With a deep breath in and a heavy breath out, Patrick joined me back on the floor.

‘Then don’t say anything,’ he said, kneeling in front of me. ‘I missed you, Ros, and now you’re here again, I think that’s enough. Can we agree that the past is the past and take it from here?’

Something lifted inside of me, a weight I’d been carrying around for so long, I’d almost forgotten how heavy it was. I felt so light, I could have leapt up and touched the ceiling.

‘I feel like such a dickhead,’ I said, pushing all my hair back out of my face. ‘What would have happened if you hadn’t got that stupid text?’

Patrick took my face in his hands and kissed me softly. ‘But I did.’

‘OK,’ I breathed, wrapping my hands around his wrists to lock him into place. Patrick missed me. Patrick wanted to try again. Before I could stop it, a tiny laugh escaped from my mouth.

‘What’s so funny?’ he asked with a curious grin.

‘Nothing? Everything?’ I replied. ‘This, us. I feel like I need to know everything that’s happened since I last saw you. I’ve got about a million questions.’

He kissed my forehead then broke my grip on his wrists before standing up to stretch.

‘Like what?’

‘I don’t know.’ I scrambled semi-upright and placed myself on the bed, hugging one of his pillows as he wandered off into his study. Everything felt bright and electric and like it wasn’t quite real. ‘What were you doing two years ago today?’

‘Two years ago today?’ he called back from the next room. ‘I believe I was in Bhutan.’

‘Bhutan?’

‘Yes.’ Patrick reappeared with a bottle of whisky in his hand. ‘It’s in South Asia, near Tibet.’

‘I know where it is,’ I replied. I didn’t, but I could have.

He climbed onto the bed and stretched out. His body looked more muscular than I remembered, not that I was complaining. I pulled the covers over my body, wondering what comparisons he was drawing about me.

‘Of course you know,’ he said as he opened the bottle. ‘I was just answering your question. Your turn. Where were you two years ago today?’

Thanks to Facebook memories, I knew exactly where I had been. Two years ago to the day, I was beside myself with joy because I was on my way to Ikea to buy my very own Klippan sofa.

‘Um, I think I was at a lecture,’ I lied, nodding to myself. ‘Salman Rushdie in conversation with Malcolm Gladwell.’

‘Wow,’ Patrick replied with raised eyebrows. ‘Really?’

‘Two very interesting men,’ I confirmed, hoping he had absolutely no follow-up questions. ‘What were you doing in Bhutan?’

‘Living? Existing?’ He breathed in deeply. ‘Whatever it was, it was better than this.’