After dinner, Lina took Mum into the lounge room to show her some pictures of the resort, and Matt disappeared into the study. I carried a stack of dishes into the kitchen, started rinsing them in the sink.

‘Hi, Cait.’

‘Oh.’ I turned around in surprise. ‘Hey, Dad. I thought you were …’

I didn’t know what I’d thought he was doing. He was quiet through dinner, letting Mum talk, like he always did.

‘It’s all right.’ He leaned back against the bench, crossing his arms. He looked older, his hair greyer and mulleting like it did whenever he was overdue for a haircut.

‘Did you enjoy dinner?’ I pulled the dishwasher open.

‘It was great.’

‘I swear,’ I started awkwardly—I couldn’t remember the last time we’d been alone in a room together. Mum was always there, taking up all the air. ‘At Sawyer’s we had chefs making us dinner every night but Lina’s cooking is so much better. It’s like she cares more, I think.’

Dad paused. ‘Are you going to go back there?’ he asked. ‘You’ve been off for a while.’

I shrugged, turned back to the sink. I’d been thinking about it a lot, talking to Georgia about it. ‘I think so.’

‘You liked that place, didn’t you?’

I thought for a minute, staring at the water running into the sink. ‘Yeah,’ I said finally. ‘Yeah, I did.’

I missed the bar, I missed the way my body knew exactly what to do, my brain quiet, and the strange satisfaction I felt at the end of a crazy busy night, being part of something that just worked, that made people happy, even if it was only for a few hours. I even missed the parts of it I hated—I missed caring enough to hate them.

Nic messaged every week or so. No pressure, I just want to make sure you’re okay. I always replied and told him as much of the truth as I could. That I was getting there, that I was trying. Soon, I said. He always said it was fine, and for some reason I believed him.

Holly had messaged too, a couple of times. I’d only replied once. I missed her as well, but I wasn’t ready yet.

‘How are you, Cait?’

The question startled me. I was expecting more small talk.

Dad pushed off the bench, came around and took the dish I’d been holding, packed it into the dishwasher. ‘Don’t worry.’ He made a face. ‘Your mum’s been teaching me how to load one of these the right way for twenty years.’

I laughed, knowing exactly what he meant. I picked up another plate, ran it under the tap.

‘You know,’ he said carefully, ‘I used to drive her mad when you were a kid.’

‘How so?’ I handed it to him.