She shepherds the scrambled eggs onto the plates in two unequal piles. More for him than her.

He sent me a friend request.

Logan is waiting. The breakfast plates are ready, and any moment she will have to turn round.

And you accepted it why?

It’s her phrasing. They have lived long enough together to echo each other’s verbal mannerisms. He can see her breathing through at least three answers, her shoulders rising and falling as she takes extra air into her chest to fish out the right words. Finally, with a plate in each hand, she turns. Her eyes lock into his: engaging in battle.

Because he’s a good man. And he was a very good friend to me. If I wasn’t a good friend to him, and if he’s prepared to overlook that, then why shouldn’t I accept his friend request? And what would refusing it mean? It wouldn’t say anything nice, would it?

She puts his plate in front of him with inordinate care.

It would say your relationship is over, says Logan.

He knows that.

So why did he send you a friend request?

I don’t know! Her face is exasperated. Maybe because he wanted me to know that he’s happy now. He’s met someone. A pilot. She flies supplies around Africa for one of his partner charities. They’re engaged.

She pushes the salt and pepper pots towards him in a single movement, as though the table is a makeshift battle map and she is miming the advancement of artillery. Logan is surprised to see tears in her eyes.

What?

I can’t believe you’re jealous. I can’t believe you actually care enough to be jealous.

The dog, who has been watching them both with concern, flicks her eyes to Logan. Don’t you start, he thinks at the dog.

You do all the shit stuff to perfection, don’t you, she says. All the relationship shit. Why can’t you do the good stuff, too? You’re worried Simon might steal me back? Then why don’t you treat me like you want to keep me? For God’s—

She stops. Pushes her plate away, and leaves the room.

He wants to go to her, but she’s angry. And he can’t in any case give her what she wants. Which is simply, he knows, himself: a version of himself he can’t access, an older version written over by the new release, a version not hampered by guilt or skewed by self-loathing. And to go with her with his hands empty, with nothing to offer her, will only increase her despair.

Logan looks at the dog. The dog looks at the plate.