He nods. ‘I understand. I didn’t before, you know, it was easier for me if I pretended you two weren’t really friends. But I get it now.’ He looks down at the table.

‘I found myself constantly looking for her in Kiama. In how he looks, how he behaves. But there’s so little of her there.’

‘You’re kidding? I think he’s like her in so many ways. Where’d you think he gets those lofty morals from?’ Lewis laughs. ‘And this obsession with seeing the world and trying to save everyone in it. That’s not from me. And the messiness,’ he throws his hands up, ‘if you were to see this boy’s bedroom, that’s definitely from his mum.’

‘I guess so,’ Yvonne says, unconvinced.

‘But, most kids are nothing like their parents. And Kiama’s just pure,’ he looks around for the right word, ‘Kiama.’

She laughs, ‘Yeah, well, he’s pretty confident, that’s definitely from you.’

‘I think you mean humble, don’t you? That’s the word you’re looking for?’

She covers her smile, they shouldn’t be doing this, flirting like they’re carefree and on their first date. He must feel it too, as he looks away, back out onto the snowy streets. She drinks the shitty coffee and looks over enviously at the wine glasses on the table opposite.

‘Can you believe that The Troika still exists?’

‘The bar?’ she asks.

He nods. ‘I drive past it on my way to the trampoline park. That place has outlasted every single one of my relationships.’ He takes a sip of his coffee, his eyes on her the whole time. What is he expecting her to say? She can’t reminisce about this stuff with him.

‘Freaky Fridays,’ he laughs. ‘I bet you wish you never went out that night?’

‘I don’t know what to say that.’ There’s no right response, to any of these things. And this is without them even addressing any of the big issues.

Sensing her discomfort, Lewis pushes his chair away from the table. Maybe he’s feeling it too, maybe he’s about to leave. She looks up at him as he pulls a blue carrier bag from the floor. ‘I almost forgot,’ he says as he dumps it between the mugs. ‘This is for you.’

‘What is it?’ She takes it, dreading some twee reminder of their youth, of Emma. ‘Kiama says it’s yours.’

Something she left in Kenya. She opens the bag and unfolds a large grey sweatshirt. ‘Oh my God,’ she laughs.

‘What? What is it?’ Lewis looks. ‘Obama?’

She’s laughs so much and before she knows it, there are tears too.

‘I don’t get it,’ Lewis says.