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Chapter 22

Stepping into my house, the warm breath of the heater greets me like an old friend, caressing my cheeks and melting away the chill that's settled into my bones. God, it feels good to be home. I'm exhausted—emotionally, physically, socially. Simon's relentless but polite advances drained me, the adrenaline from the debate is still lingering somewhere in my system, and the whirlwind of feelings I've been swallowing down all night are now boiling to the surface in the silence of my space.

I peel off my coat and scarf, letting them fall onto the hallway chair before heading straight to the bathroom. A long, hot shower is the only thing that can tame my overworked mind and soothe the knots in my shoulders. Steam wraps around me like a cocoon, and I stay under the water until my fingers wrinkle and my thoughts stop racing.

Soon after, I'm in my soft grey pyjamas, the fabric worn in all the right places. I head into the kitchen, drawn by the comforting thought of a warm drink. Tonight calls for mountain tea—the special one Elizabeth brought back from Greece. I save it for when I need a little extra something, a ritual for moments when I'm feeling fragile, nostalgic, or emotionally hungover. Tonight checks all the boxes.

As the kettle hums, then snaps, I already feel a faint headache forming behind my eyes. Too much alcohol—I'm not used to it. I massage my temples and breathe through the tension, promising myself to go easier on the drinks next time. A mental note scribbled in the hazy notebook of my mind.

I pour the steaming water into the mug and watch as the herbs begin to tint the liquid a pale green. Reaching for the honey, I stir slowly, thinking of how my life has come to resemble this cup of tea. Sometimes too bitter, sometimes too watered down, but every now and then—with just the right blend of sweetness—it's just right. It's been a long while since I got it right, though.

The kitchen clock reads just before 1 a.m. I should go to bed, but inertia has me by the ankles. Instead, I curl into my favourite armchair in the living room, pulling a soft blanket over my legs. I cradle the mug between my hands and let the warmth sink in.

I think about Anzette, wondering if I agreed on a pickup time with my mom. I'll call her early just in case. She's always up with the sunrise anyway, making coffee and reading the news like clockwork.

The tea is strong. Too strong—I left the bag in too long. I smile at myself, because somehow, even that feels metaphorical. Too much of something, and the balance tips. Still drinkable, though.

I let my eyes wander the room and land on the photo of Jason and me, taken during one of our last holidays together. He's grinning in his scuba gear, mid-laugh, and I'm pulling a ridiculous face, bikini-clad and alive with joy. We had fun. We had love. We had heat.

I'll never have that with Simon. He's safe, measured, convenient. He'd be a good companion, a good father figure for Anzette, and our schedules would sync effortlessly. It makes so much sense.

But Jason made me feel things. Real, messy, breathtaking things.

And Harry—God, why am I thinking about him again? I meant Jason. I swear I meant Jason.

Except my heart betrays me.

Harry, with his fire and his softness. With the way he sees through me and pulls me to the surface when I'd rather stay hidden. With the way he made me feel after years of numbness. It wasn't just sex, it was a reminder that I was still capable of feeling everything. Of wanting, deeply.

And then there's Rebecca. Beautiful, kind Rebecca. The kind of girl any mother would dream of for her son. Anne certainly thinks so. And who am I to argue with that? She's right.

I reach for the remote and flip on the TV, hoping to drown out my thoughts. Nothing good is on. I settle for a music channel and lean back, letting the static noise wrap around me. "You Oughta Know" by Alanis Morissette starts playing and I laugh out loud, remembering the impromptu performance Liz and I put on in L.A. God, we were ridiculous. And he loved every second of it.