Hold Me Close - Talia Hibbert Page 0,7

and owned a nose hair trimmer.

So, to break the ice, Evan would make his neighbour a shepherd’s pie rather than brownies or casserole. That was one of the things his mother had drilled into him: Give people what you think they’ll want—not what you want to give them.

He bore that in mind as he cooked, following his mother’s recipe. And within a few minutes, an idea occurred to him.

He pulled out his phone and called Zach.

“H’llo?” the other man’s voice was subdued and thick with sleep. If Evan was blissfully ignorant of the circumstances, he might assume that a Friday night out was responsible for Zach’s heavy rasp.

But Evan was not blissfully ignorant. He knew what Zach was going through, far too well. He remembered his own sleepless nights, spent with the person he loved most in the world—not to enjoy her company but to watch her struggle, to try and ease her pain. To see her fade away. Because if she had to go through it, the least he could do was bear witness.

Yeah. Evan knew exactly what was wrong with Zach. Still, he kept his voice light as he said, “Alright, mate?”

“Yep.” Zach didn’t try to make the lie convincing. “You?”

“Yeah, I’m good.”

“What you up to?”

Evan turned to the spice rack, searching for dried rosemary. “I’m making something for my neighbour. Was wondering if you guys wanted any meals while I’m at it. That way you can keep them in the fridge or freeze them, heat stuff up when you need to. Saves time.”

“Alright, Nigella.” Zach snorted. But then the amusement drained out of him in a sigh, and he said, “I think you’re doing enough for me already.”

Evan wondered how he’d have felt, all those years ago, if an almost-stranger had swooped in and tried to help him and his mother. He wasn’t sure. But he’d been 17, rather than a grown man. Who had more pride: teenagers, or adults?

“You’ll need a better reason than that,” Evan said, “if you want to stop me dropping off a meal.” Or three.

There was a single moment of tension-filled silence before Zach spoke again, the ghost of a smile haunting his voice. “You’re… you’re just a nice fucking guy. Aren’t you?”

“Nah,” Evan said. “You guys like lasagne?”

“Everybody likes lasagne.”

Evan laughed. “I must’ve missed that global survey.”

“Yeah, you must’ve.”

“Alright; I’ll be round in a couple of hours.” Evan stirred the mince browning on his stove, his mind whirring through batch calculations.

Zach’s voice quietened, its harsh edges softening. “Thanks, man. Thank you so much.”

“Don’t thank me. I’ll see you later.”

So that was settled. Evan slipped his phone into his pocket with satisfaction, slightly adjusting his plans for the day, He’d make three shepherd’s pies and two lasagnes. He’d save a pie, take the rest to Zach’s, and sit with Mrs. Davis for a while. Then he’d come home and finally meet his neighbour.

There.

Evan was a simple man: as long as he had objectives to meet, he was happy.

Zach’s mother was named Shirley. Evan liked her a lot.

She wore a floral, silk scarf over her head and painted her lips bright pink. She said Darling often and had the kind of rakish attitude that explained Zach’s own boyish charm.

Although his was a little faded, a little grey, compared to his mother’s. Evan wondered how he’d been before she’d fallen ill.

Shirley had spent Evan’s three-hour visit lounging in bed with the air of a woman who saw no reason to get up—though Evan suspected that she simply couldn’t. She had accepted the food with the grace of a queen, and confided that Zach was a terrible cook. She had made Evan laugh, and she had even made Zach laugh, though he’d been quiet and subdued throughout the visit.

She was nothing like Evan’s mother, and yet, he still felt like he’d been punched in the face.

So, when he returned home to see one last shepherd’s pie sitting on his counter, he wanted to bang his head against the wall.

Evan didn’t want to meet his neighbour right now. He didn’t want to go over with a smile and a shepherd’s pie, and he didn’t want to introduce himself. He wanted to drink excessive amounts of tea and make a high-calorie dinner and fight back depressing, teenage memories.

But he didn’t, because that would be childish.

Instead, he wandered into the living room and sank down on the sofa, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. He was exhausted. Not physically, but mentally…

He couldn’t meet his neighbour