IN THE HOURS BETWEEN • TC

27. They're (or Their) (or There?!)

When they get to the front gate, Timmy lets go of her hand, dropping it from his grip. Una is almost disappointed. She wishes she had made the most of it when his hand was warm in her own, solid.

Her hand feels empty now without his.

(And she wishes he hadn't just dropped it. Wishes he'd maybe squeezed her hand before he let go, something to make it certain that they had been holding hands, something to make it obvious that that period was over.

Instead, he'd just dropped it. Dropped it like he wasn't even sure if he was holding her hand in the first place.)

Una follows him inside, and they stand in silence for a moment as they take off jackets, scarves. Gloves.

Timmy goes through to the dining room, but Una stays for a moment, standing by the coat rack, pressing her fingers against her smile as if to make it go away. She looks giddily at the front door, and then glances down the corridor.

With no one there, she reaches forwards and hugs Timmy's coat that is sitting on the peg. Just quickly, so she can convince herself that she isn't that pathetic. It smells like him and it's still slightly warm from the heat of his body. Una breathes in, and then steps back. Enough.

She makes her way into the dining room, where everyone is pottering around, fetching drinks, setting out cutlery. Una helps Sean serve up the ragout and maybe puts more couscous on Timmy's plate than everyone else's.

When they sit down to eat, she finds herself smiling around her fork from time to time, or gazing distantly at the pepper grinder as she replays something she said earlier, as she replays something that Timmy did. Una thinks about his head on her shoulder, his hand on her arm, his lips against her own, warm, soft, searching for something.

She allows herself tiny glances at Timmy, like sips. She doesn't dare to gulp him down all at once, so she peeks over at him. Takes in the little things, like his delicate chewing and the glint of the thin chain he's always wearing. Una has never been close enough, long enough, to work out what the pendant is.

She's not caught until the meal is nearing its end, and he is scraping the last of his food onto his fork. The cutlery makes a noise against his plate and Una's head jolts up to look instinctively.

Timmy is already watching her. Or, at least, his eyes fix on her face for a moment, and suddenly her cheeks feel hot. Her stomach jolts and she looks down at her own food, smiling surreptitiously.

—

The next morning, Timmy is sitting at the dining table with various bits of dog-eared paper spread around him, with his head in his hands as he chews the lid of his pen.

Una sits down with her cornflakes and takes a couple of bites before saying something.

"There's food in the fridge if you're hungry," she says. Timmy looks up at her blankly, still chewing on the lid of his pen, completely oblivious. Una shakes her head. It's not worth pursuing.

"What are you up to?" she asks, spooning cereal into her mouth and washing it down with water. Timmy sighs, removing the lid from his mouth and flipping his pen over and over on top of the page he is working on.

"English," he says morosely. Sighs again. "I hate your language."

Una snorts.

"Yours isn't the easiest, either," she replies, and Timmy glances up at her, nibbling at the side of his lip.

"I don't understand it," he says quietly.

"Do you want some help?" Una asks, and he hesitates for a moment before nodding. She stands up, bringing her breakfast with her, and rounds the table, pulling out the chair next to Timothée, who shifts his papers around to clear a space for her.