I couldn’t believe how fast Lachlan had gone from zero to perfect. Not everyone in the world was so practical and good.

‘I love you, Lachlan,’ I said.

‘Faster please,’ he said.

I nodded, and turned around, and I almost died. Chris L was standing at the top of the stairs, wrapped in a sheet, in his dark sunglasses, a hand on his forehead. His other hand was gripping the banister, like he was close to tipping over.

‘Hiiii,’ he said.

His hair was mussed up like a kid’s.

‘Hi,’ I said calmly, and gave him my sternest nod. He looked so unprotected, barely moving, frankly looking hit. He moved through the kitchen like a blind thing, touching. ‘Breakfast,’ he murmured. ‘I don’t want breakfast,’ he said.

Lachlan was in the doorway.

‘Do you have your things?’ he said.

‘Yes,’ I said. Dan was lagging.

‘Dan,’ said Lachlan stonily.

‘I’m coming,’ he sang.

I marched towards Chris L, held out a hand and squeezed his shoulder. I said, ‘Let’s hang out soon, okay?’

He stood there quiet, blanking.

‘Okay, great!’ I said.

So we all poured down the stairs.

‘Are you ready?’ said Lachlan.

‘Mm-hmm,’ said Dan. He looked at me. ‘Are you ready?’ he said.

‘Yes,’ I said.

I looked up at the beach house, but there was no one there; Chris L was in the kitchen; Vivian, in bed.

We purred down the street. Poor Lachlan was driving.

‘Why couldn’t he have a real beach house,’ said Dan. ‘With a nicer beach, with real sand and nice water so we could have a swim?’

All of us were quiet.

‘Well,’ said Lachlan. ‘I don’t know why.’

He drove on in silence.

‘That’s okay, babe,’ said Dan.

We stopped endlessly for foolish reasons, water in single-use bottles and unchewable corn chips, and to give Lachlan driving breaks, which was fair enough. The sky kept on threatening to turn bold and bright and gold, but by the time the city could be seen on the horizon a sneaky god had loosed a mess of thick and mazy clouds.

But we were almost home, which meant it was almost bedtime, my favourite place to spend any holiday, particularly New Year’s, when other kids were partying and never getting home, getting trapped in distant suburbs, having to deal with drunks.

‘heyyyy :-)’ came the message.

It was the Richmond Man! My guts twisted. I looked back at the message trail:

‘Hey’ I’d written.

‘Hey’ again.

And then an unsent text: ‘It’s a huge towel emergency.’ At least I hadn’t sent that.

Oh, boy. I felt terrible, but not so terrible that I was going to . . . what?

Actually, not anything, not the barest minimum. I was not going to explain the messages, or retrieve the towel. All of it was optional, so I was opting out.

‘Not now bud,’ I messaged back.

‘I’m ready now :-)’ it said.

‘Ugh!’ I said out loud.