“In rom-coms, the girls always have a special skill.”

“Yeah, well, it’s usually always a women’s magazine journalist or personal assistant. What is it with rom-coms and journalists?”

“That’s true. Maybe I should be a women’s magazine journalist?” I sounded like Ruby.

“Do you even read any women’s magazines?”

“No. I already know all ninety-nine tips for driving my man wild.” I turned and sat up, pulling a cardigan over my shoulders, the warmth of the day leaching out with the cool breeze over the waves.

“Maybe we should find you another passion, babe.”

“Babe,” I repeated, mocking her English accent. She flicked me with her forefinger.

“What do we do, then? We don’t have anything to teach each other. Unless you want to hear about what I learned about Prussia for Leaving Cert history? To be honest, it feels like the exam was ages ago now, so I don’t actually remember much anymore,” I said.

“Why don’t we both learn something new?” Ruby suggested. She stretched her feet out, digging her toes into the sand, and the last rays of sun lit her up like the light was coming from the inside.

“Ukulele?” I offered.

“No, something practical that we can actually use in real life.”

“Budgeting?”

“All right, something a bit less practical. Like . . . cooking? We could take a cooking class.” She brightened. “That’s a great idea. It’s something we can both use, it’ll be fun, and every time you make fresh fettuccine you’ll think of me.”

I pictured future me in the kitchen of a cozy flat. There’d be music and candles and Ruby would be playing with our dog while I flambéed stuff.

Our dog? What a ridiculous thought.

Ruby was very much a cat person.

Cooking was a good idea, though. I hadn’t considered how I would feed myself if I went to uni or moved out. I hadn’t got any of those jobs yet but surely somewhere would soon find themselves in need of a totally unqualified teenager? Even if I stayed living at home, cooking something that was not frozen pizza would probably come in handy. I should have done it years ago and saved myself the torture of trying to force down whatever Dad had boiled to death.

“You’re brilliant,” I said, and kissed Ruby’s freckled nose, more freckled now than when we’d met.

“I know.” She reciprocated by nibbling on my bottom lip, “You should be celebrating the day you ever met me.”

“I do,” I said seriously. “I got a free bottle of vodka that night.”

“You’re such a romantic.” Ruby fluttered her eyelashes at me. “That’s why I l—”

We both froze to almost comic effect.

“Why we,” she started again, the frozen moment vanishing unacknowledged, a glitch in the matrix, “are so good at this montage thing.”