‘What does your mum think?’ she asks.

I think about the conversation we had last week, when I sat down and told her everything – about my drive up to Ambleside, to finding Susan, to the truth I’d suspected which finally unravelled that night. Mum said hardly anything, just listened to the lot, her face beginning to crumble as I got to the end of my story. Then she sat and silently cried on the sofa, a picture of David and me as kids on the table beside her. She’d picked it up, running her finger down his face first, then mine. She held me, letting her sadness pour into our hold. Then she stepped back and told me she was happy I’d found Susan. That she was blessed to have raised me. That she would one day like to thank Susan because, despite the pain behind her choice, they both had a son they could be truly proud of.

When I told her how I felt about Michelle, she quickly, without pause, told me that my happiness was paramount. As was Michelle’s. And that she was certain David would have felt that too. ‘She says that we don’t choose who we love.’

Michelle nods. I’m not sure if it’s in agreement or just to allow her to process my response. I’m not sure if she really heard what I said. About love. She’s composed. Controlled, even. She is the Michelle I’ve always admired, but stronger somehow. And in reverse, I feel like a schoolboy, all butterflies and unfinished thoughts. She takes another sip of her water and smiles. I take the opportunity to look at the woman before me, instead of seeing our David’s girlfriend. Her flame-red hair is brighter than before. Her eyes are an intense green, like emeralds. Her lashes are thick and long, and when she blinks, she looks like a Disney drawing, only better. Because she’s real. And here. ‘I feel like I’m seeing different things in you, noticing little details,’ I say.

There’s a pause, a sudden fracture in her confidence. She looks to her lap, smoothing her napkin down. ‘Rhys,’ she starts, her voice uncertain. ‘You need to know that I can’t do this, if it’s a one-off. I’m not saying I want to eat out at fancy restaurants all the time…’ Her plate arrives and she raises a perfectly shaped brow. ‘Although…’ She looks back up at me and smiles, before carrying on. ‘I’ve already lost one Woods brother. And I lost him long before he left, but still… I don’t think I could go through that again.’

‘I don’t want to hurt you, Michelle.’ I say, picking up where she left off. She looks down at her plate so I try to catch her gaze again. ‘Honestly, I promise. I’ve learned some things. About myself, about life. I want things to be different.’

‘How different?’

‘Well, maybe not frequent visits to Michelin-starred restaurants different, but different.’ I search for a way to lighten the mood. ‘I don’t even want to have sex with you tonight.’