Chapter 18
Chapter eighteen
It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Co-parenting
Miranda
I’m standing in the middle of my bedroom, staring at a growing mountain of clothes on the bed while Thor attacks a sleeve like a thousand treats are hidden in it.
Twinklesocks surveys the chaos from a nest of scarves, tail twitching with disapproval.
I hold up a navy wrap dress. Classic. Elegant. Also last worn to a parent-teacher conference where I got told SJ had “too many opinions about the usefulness of Maths.” I toss it aside. The pile grows.
Thor launches himself off the chest of drawers and lands belly-first in a tangle of tights. He wriggles like a ferret, pops his head out of one leg hole, and meows triumphantly.
“No one invited you to this crisis,” I say, kneeling to rescue a silk top from his claws. He immediately bats at my hair. “Saboteur.”
The bedroom floor is a battlefield: shoes with no partners, hangers that have staged a coup, a lone bra flung across the dresser like it surrendered early. I dig out a green blouse. Hold it up. Too shiny. Back in the pile.
I glance at the mirror.
My cheeks are bright red. My hair’s doing its own thing. And somewhere in all of this, I’ve lost my glass of wine.
The date isn’t until tomorrow. It’s just dinner. But my heart’s thudding like I’m due onstage and forgot to memorise my lines.
The doorbell rings.
I freeze, one hand still tangled in the navy wrap dress, the other trying to fend off Thor, who’s decided my bra strap is the enemy. Twinklesocks has climbed into the laundry basket and is kneading a sequin skirt.
The bell goes again. Longer this time.
“Fuck. Sim-Sim.”
I groan, dropping the dress. It slipped my mind that he’s popping by to collect SJ’s Arsenal kit.
Kittens scatter as I step over a jumble of cardigans, still barefoot, a bit sweaty, and looking like I lost a fight with a discount rail.
I unlock the front door and swing it open.
Sim-Sim’s standing there in jeans and a soft-looking jumper, hands in his pockets, hair slightly windswept like he walked here rather than coming by car, but still somehow manages to look effortlessly put together.
“Hey,” he says with a small smile.
“Come in,” I reply, stepping aside. “Before the kittens try to launch themselves into traffic.”
He steps in just as Twinklesocks appears as if she heard the word escape and is ready to commit. I nudge her back with my foot as he shuts the door behind him.
His eyes skim over me—oversized jumper, leggings, bun barely holding its shape.
“You look nice,” he says.
I huff a laugh. “I look like I’ve been wrestling a tumble dryer.”
He shrugs. “Still beautiful, though.”
Something twists in my stomach—confusion, maybe. Or indigestion. Definitely not helpful.
“Give me a sec,” I mutter, already halfway down the hall.
Since SJ and I moved out here, my interactions with Sim-Sim have improved.
I don’t know if it is the distance or that I no longer spend every waking minute plotting his demise, but something has shifted.
It reminds me of the time back before we got together.
SJ’s room is a mess of Lego, half-folded clothes, and at least three socks that may or may not be from the same century. I unearth the Arsenal shirt from beneath a suspiciously glittery hoodie, fold it with a half-hearted pat, and head back.
When I return, Sim-Sim’s standing in the middle of the living room, holding Thor like he’s some kind of purring prize. The kitten’s draped across his arm, eyes half-closed, vibrating with smug contentment.
“He jumped into my arms,” Sim-Sim says with a soft smile. “Didn’t have the heart to move him.”
“Traitor,” I mutter to Thor, but my voice comes out warmer than I intend.
Sim-Sim’s thumb rubs just under the kitten’s chin, and Thor leans into it like a cat who’s suddenly forgotten he lives here.
“Here.” I offer the shirt, and he reaches out with one hand to take it, careful not to dislodge the feline royalty currently using him as a mattress.
“Thanks.” He glances down at the folded fabric. “Big match tomorrow. He’ll be gutted if we lose.”
“We can’t have that,” I say lightly, nodding at the shirt like it’s the most important object in the room.
Silence settles between us, soft and awkward. Thor purrs like a small engine, oblivious to the tension he’s nestled right in the middle of.
Sim-Sim looks down at the kitten for a long second, his fingers still gently stroking behind one tiny ear.
Then, without looking up, he says quietly, “I miss you.”
My breath catches—not dramatically, not even audibly. Just enough for me to notice. To feel the words land and slide under my skin.
There’s no push in his voice. No expectation. Just a simple truth dropped between us like it won’t change the air—even though it already has.
“Why are you saying that?” I ask, not sharp, just… tired. I already know the answer, but I need to hear it anyway.
Sim-Sim’s eyes lift to mine. “Because it’s true,” he says simply. “And because there have been a million times I’ve wished I could undo what I’ve done.”
My arms fold tighter around my ribs.
“It’s too late now,” I say, quietly. Not to hurt him. Just because it is… I think.
He nods. Once. No argument. Just the softest downturn of his mouth as he looks back at Thor, who’s purring somehow feels louder now, like he’s trying to fill the silence.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I know.”
He gives Thor a last stroke, then carefully lowers him to the floor. The kitten lets out a small, offended chirp and pads off in search of someone more emotionally stable.
Simon moves towards the door. I scoop up Twinklesocks with one arm and nudge Thor back with my foot before he can attempt another dramatic exit.
Sim-Sim pauses with his hand on the handle. “Could we have a coffee next week? To talk about Christmas plans?”
I shift the kitten slightly in my arms. “We can do that over the phone.”
He glances back at me, the corner of his mouth lifting, but his eyes still serious. “Miranda… just a coffee.”
There’s a beat. I hate how uncertain I feel, how some part of me still wants to keep everything perfectly compartmentalised.
But I nod. “Fine. Come over during one of my lunch breaks.”
His smile softens. “Text me when you’re free.”
And then he’s gone, the door clicking softly behind him.
Twinklesocks lets out a little squeak, clearly unimpressed by the lack of drama. Thor sprawls exhausted at my feet.
I blow out hard.
It's just a coffee.
Right.
There’s a pair of tights dangling from the lampshade, one kitten stuck inside a laundry basket, and I’m wearing a face mask that smells faintly of regret.
Amelia’s perched on the edge of my bed, cradling a novelty mug that says Mum Fuel in chunky pink letters. Steam curls from the top, and she looks far too calm for someone about to launch a full-blown intervention.
“Right,” she says, taking a sip, “let’s talk about your moustache.”
I blink at her. “Sorry—what moustache?”
She leans in slightly, eyes narrowing. “The little blond one. You can only see it when the light hits just right, but trust me, it’s there.”
I slap a hand over my upper lip. “Why has no one told me this before?”
Amelia shrugs, unbothered. “Because we love you and didn’t want you to descend into a spiral. But you’re going on a date now. A date that might involve candlelight. And proximity. So we defuzz.”
“I don’t want to defuzz!”
“You will when you’re sitting across from him wondering if he’s admiring your lip foliage instead of your witty banter.”
I groan and flop backwards on the bed, dislodging a confused Twinklesocks, who had been very much enjoying my stomach as a mattress. Amelia gives the kitten a gentle nudge and sets her tea down with purpose.
“Miranda. You are stunning. You have an excellent dress, a decent pair of shoes, and a man who probably dreams in HD about you. Now sit up. Let me pluck your face.”
“I feel like a prize heifer at a county fair.”
Amelia grins. “A very sexy prize heifer. With great bone structure.”
I’m mid-flinch as Amelia brandishes a pair of tweezers when I blurt, “Sim-Sim came over last night.”
She pauses, tweezers frozen mid-air. “What, with a boombox and a tragic mixtape?”
“No,” I say, rolling my eyes. “To pick up SJ’s football shirt.”
“Ah. The classic pretext.” She tilts her head, studying me. “And?”
“And… he said he misses me.”
Amelia lowers the tweezers slowly. “Well. That’s not nothing.”
“I told him it’s too late,” I mutter. “Which it is.”
She nods, then sips from her tea. “Did he do the full sad-eyes routine?”
“No. It wasn’t a performance. Just honest. Quiet. No pressure.”
Amelia sets the mug down on the dressing table, fingers tapping once against the ceramic. “And how did that feel? Really?”
I hesitate. “Strange. Familiar. Not awful. He asked me to meet him for a coffee to discuss Christmas plans.”
Her brows knit, the humour dropping from her face. “Miranda, I know it’s not my business—”
“You’re about to make it your business, though.”
“Damn right,” she says gently. “I just… I don’t want you getting pulled back into something that made you feel small.”
I blink. “I’m not.”
“I know,” she says. “But even strong people forget what the cage looked like once the door’s been open a while.”
That stops me.
She sighs. “Look, I’m not saying don’t have coffee. I’m not even saying don’t be civil. But you’ve built something for yourself. Stability. Space. And tonight—Jasper. That’s something new. Something that makes you light up when you don’t know you’re doing it.”
I look away, fiddling with a hairbrush.
“I’m fine,” I say eventually.
“I know you are. You always are.” She pauses, then adds quietly, “Just don’t forget who you were before the divorce. And who you’ve become since.”
Her words settle in my chest like a stone skipping once, twice—then sinking.
I don’t say anything at first. Just turn and pull her into a hug, careful of her tea. She squeezes me back without hesitation, all solid comfort and quiet strength.
“Thanks,” I murmur against her shoulder.
She pulls away a little, eyes kind. “Anytime. Though now, I do believe we’ve got more urgent matters—like the rogue fluff on your bum.”
I groan. “I swear, if you whip out that lint roller again—”
Amelia already has it in hand, brandished like a weapon. “Stand up. You’re wearing black. This is war.”
And just like that, we’re back in the fray—her crouched behind me like a determined valet, muttering about rogue cat hairs and my apparently invisible upper-lip situation, while I try not to cry-laugh into a throw pillow.
Honestly, who needs enemies when you’ve got a best friend like this?