I watched Matteo walk away and felt a sudden burst of nostalgia for my years working here, always the same, completely safe. The feeling fades as soon as I remember that my break is only a couple of weeks, not forever – I’ll be back here, getting tea with Becca and making decks for the spring campaigns before I know it.

The day I leave for Australia, Millie comes over at ten. She squeals upon arrival. We’re leaving for the airport at eleven – my flight takes off at 1.30. Three hours to Dallas, and then fourteen to Cairns. My stomach dips at the thought of being trapped on a plane for fourteen hours. I’ve downloaded more romcoms than I’ll be able to stomach, including Notting Hill, Just Go with It and The Proposal. And, for good measure, to make Millie proud, a documentary about coral reefs. I even screenshotted Hugh’s Cairns’ itinerary. My phone storage is full, and my suitcase is zipped (barely), but I don’t feel ready.

‘Are you ready?’ Millie asks, launching herself onto my crisply made bed.

I shake my head. ‘I don’t think so?’ I back-flop onto the mattress next to her. Both of us stare at the ceiling.

‘Me neither.’

Lying next to her on the bed I feel an overwhelming sense of pressure. I want to do this for her so badly. The only emotion that can overcome my guilt at being the sister without the BRCA gene is my hope that I can do something, anything, to make it better.

After the surgery and a night in the hospital, she’ll be released, where she will recover, wrapped in gauze, for three to four weeks. She won’t be able to lift her arms over her head. She’ll stay with our parents and Murphy, although she won’t be able to walk him in case he pulls on the leash. The week I’m gone will be her worst week. She will be exhausted and sad, and living in a body that doesn’t feel like hers. It doesn’t feel right to know I’ll be living her dream at the same time.

‘I’m gonna find this stupid fish,’ I say, more to myself than to her.

‘I know you are,’ Millie says calmly, still staring at the ceiling. ‘And I’m gonna have boobs that never sag.’

My laugh comes out strangled because I’m trying not to cry. I scoot closer to her and tuck my head onto her shoulder. ‘I love you.’

‘I love you too.’

As much as I think I prepared, I don’t even make it onto the plane before I realise I forgot something. I’m on the jet bridge when I go digging in my toiletry bag for my hand sanitiser and pull out my face sunscreen instead. Looking at the bottle, I realise what I’ve forgotten. I forgot reef-friendly sunscreen.