‘But it’s so much work,’ Harper says.

‘I like work!’ I say.

‘What about your whole cyst situation?’ she says, waving her hand in front of her pelvic area, then pausing. ‘Cyst situation. Cystuation?’ She grins.

‘My cystuation is fine,’ I say, smiling back. ‘Totally healed. And I’m cooking for you.’

She gets up and hugs me. It makes my heart sing. We’re at the hugging stage—we’re definitely friends, or close to friends, it cannot be denied. I haven’t been hugged in months.

‘You’re a lifesaver,’ she says. I turn away in case all that sudden emotion is showing on my face. I don’t want to scare her off.

Harper opens the fridge and pulls out a yoghurt that is two days past its use-by and I almost threw away.

‘That’s out of date.’ I don’t want to sound like I monitor everything in the fridge for use-by dates, even though I do monitor everything in the fridge for use-by dates.

‘It’ll be fine,’ she says, opening it and smelling it and shrugging. The way she so casually takes her life in her hands is almost admirable.

‘You can’t smell bacteria,’ I can’t stop myself from saying.

‘Do you have an ex?’ Harper asks suddenly, taking a big spoonful.

‘Not really,’ I say, turning back to the recipe and the food laid out in front of me.

‘She does, and his name is Tristan,’ Jesse says, at the same time, from the doorway. He works part-time at Bunnings and he’s just finished his shift. He’s still wearing the red polo shirt. I turn to glower at him.

‘Don’t be an arsehole,’ I say, slicing into an eggplant. I don’t think we have sharp enough knives for this. There’s a lot of chopping involved.

‘All I said was his name,’ Jesse says.

‘You said it in an arsehole way.’

‘Tell me about Tristan,’ Harper says, settling into a chair.

‘There’s nothing to tell,’ I say.

‘They dated for years,’ Jesse says, leaning against the bench and getting in my way.

‘Less than a year,’ I correct.

‘He was her high-school sweetheart,’ Jesse says.

‘Hardly,’ I say, even though, I guess, technically it’s true.

‘He would always wait at the door of the classroom for her English class to finish, and then carry her things for her, and it confused me, like, how did he always manage to get out of his class early enough to be waiting at the door like that?’ Jesse says.

‘He was very considerate,’ I say.

‘Was he getting special permission from his teacher? Did he have his schedule arranged so he had a free period every time you had English? Or was he a super-fast runner?’ Jesse shakes his head like it’s a fascinating unsolved mystery.