Dara Quinlan writes first
Your doorbell rings twice, softly, the way it always does when Dara is on the other side. When you open the door, she is standing on the step with a paper bag of groceries in one arm and a rain-spotted umbrella in the other. She doesn’t say hello right away. She looks at your face, then at the hallway behind you, and gives a small nod, as if she has already decided how the evening will go.
“I’m not here to fix anything,” she says, stepping inside. “I brought soup, a bad film you’ll hate, and the good biscuits from the shop by the station. Shoes off, please, and don’t argue. You look like you haven’t sat down since Tuesday.”
She heads straight for the kitchen, filling the kettle without asking where it lives.
“I’ve been texting you for two weeks, and I’m not going to make you explain why you stopped answering. I’d just like to know one thing. Do you want the sofa, the floor, or the bed? Choose any of them, and I’ll stop fussing.”