He went quiet. I looked around the room for the first time in what felt like hours. Rachel was still upstairs. The newb was putting desserts down at a table near the front windows and Emma was clearing another. There was a docket sitting in my machine that I hadn’t noticed come in. ‘Sorry,’ I said, reaching for it. ‘I should get back to work.’

‘Yeah, of course.’ He smiled.

‘Enjoy your drink.’

‘Thanks, Caitlin.’

I gave him one last look, then moved over to the coffee machine.

‘Everything okay?’ Rachel asked, coming up next to me as I finished two cappuccinos.

I nodded. ‘All good.’

‘Want a cigarette before stock?’

‘Always,’ I said, not needing to be asked twice. My eyes flickered over to Tom, but he was looking at something on his phone, not paying any attention. I turned and went down the back.

I smoked slowly. The blank postcard of Central Park sat on my lap, a pen in my free hand. I was still trying to find the right words—any words.

Dear Lina, Congratulations! That is amazing and I am so happy for you and I can’t wait. I love you.

Leen, I’m sorry I’ve been MIA. Just working a lot, you don’t have to worry. When can we celebrate?

I’m sorry.

Hey.

Hi.

It had been nine days, I realised. I had to call her. Every morning I got up and told myself I would, but I didn’t, and all day I felt sick and guilty and ashamed, and angry. I could see her, that cold disappointment turning more furious, more fed up, with every day that passed. Or maybe Mum was wrong—maybe she hardly cared. She had Matt now, her happily-ever-after. She didn’t need me anymore. Maybe she never had.

In the end I didn’t write anything. My cigarette went out, and I threw it at the sand bucket, put the postcard and pen back in my apron and went inside. When I got back to the bar Tom was gone, and I felt a sting of regret, but I didn’t know why.

I worked until close and then I walked home the longest way I knew, until I was so tired I couldn’t hear and my legs had turned to lead. I had a beer in the kitchen—Marnie was out, again, always—and another in my room, leaning out the window smoking cigarette after cigarette and reading Lina’s old postcards one by one.

Caitie,