Mia shook her head. “We have a past, but I’d rather not talk about it. We’ve put it behind us. Which is exactly what you have done.” Mia put her hand on Jane’s arm. “There’s only one guarantee in life: we all make mistakes. That’s all there is, really.”

“You make it sound so grim.” Jane looked Mia in the eye. “And you’re not married to Annie McLean, who doesn’t seem to put a foot wrong and who is always composed and always knows what to say and seems to have a handle on happily skating through life, for which I admire her greatly. But once in a while, it does make me feel like a giant loser in comparison.”

“You’re being way, way, way too harsh on yourself. You’re Jane Quinn, for crying out loud. That must be good for something.”

“It is most days,” Jane lied. She didn’t want to lie to Mia. It just came out. Or maybe it wasn’t that much of a lie. It was enough most days to do what she loved best in the world, except on those days when the words stalled in her brain and would be damned if they made it past her fingertips and the keyboard onto that big blank screen flickering in front of her. That made her feel most worthless of all. Because what is a writer who doesn’t write? Maybe she should ask Mia that next. She seemed to have her head screwed on right and be in possession of a good amount of common sense—of which, Jane knew, she sometimes didn’t have enough.

The door of the shop opened and they both looked up. Jane flinched a little less than before she’d had the cappuccino—and before she’d started talking to Mia.

Chapter Eleven

“Beth Walsh turned up at Jane’s book signing last week,” Annie said to Rita.

“Did she now.” They’d just finished their weekly Tuesday evening stint at the Sydney Charity Kitchen and were standing outside, waving goodbye to the last people leaving.

Annie was of two minds about asking Rita if she wanted to go for a drink. It wasn’t really their habit, but Annie didn’t feel like going straight home. Not because of the memories of Beth Walsh. It might have stung to have seen her and be reminded of the worst year of her and Jane’s history together, but it was her own imagination she feared the most. Lying awake at night, Jane obliviously sleeping beside her, while Annie came up with ways not to think of Kristin—which was the worst way to try and stop thinking about anything, let alone a woman you had a silly crush on.