, so unnecessarily cruel, and he doesn’t even realise it.
I can’t fault him for the way my heart stops in my chest or the subtle shake of my hands as I nod, drying the last of the pink and purple princess mugs. I can’t blame him for something he has no reason to know is too fresh a wound for me not to react.
His eyes snap to mine, wide, sage green with a ring of grey around the outer edges I’d never noticed before.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” he says, and my spine goes ramrod straight.
How does he know? “That was so bloody insensitive.” He smacks his palm to his forehead, and the look of disappointment cuts right into me. “My mum is in remission now.”
His mum. Not me. Thank fuck.
“But she’d smack me upside the head if I’d said that around her, and rightfully so.
I’ve just been down a recent rabbit hole of information.
I know it annoys her, but when I start to get anxious because her remission anniversary is coming up and that feels like a jinx, I sort of bury myself in information to convince myself that she’ll be okay.
” He glances away. “My most recent search led me to an article about microplastics and how they can be found in nearly one hundred per cent of men’s testicles and are believed to contribute to cancer and poor reproductive health. ”
He sure is an anxious talker.
“You know, I read that study as well, but it was only performed on twenty-three human males and forty-six dogs. Microplastics are a definite concern, but I think your bollocks are probably safe for now,” I deadpan.
His mouth drops open, his pink tongue nearly rolling out like one of those bubble-gum commercials, before he snaps his jaw shut, turning away and gripping the edge of the counter.
“I can’t believe I just told her all that,” he mutters to himself, but he’s not exactly quiet. For his sake, I ignore him and head out of the kitchen, plopping down on the sofa.
I turn to the telly, training my focus on the screen as I click through reruns of the 2023 Women’s World Cup, landing on Spain versus England.
Despite this being one of my favourite matches of that year, I find it hard to avoid stealing glances at Elijah, but I manage, at least for a little while.
That is, until I can’t help myself any longer, flicking my gaze over to him only to find he’s already staring at me.
My cheeks warm, as do his, and we break the connection without a word.
His phone rings, and he rushes to answer. The sounds of two screaming little girls fill the room, and my shoulders stiffen, but I force them to relax. Children scream for many reasons, and that’s completely okay; it’s my reaction to any kind of loud sound that is less than desirable.
They settle down as a smooth, melodic voice cuts through their shouting. “Cool it.” She chuckles, and Elijah smiles wide, placing his gold-rimmed glasses back on as he picks up a cup of tea.
“You little ladies ready for our tea party?” he asks, saluting them with the small pink mug that looks warped in his massive hands.
“Yes!” they shout in excited unison.
The broad smile and eagerness shining through him at the prospect of this tea party are, regrettably, adorable.
“Alright, then let me get set up in my room so we don’t bother my flatmate and—”
Just as I’m about to protest, not wanting him to feel he needs to leave the room for my comfort, one of his sisters interjects.
“You mean the girl?! Can we meet her?”
He glances towards me, and I hear his mum’s voice next. “Yes, Lijah. Let us meet the girl,” she says, chuckling at his expense. I think I like her already.
He sets his tea down, covering the speaker with a hand. “Do you mind saying hi?” he asks, his ears bright red. “They’re dying to meet you.”
Ah, yes, and unfortunately, I’m just dying.
“Sure. But only if you’ll share some of that tea with me.”
His worried expression shifts into a blinding grin that sets my heart galloping in my chest. How bloody annoying.
He pours another cup of tea and carries it over, holding his phone between his lips.
“That’s disgusting, you know,” I chide, taking one of the mugs from him as he joins me in my blanket fort.
“You haven’t even tried it yet,” he says with a low laugh that I rather like the sound of.
I shake my head. “I meant the phone between your lips. Your phone is just about the nastiest thing you own—worse than your toilet seat.”
He cringes, and I hear a chorus of “Yuck!” from the phone, reminding me that there are little ears listening.
He holds the phone up, pressing his shoulder to mine to get us both in view of the camera, and I wiggle my fingers at the screen. “Hello. I’m Adhira.”
The smaller girl with glittering blue eyes stares into the camera, her light-brown waves a tangled mess around her heart-shaped face. She nudges her mum, never once taking her eyes off me as she whispers, “She’s pretty, Mummy.”
I stifle a laugh and feel Elijah’s thigh brush against mine for a split second before it’s gone so fast I almost think I hallucinated it.
“Well, thank you,” I tell her. “You and your sister are both very pretty too. What are your names?”
“Ellie!” the little blue-eyed girl shouts.
“I’m Lyla,” the hazel-eyed one with a mop of messy blonde waves says, beaming.
“It’s nice to meet you both,” I tell them, returning their smiles. “And I’m sorry, I don’t remember your name,” I say to his mum.
“Eleanor. Nice to meet you, love.” I’ve never spoken more than a couple of hundred words total to this man, so I can say with absolute certainty that his mum’s name had never come up, but my mum would have my arse if I told her that.
I might not always read the room well, but I do have manners on occasion.
The girls move on, demanding their brother’s attention and begging for their tea party, which “Lijah” has been depriving them of.
He sips his tea, refers to each of us as “Lady” before speaking our names, and dives into the role of the doting big brother.
If I were even remotely interested in a relationship right now, this kind of behaviour might just be the thing I need to get me interested in someone.
But as it stands, I am not, so it’s not doing much for me.
I excuse myself as my lids grow heavy, but instead of going to bed, I slide down my door, pressing my ear against it to listen to him have his family time.
He’s going to be an incredible father one day, if he wants that sort of thing.
Papa was almost never home while I was growing up, but he worked long hours to make sure Mummy and I had everything we needed.
It wasn’t his fault that his job didn’t pay well, but I still hate the fact that a small, childlike part of me yearns for a memory of him calling to tuck me into bed like Elijah is doing right now, behind this very door, for his baby sisters.
I listen until I hear him in the kitchen, cleaning up, flicking lights off, followed by the soft snick of his door.
It’s a little while before I muster up the energy to climb into bed, but it doesn’t take long before I’m fast asleep, the soft hum of the pipes filling the flat and my heartbeat slowing to match their rhythm.