I wake up stupidly early on Sunday morning. I don’t know what time Lachie came home because I was too tired to respond when he whispered hello. He’s still out cold, his full lips parted in sleep and his dark-blond stubble another millimetre closer to being called a beard. The next few months will see his shaggy blond hair lighten further under the sun. I reach out, but stop short of pushing a wayward lock off his forehead.

He rolls away from me, the duvet slipping down to reveal his toned, muscular back. I can’t resist. I press a kiss onto the dent at the top of his shoulder and rest my cheek against his warm back. He stirs.

‘Alex emailed me,’ I whisper, feeling guilty for waking him, but unable to hold it in any longer.

His whole body tenses.

‘What?’ He rolls over to face me.

‘Alex emailed me,’ I repeat. ‘He’s coming to Sydney next month.’

His red-tinged eyes are full of an emotion I can’t decipher. Anger? Trepidation? Concern?

All of the above?

‘He needs to do some work at the Tetlan offices and thought he should let me know he’s going to be around,’ I explain. ‘I guess he didn’t want to freak me out.’

‘Has he asked to see you?’

‘No.’

‘Do you want to see him?’

His eyes widen at my split-second delay. My ensuing ‘no’ sounds false on my tongue.

‘Great,’ Lachie says sarcastically as he falls onto his back and stares up at the ceiling. ‘All these years and we still can’t escape the guy.’

‘I have no intention of seeing him,’ I state firmly, placing my hand on his chest. ‘I haven’t even replied to his email.’

He turns his head to look at me. ‘But you will.’

‘Well, yeah,’ I reply uncomfortably. ‘I wanted to speak to you about it first.’

‘What did his email say exactly?’

I recite it, word for word.

‘Jesus, Bronte,’ he mutters, that indecipherable look back in his eye.

‘What should I say?’ I persist.

‘Just write back and say thanks for letting me know.’

We stare at each other for several long seconds.

‘Really?’ I ask.

‘Yes,’ he replies, and I have this odd feeling he’s testing me.

‘Okay.’

Neither of us brings up Alex again that day, and, on the surface, it’s a perfectly pleasant Sunday, but underneath is an underlying tension that we both choose to ignore.

Back at work on Monday morning, I fire up my computer with a niggling feeling in the pit of my stomach. I don’t want this to hang over me for any longer, so I open up Alex’s email and type out a reply.

Thanks for letting me know.

Bronte.

The words look so stark. Is that really the best I can do after all this time? He’s only letting me know out of decency that he’s coming here.

I try again.

Hi Alex

Long time no speak!

I quickly delete that sentence, still shaking my head. Too jaunty. Too… wrong.