Whispers of Deceit.

Chapter 17

By 5pm, the fog of my hangover finally starts to lift. I've spent the entire day curled up on the sofa, feeling like death. Jared's been looking after me all day—payback for all the times I've nursed him through hangovers with toast, tea, and zero sympathy. He, of course, woke up only slightly hungover. Must be nice.

"Do you want me to cook a roast?" he asks, poking his head into the living room.

I lift my head from the cushion and nod without hesitation. He grins and disappears into the kitchen. Moments later, the familiar clatter of pots and pans fills the house, and I know he's already getting started.

Exactly what I needed.

The smell of rosemary and garlic starts to drift in from the kitchen, and my stomach, previously on strike, finally growls in approval. I pull the throw blanket tighter around me and stare at the ceiling for a moment, feeling the weight of the past few weeks press gently down on my chest. Hangxiety is beating down on me.

Jared walks in with a glass of water and places it on the coffee table beside me.

"Hydration," he says with a smirk.

"Thanks, doctor," I mumble, taking the glass. He sits on the edge of the sofa and looks at me for a beat too long.

"What?" I ask, suddenly self-conscious.

He shrugs. "Nothing. Just glad you're feeling better."

I smile, but it feels faint. I want to reach out and say something—anything real. Ask him if he's still thinking about his mum. Tell him I've been lying to him for months. Spill everything. But instead, I lean my head on his shoulder. He rests his cheek against the top of my head and exhales.

"I hope you're hungry," he says eventually. "I've gone all out."

"I could eat an entire roast on my own," I reply.

"Challenge accepted."

He kisses the side of my head before getting up again. I watch him disappear into the kitchen, his silhouette briefly framed by the doorway, and I feel a twist in my stomach. I don't know if it's guilt or grief or some combination of both.

The roast was incredible—crispy potatoes, perfectly seasoned chicken, gravy that could revive the dead. We ate on the sofa, legs tangled together, watching an old series we've both seen a hundred times. It felt almost normal. Almost.

Later, the plates are cleared, and we're halfway through another episode when Jared grabs the remote and pauses the screen.

"What?" I say, glancing at him. The sudden silence makes my heart skip.

He doesn't look at me right away. His eyes stay on the TV, like whatever he's about to say is meant more for the room than for me.

"I think I should call my mum tomorrow."

I sit up a little straighter. My stomach tightens. "Really?"

He nods slowly. "It's been over a week. I'm still furious with her, but... I don't know. She's still my mum."

I swallow. My instinct is to talk him out of it. To remind him of everything she's done, everything she's said. But I don't. Not yet.

"Do you want to talk to her?" I ask carefully.

"I don't know," he admits. "Part of me wants to cut her off completely. But then another part of me... just wants her to apologise. To acknowledge what she did."

"She won't," I say quietly. "You know she won't."

He finally looks at me. His expression is softer than I expected. "No, probably not. But I need to at least try. For closure or something."