‘It depends.’ I couldn’t help smiling. ‘Do your parents pay your rent?’

‘They paid the deposit,’ he said, feigning innocence. ‘Is that worse?’

‘God.’ I shook my head. ‘So much worse.’

‘They did teach me to keep my hands to myself, though, if that helps.’

I laughed. It felt odd, too breathy.

‘Wait,’ I said, giving him a look, shifting course. ‘Where exactly did you go to school?’

‘Caitlin …’ His smile widened as he leaned in, and I saw the dimple again. ‘You don’t want to know.’

I cringed. ‘Oh, wow. I’m sorry.’

‘No, you’re not,’ he teased, easing back, still watching me. ‘But you don’t need to be.’

I smiled, maybe too tightly.

He straightened. ‘Are you sure you’re okay walking home?’

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘I’ll be careful.’

‘Good.’

‘I’m not even that drunk.’

He laughed. ‘That’s good too, I think. Will you message me when you get home?’

I hesitated. ‘I don’t have your number.’

‘I could give it to you.’

I thought about it, what that would mean. Slowly, I shook my head. Too complicated. ‘Let’s just …’ Neither of us moved, and I started to feel an unsteadiness spreading up from my feet. ‘Um, thanks, though. For the drink. Drinks. I’ll get them next time.’

I hadn’t meant to say it, and he raised an eyebrow.

‘If there is a next time, that is.’ I was cringing before the words even left my mouth.

He nodded. ‘For sure, Cait.’

‘Yeah, right.’ I smiled. ‘Anyway, thanks.’

‘Night, Caitlin.’

‘Goodnight.’

But I didn’t move.

10 SATURDAY, MAY

10

SATURDAY, MAY

I walked for hours after Tom went home, trying to calm the crackling and the fizzing and the bubbling that had started in my chest, trying to remember the last time I’d talked to anyone as much as I’d talked to him.

Before the accident. A long time before that.

Lina and I used to talk. In between postcards we used to have dinner or lunch or watch bad TV shows at each other’s houses and talk for hours and hours. We’d catch trains and slump down in those seats and not stop talking for the entire trip. We made plans, read too many travel blogs and plotted out itineraries and the postcards were just asides, with their own threads and their own rhythms. I didn’t know if she still had the ones I’d sent her. I didn’t know where they belonged in a brand-new townhouse with a timber island bench and twin shower.

Caitlin,