you to make myself feel better, like you said,’ Mila said. ‘Or out of guilt.’ Another pause. ‘I was worried about you.’
Ah. Yes, he had replied to one email. He remembered typing it, with angry, careless keystrokes. He didn’t remember the content—he didn’t want to. It wouldn’t have been nice. It would have been cruel.
‘I wasn’t in a good place,’ he said.
Mila nodded. ‘I know. I wish you’d let me be there for you. Steph was my best friend, but she was your wife. I can’t imagine how difficult this has been for you.’
She stepped towards him now, reaching out a hand before letting it drop away against her hip, not having touched him at all. He realised, belatedly, that she wasn’t angry with him. That he’d misinterpreted the narrowing of her eyes, the tension in her muscles...
She was guarded, not angry. As if she was protecting herself.
He’d known he’d hurt her at the funeral. Not straight away—it had taken months for his brain to function properly again—but eventually. And she was still hurt, now.
That was difficult for Seb to acknowledge. The Mila he knew was always so together. So tough. So assured. She didn’t sweat the small things. Didn’t put up with nonsense.
But he’d hurt her—and he was supposed to be her friend. Once he’d been one of her closest friends—and the last person in the world who would want to cause her pain. And yet he had. He didn’t like that at all.
‘You didn’t stuff up,’ she said after a long silence. ‘I mean, I don’t think there are really rules in this situation. When a man loses his wife. But I think lashing out occasionally is allowed.’ She shrugged. ‘I’m a big girl. I can deal with it.’
She was being too kind, too understanding. ‘I can still apologise,’ he said. ‘That’s why I’m here. To say sorry. For what I said at the funeral and for everything afterwards. We both lost Steph. I should’ve been there for you, too. I should’ve been a better friend.’
He could see her ready to argue again, to attempt to absolve him of all guilt—but he didn’t want that. And maybe she understood.
‘Okay.’
But he could see she wasn’t entirely comfortable.
‘I accept your apology. But only if you promise not to send any more mean emails. Deal?’
There it was—the spark in her gaze. The sparkle he remembered from the strong, cheeky, stubborn teenage version of Mila. And the strong, cheeky, stubborn early-twenty-something version, too.
‘Deal,’ he said, with a relieved smile.
She was twenty-nine, now. A year younger than Seb. She’d matured and lost that lanky teenage look, but she was still very much the Mila Molyneux who featured in so many of his childhood memories. He’d lived two houses down from her in their exclusive Peppermint Grove neighbourhood—although at first they’d had no idea of their privileged upbringing. All the three of them—Steph, Mila and Seb—had cared about was their next adventure. Building forts, riding their bikes, clandestine trips to the shops for overstuffed bags of lollies... And then, once they were older, they’d somehow maintained their friendship despite being split into separate gender-specific high schools. All three had studied together, hung out together. Had fun.
Mila had even been the first girl he’d kissed.
He hadn’t thought about that in years. It had, it turned out, been a disaster. He’d misread the situation, embarrassed them both.
Mila was looking at him curiously.
‘So, any chance of a tour?’ he asked, dragging himself back into the present.
Mila shook her head firmly. ‘Not until you tell me why on earth you’re wearing that,’ she said, with a pointed look at his work clothes.
Seb grinned. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Long story. How about you give me the tour of your shop first? Then I’ll give you a tour of next door and explain.’
‘Nope,’ Mila said firmly. ‘You’re giving me your tour first—because I need to find out how an international IT consultant has ended up renovating the shop next door.’
‘Well,’ Seb said, smiling fully now, ‘that’s kind of all your fault, Mila.’
‘My fault?’ Mila said, tapping her chest as if to confirm who he was referring to.
‘Most definitely,’ he said. Then he grabbed her hand and tugged her towards her front door. ‘Come on, then.’
And, for one of the very few times he could remember, Mila Molyneux looked less than in control of a situation.
Seb decided he liked that.
SEB’S HAND FELT DIFFERENT.
Not rough, or anything. Just... Mila didn’t know how to describe it. Tougher? As if this utterly unexpected transformation from brilliant IT geek into rugged workman had not happened recently.
But then—how did she even know it felt different? How long had it been since he’d held her hand? Or even touched her?
Years.
For ever.
She gave her head a little shake as Seb led her through the entrance of the shop next door. This was just silly. She’d let go of thinking about Seb’s touch years ago—or reacting in any way. She wasn’t about to start again now.
Especially not now.
‘I promise, Steph, I don’t like him, like him. It’s okay.’
Thirteen-year-old Mila had managed a wide smile, even if her gaze hadn’t quite met her best friend’s.
They’d sat cross-legged on Steph’s bed, a small mountain of rented VHS tapes between them, awaiting their planned sleepover movie marathon.
‘Are you sure?’ Steph had asked. ‘Because—’
‘Yes!’ Mila had said emphatically. ‘He’s just my friend. I don’t have like...romantic feelings for him. I never have and I never will. I promise...’
He’d dropped her hand now, anyway, oblivious. He’d taken a few steps into the gutted shop and now spread his arms out wide to encompass the cavernous double-height space, pivoting to look at her expectantly.
Mila needed a moment to take it all in. To take Seb in.
It had been more than six months since his email—since he’d so unequivocally told Mila never to contact him again. He’d then blocked her and unfollowed her on all social media. Set all of his accounts to private.
Effectively, he’d erased himself from Mila’s life. And, on the other side of the world, she’d been helpless to do one thing about it.
Rationally,
