Manhattan, 1990.

“You narcissistic prick!”

“What?”

She paused for a second and swallowed. “You heard me.”

John raised his eyebrows, wondering where the hell this was coming from. “Look, you’re a great person, I just think—”

“If you weren’t serious about this,” she interrupted, “then you shouldn’t have led me on. I gave up other options for you.” She crossed her arms, defensively. Her tone was more confident now.

She had given up other options? Wasn’t that the whole point of this conversation?

“I just wanted to make sure we were on the same page,” he continued, “that you knew this wasn’t exclusive. It’s not you. I think you’re great, but ...” He searched for the right words; the last thing he wanted right now was a scene.

Crystal was great. Although she had been made up impeccably the night before, she now looked vulnerable without the defenses of foundation, lipstick and eye shadow. Her long brown hair was in a ponytail, which cascaded down the back of her white silk blouse. Her dark blue skinny jeans hugged her treadmill-toned legs down to her black leather, knee-high boots. Makeup or not, she was still attractive. She would be a catch for any guy. Except him.

As soon as he had slept with her, all of the chemistry had drained away. He now wanted her to leave. John felt guilty, but there was no attraction left.

“But what?” she asked so aggressively it startled him.

They were in John’s kitchen, which abutted the living room of his two-bedroom apartment. Stainless steel pots sat on the granite countertop, next to the double sinks, begging to be washed. John sat in front of a half-eaten bowl of muesli, looking up at Crystal, who stood with her arms tightly folded across her chest, glaring at him. It occurred to him just how upset she was. Realising he only had another moment to find a legitimate-sounding answer, he racked his brain for something believable. But what? He hadn’t thought that far ahead. Shit! Lie? He was trying not to do that. He didn’t want to be that person. Often, though, it was easier than telling the truth—like right now. He didn’t want to hurt her; he just wanted her gone.

“Just stop for a second,” he said. “Let me get this out without you jumping on everything that I—”

“Jumping on what?” she demanded. John glanced down at the gold Rolex on his wrist. It was five minutes after 10. Instead of continuing, he simply shrugged and brushed his brown hair out of his face.

“You pathetic bastard!” she spat out, her nostrils flaring as she spoke. He sat there in silence, trying to get the right expression on his face. He was consciously trying to look serious and not laugh. As he concentrated, the edges of his mouth threatened to turn up at either end. John’s lips twitched nervously.

Last night, Crystal had stayed over for the first time. He hadn’t really wanted her to stay, and to make matters worse, she’d broached the subject of their relationship after sex. Now, she’d verbally attacked him as he was eating his breakfast. It was all too much.

John didn’t want this to end badly and having her stalk out would make him feel bad for the rest of the day. However, he hated being confronted more.

“What did you think was going to happen with us?” he asked, cautiously. “You knew the rules going into this.”

That was the last straw. “You’re all the same,” she spat angrily. She took two steps towards him, her face scrunched up, and he thought she was going to slap him—but she didn’t. “You were just using me!” Grabbing her Birkin bag and matching red coat, she stormed to the door.

He sighed. In one last effort to smooth things over, he said, “Look, I really do think you’re a great person. I was just pointing out that we aren’t exclusive.”

She paused, her fingers on the door handle. She continued facing the door with her back to him, like she was listening and waiting for more.

“You were forming expectations,” he continued. “You would have wound up getting hurt. I’m just trying to avoid that. But I’ve clearly made a mess of this, given how upset you are.”

“Upset ...?” A growl formed in her throat, as she turned to face him one last time. “MOTHER-FUCKER!”

John winced.

Crystal fought with the lock, the chain, and the deadbolt, hampered by her bag and coat. It was frustrating to watch. She furtively wiped the corner of her eye, making him feel even worse, and continued her struggle.

You can do it. Come on, John mentally urged. He didn’t want to have to go over and get within striking distance, but it was taking an eternity of seconds. He reluctantly started walking over, his bare feet softly padding the cold hardwood floor, but before he reached her, she got the door open. Without looking back, she slammed it shut behind her.

* * *

A soft, steady drumbeat accompanied his thoughts. It was the sound of his feet hitting the sidewalk. John was running the Hudson River Greenway path, which followed the western side of lower Manhattan and included a five-and-a-half mile path for runners and cyclists. The route started at Battery Park, with its awe-inspiring view of the Statue of Liberty and ended near Chelsea Piers and the U.S.S. Intrepid. Although he was enjoying the refreshment of the pelting rain, the path was getting muddy. He slowed down, and his thoughts caught up with him.

I didn’t lead her on.

We only had four dates.

For Christ-sakes we only had sex once.

I gave it a chance.

What was I supposed to have done?

I’d been honest.

I was trying to let her know where I was at.

I thought that’s what women wanted.

Narcissist?

Bullshit.

I would have been happy to be friends.

I did the right thing.

There wasn’t any electricity.

No chemistry.

I was just being honest …

I didn’t want anything serious.

Maybe its time I get serious with someone.

Not Crystal.

I’m 30 for fuck sake.

What I really need is a fuck buddy.

Where do you meet one?

There must be some kind of specialist dating service for that.

John’s pace slowed even further so he could catch his breath.

What sort of weirdo advertises for a fuck buddy?

Where do you meet decent girls in this city—someone good-looking, who can hold a conversation, who has a decent job; a woman with a life, who doesn’t need to tie a man down?

Maybe a hot, young model with brains?

He snorted, amused. If such a creature existed, he hadn’t met her. He’d have more luck finding a fuck buddy. How about a fuck buddy who’s a model? Yeah, that’s what I need. Then we wouldn’t have to talk. I’m busy with work and she’d be busy being beautiful.

Fuck her. I’m not a narcissist.

There were three messages flashing on his answering machine when John got home. John winced at the thought one might be from Crystal.

Message one: “Dude, it’s me.” It was his closest friend, Mac. “Tonight, 8:30 for dinner. I’ve booked at Republic and then we’ll hit Nell’s. Don’t give me some lame excuse about work; it’s the weekend.”

Message two was from his sister: “Hey John, I want to organise Mum’s birthday present. It’s a week from Tuesday, in case you forgot. I assume you’ve done nothing about it. Give me a call.”

Thank God for sisters.

Message three: “John, its Michael. How are you? It’s been a while. If you’re not too busy this weekend, it would be great to catch up. Call me.” Michael was an old college buddy. They’d been close once upon a time—John had been a groomsman at Michael’s wedding—but they hadn’t seen each other in three or four months now. He promised himself he’d try and call back if he got time.

The warm water gushing out of the jets soaked his head and body. His eyes closed tight, John leant into the stream, sighing as it enveloped him. It was therapy, a sanctuary, a place of peace and quiet, his warm escape. But even safely cocooned in the running water, he could still feel his temples throbbing.

Why am I still thinking about her?

Should I call her?

He nixed that thought. She’d get the wrong idea. There’s no going back after this morning. She definitely wasn’t the one. She was attractive … at least before today. If she was going to get attached, it was for the best I’d finished it quickly.

Cruel to be kind.

John offered his colleagues cursory greetings as he made his way to his desk. Working weekends had become a fairly regular ritual since he had joined the bank 10 years ago. He didn’t, mind except when the weather was nice. On wet weekends like this, it was almost enjoyable to sit at his desk, working his way through his to-do list at a relatively leisurely pace.

The three other guys in the office, who were part of his team, were already head-down in the files. They’d probably staggered in between nine and 10, well before John arrived at 11:30. He needed to check the spreadsheet before they sent it on to Rob, John’s boss and a partner of the bank. If Rob was happy, it would then go onto the client.

Richard, the young guy responsible for running the numbers, came over holding a printout.

“Hey, John,” he mumbled.

John nodded by way of acknowledgement as he took the spreadsheet from Richard and started looking through it.

Richard was a recent college grad who had joined the bank six months earlier after completing their post-grad program. His accent made it impossible to tell where he was from—it could have been Harvard, Yale or Stanford. He was all Ivy League youth; a high-protein-fed gym junkie; a mathematician with a finance background. Richard’s future would surely include an MBA. He seemed nice enough, and John was warming to him.

John sifted down the printout number by number, asking himself if they made sense. It didn’t really matter that the client was a distressed hospital owner and healthcare provider; all that mattered was whether or not the numbers added up and if they could close a deal. John scrutinised the staff costs and the interest on the new debt the bank would put into the company. After culling half the workforce, the overhead should be 35 percent lower, and given the price they were intending to offer, the interest on the new debt would be half that. If they got it at that price, the bank stood to make a killing.

John worked for one of the most—if not the most—prestigious financial institutions on Wall Street. An investment bank, they were different to a main-street bank in that they didn’t issue credit cards, lend people money to buy homes or exchange currencies for holidays.

John’s team specialised in buying distressed or bankrupt businesses that owned plenty of real estate. Desperate companies made good bargains—for the bank, anyway. The bank would then sell all of the company’s land and buildings. Meanwhile, they would try to salvage the company or sell it on to a competitor. And if the company wasn’t salvageable, they’d sell the plant and equipment and sack the staff. These companies were usually worth more in parts than as a whole; especially given it was John’s job to purchase them for as little as possible, ensuring that the value of the real estate was far in excess of what they were paying for it. It wasn’t noble work, but it increased the bank’s wallet exponentially.

John’s entire focus was on making money. A piece of every profitable deal he closed trickled down into his bonus at the end of each year. There were no long-term relationships, just a quick in and out. Wham, bam, thank you ma’am.

At 8:30, John walked into Republic, a popular restaurant that was a short walk from his SoHo apartment. He found Mac at the bar, talking to two attractive girls. One was blonde (probably dyed, but a quality job) with a cute button nose and unkempt hair. It didn’t look like she was wearing any make-up. The other one had dark-brown features, captivating eyes and high cheekbones. Southern European descent John guessed, much more his type. The brunette looked like she was in her late 20s; the blonde perhaps a little younger.

“Hey, dude,” Mac greeted him.

“How’s things?” John asked, casually.

“Good.”

John bent his head away from the girls so they would be out of earshot as he whispered to Mac, “Who are they?”

“No idea,” Mac said with a smirk. “Just met ‘em.”

John nodded his approval.

John had known Mac for almost 10 years. They had met on the bank’s corporate finance graduate training program. While John had gone on to make a career at the bank, Mac had lasted only six months in Mergers and Acquisitions, where the regular workday lasted a minimum of 12 hours. “It was cramping my style,” he explained to John after he resigned and moved on to stock broking, finding the hours and lifestyle much more to his liking. He bought and sold shares for hedge funds and boutique professional money managers, which meant his currency was in rumors and access to the best clubs and beautiful women. John thought it absurd that someone got paid so well to show his clients a good time.

A waitress seated them in Republic’s best booth, leaving the girls behind at the bar. While they enjoyed their prime cuts of aged Angus beef, they chatted briefly about the bad run the Giants were having before Mac pointedly changed the subject.

“I read about Wellco in the Journal,” he began. “Any chance of them selling high enough to make something for their struggling shareholders?” Wellco was the healthcare company John’s team was trying to buy, whose stock price had been trading at a penny. Effectively bankrupt, Wellco hadn’t yet filed for Chapter 11. Instead, it was up for sale and trying to sell off its assets to raise capital to pay off its debts.

John frowned. Mac’s question had put him on the spot. He couldn’t talk about work; it would breach his confidentiality obligations to the bank, as well as being technically illegal.

“I can’t talk about it,” John said, in a low voice.

“Sure,” said Mac, sounding earnest. “But I’ve heard rumors that the sale process will easily bring in more than the debt, so I’m going to pick up some shares. Keep an ear out for me if it looks like going bad.”

John fought with his loyalties. He knew there was no way the sale process was going to raise more money than the debt. The shareholders would get zip, and the shares were worthless.

“I’d invest your money in real companies with a future and leave the distressed businesses to me,” he offered up, cautiously.

Mac searched John’s face for clues.

John swiftly changed the subject, filling Mac in on that morning’s episode. While John had never introduced Mac to Crystal, he had given him a running commentary throughout the fling. Mac supported the hard line John had taken and went on to give his opinion on needy women. John had learned shortly after meeting Mac that he had no morals. He also had a habit of talking on any subject as if he had a PhD in it, whether the subject was rocket science, the secret to dating women or the direction of the stock market.

After they’d finished their meal and a bottle of Merlot, Mac’s attention moved back to the girls, who were still standing by the bar.

“Which one do you want?” Mac asked.

John feigned a lack of preference despite a natural desire for the brunette.

“I’ll take the blonde,” said Mac, eagerly, flashing a determined smile. John followed a few paces behind as Mac led the way back to the women.

“Hey ladies,” greeted Mac.

“How was your dinner?” the blonde asked as Mac claimed his spot beside her.

“Good. But we’ve left room for dessert,” Mac directed at her, with a raised eyebrow. He was anything but shy.

“So where are you ladies from,” John asked the brunette, who was even more attractive on a full stomach. She wore a bright blue jacket with shoulder pads over a blouse and tight black pants.

“Philly,” she informed him. There was a touch of giddiness in her voice.

“And how long have you been in New York?”

The small talk went on until John and Mac had been filled in on the pertinent details. Linda, the brunette, had lived in New York for five years after graduating from Penn State. She worked in fashion and had just started a new job at Macy’s as a buyer. Heather, the blonde, was Linda’s freshman roommate and had moved up to New York six months ago after splitting with her long-term boyfriend. She worked in P.R. and had found a low rung position at a high flying firm—almost as high as her miniskirt.

“And where are you from?” the brunette quizzed Mac before sucking dry her Long Island Iced Tea through the clear plastic straw.

“New York. Why?” Mac sounded taken aback.

“You sound a little West Coast.”

“You’re close, but a little too far south,” John offered up, enjoying Mac’s discomfort. “He’s a Portland boy originally.” Mac audibly winced. He’d only lived there until he was 14, when his father’s job relocated them to the East coast. He therefore considered himself as much a New Yorker as if he’d been born in The Bronx, Brooklyn, Manhattan or Queens.

“So what do you guys do?” Heather asked Mac, allowing him to bounce back with gusto.

“I’m a stockbroker and John’s an investment banker.”

John didn’t react; he even tried to feign the irrelevance of his job to himself. He both enjoyed and hated the term “investment banker” and the cachet that came with it.

Mac proceeded to talk about his work, the more glamorous aspects of it, which seemed to enthrall both girls. This allowed John a few moments to distance himself from the conversation and reflect. He found the brunette attractive—she was obviously good looking and her profession was acceptable enough, but the business of fashion didn’t hold much interest for him.

He allowed his mind to drift back to that morning’s episode.

How do you tell someone not to get too attached?

The only way to have casual sex without someone getting hurt was for everyone to be clear about their expectations. Maybe it wasn’t even his problem. If she’d assumed they were exclusive, then that’s a conclusion she’d jumped to. He hadn’t led her on, he was sure about that. And anyway, the chemistry had died.

Why do women always want fireworks and romance, but when a guy wants chemistry he’s an asshole? And how else do you know if there’s chemistry or fireworks unless you have sex?

John fleetingly considered sharing the Crystal story with the girls to get their opinion, but thought better of it.

“Let’s go to Nell’s,” Mac was suggesting as John came back to the present.

“What’s Nell’s?” Linda asked.

“The hottest club in town,” Mac said nonchalantly. “It’s over in the meatpacking district.”

Heather looked alarmed.

“Is it safe?” she asked, lowering her voice a little. The area had a solid reputation for drug dealing and prostitution. It had changed somewhat in the last year. Several gay clubs had opened up and like bees to honey, the advertising and media crowd, along with wanna-be trendy’s, were starting to party there too.

“If you stick with us,” Mac grinned.

The four of them took a cab along Houston, then up West Street towards 14th. Following a short conversation between Mac and the doorman, they were waved through a long line of envious clubbers. Mac then went straight to the bar to take care of the drinks, leaving John with the girls at a table.

John had never been great with women in nightclubs, preferring to have conversations over dinner or in a quiet bar or lounge. He didn’t care for small talk and he hated shouting above the thumping music. Thankfully, the girls seemed engrossed in their own conversation, leaving John to survey their surroundings. It was a while since he’d been to a club; everyone looked younger than he remembered.

Mac returned with the drinks: four tequila shots, three vodkas with various mixers, and a scotch and Coke for John.

John frowned at the thought of another tequila night with Mac; wary of the wasted Sunday he’d spend tomorrow.

After throwing down his shot, Mac took a swig of his vodka and suggested they dance.

They moved onto the laser-lit floor and found themselves squeezed amongst the other groovers. John went through the motions of dancing, trying not to feel self-conscious; swinging his hips, shuffling his feet and trying to coordinate his arms to the rhythm of En Vogue’s latest Billboard chart topper. He wasn’t embarrassing himself, but he wasn’t shining either. But it wasn’t his thing; the dance floor was much more Mac's playground.

When “I’m too sexy for my shirt …” boomed over the speakers, Linda and Heather started squealing and bouncing up and down to the beat of Right Said Fred’s number-one hit. John took it as his cue to head back to the bar. Mac joined him a few songs later, alone.

“Where are the girls?” John said.

“Powdering their noses,” Mac said with a wink. He grabbed the barman’s attention and ordered, “Four tequila shots, three vodkas and a scotch and Coke—thanks, dude.”

“Hold the scotch and Coke,” John instructed the barman before turning to Mac and indicating his still three-quarter-full glass. “I’ve gotta work tomorrow.”

“Work-schmerk, big guy. You gotta live in the moment before you burn out.”

Mac had arrived at his “live life to the fullest” phase of the evening, which John had noticed usually began after Mac had done a line or two. John wasn’t interested in coke, especially after witnessing its effects on his colleagues and friends. It turned them into arrogant, neurotic assholes for the most part. He’d tried it once, but it seemed like a lot of money to pay for confidence he already possessed. And he didn’t like to lose control. Besides, half of his male friends said they took it because it made sex so much better and John needed no help in that department.

When Heather and Linda came back, Mac handed round the tequila shots and then raised his glass, making a toast to new friends. Each of them grimaced in their own way as they threw down the liquor and felt the burn in the backs of their throats. To ease the momentary scorching, John sucked on the slice of lemon Mac handed him.

“Remind me why we like tequila,” John asked.

“Because we’re young and single,” Mac said, before glancing at his watch. “Speaking of which,” he looked apologetically at Heather, “I gotta run. I have to meet some clients at a new place downtown.”

John was surprised. He assumed Mac would be taking Heather home.

“You wanna come?” Mac then said to John, which seemed even more dismissive of the girls.

“I’ll pass,” John announced, after a slight pause.

“Suit yourself, Champ.” Mac, said, giving him a quick back slap. He turned to Heather, “Give me your number and we’ll catch up some time,” he said without the least bit of embarrassment. Then he was gone.

John was torn between wanting sleep and wanting Linda. She was pretty and looked sexy in her body-hugging black pants. He procrastinated while the girls talked amongst themselves, slurring their words a little. John didn’t find inebriated women attractive ... unless he was drunk, too.

Finally Linda turned to John. “Let’s dance,” she suggested, looking him squarely in the eyes. He took her outstretched hand and let her lead him to the dance floor. “Rhythm is a dancer …” went the song (more of a dancer than John, that was for sure).

Linda threw her arms around his neck, pulling him tight. He smelled the alcohol on her breath. She smiled drunkenly. He looked into her sultry eyes and she glanced back. She was his to take. John smiled, still unsure of what he wanted to do.

Linda closed her eyes and moved towards him. He let it happen. The kiss was brief, sloppy, and didn’t ignite anything in him. John wiped the saliva from his mouth. It occurred to him that Mac had timed his departure impeccably.

When they returned to the bar, Heather was talking to another guy. Linda’s arm dangled around John’s neck, her hand playing with his hair as she struggled to put together coherent sentences. John’s attraction was fading fast.

Just leave, a voice inside him decreed.

“I’ve got to go,” he announced.

“I’ll come too,” Linda slurred, with a playful smile.

Heather’s new guy had just bought her a blue and pink cocktail, so she didn’t seem too bothered by her friend’s desertion. John supported Linda from the bar out onto the sidewalk. He helped her into a waiting cab. Her smile turned to confusion as soon as he slammed the door shut behind her.

John got into the cab behind and wondered why he still bothered to go out. But he knew the answer—there was no other way he was going to meet the perfect woman.

* * *

John took the Six line uptown. It was three p.m. on Sunday and he’d organised to take his niece and nephew to the park. It was a local train, stopping all stations.

While they weren’t always friends growing up, since finishing school, John and his sister Annie had become tight. His only sibling was now his closest confidant; one of the few people whose advice he listened to. She was a doctor, married to a surgeon, Hank, who John considered a decent guy, if a tad boring at times. But all in all, John was immensely proud of his sister, doing well at her job, raising two kids and, from what John could see, successfully holding down a marriage. Such structure and responsibility were things he couldn’t yet imagine, though appreciated being part of when he visited.

“Hey, Sis.” They exchanged a double-cheek-European-kiss.

“Hey, John. How are you?” Annie asked. She wore a bright red blouse over a pair of jeans and her shoulder length brown hair looked freshly cut.

“Good. A little tired, but fine.”

“Work or play?”

John shrugged. “A little of both.”

“Uncle John!” shouted five-year-old Joshua as he ran to him.

“Uncle John,” copied Christina, running just behind him, pig-tails flapping. She was a year and a half younger than Josh.

John gave them both a hug and a kiss. Joshua had started school this year and was already addicted to baseball. When Joshua asked if he was taking them to the park, Christina repeated what her older brother said.

John nodded. “Should we take a ball?”

Joshua ran off to get one.

“Can we play house too?” asked Christina.

“Sure.”

“Back by five for a bath and dinner,” Annie said.

“Done.”

His sister’s life was so orderly – the complete opposite of his.

After they returned from Central Park and the kids were finally in bed, John, Annie and Hank sat down to dinner. It was only 7:30, but his sister and Hank already looked exhausted. As was John. He was happy to have an early night before another big week ahead.

“Hank’s been offered a big job at the University of Illinois,” Annie said as they started on a bowl of pumpkin ravioli.

It took John a second to digest the words. “Wow.”

“It’s head of cardiothoracic at the medical centre,” said Hank.

“I guess congratulations are in order.”

“Thanks,” said Hank.

“So what does this mean?”

“Well, it means Hank would run the department and also teach at the college.”

“Sounds like a big job.”

“It is. It’s a great opportunity,” Annie said.

“… and a lot of work,” John added. Annie stole a furtive glance while John digested it, a lump forming in his throat. “So you’re moving to Chicago?”

“Well, I haven’t accepted it yet,” said Hank.

“We wanted to talk to you, mum and Hank’s family first.” Annie raised her eyebrows, as if asking for his reaction.

John didn’t see his sister every week, but he made time to visit whenever he could. He loved Joshua and Christina calling him “Uncle John” and showing so much enthusiasm when he arrived to see them. He loved taking them to the park. He loved being able to catch up with Annie now and again for lunch or dinner one-on-one. She and John were close, much closer than he was with his mother. John didn’t want Annie to be a two-hour flight away—not to mention the hour to and from JFK.

John crossed his arms. “Yeah, well I would really miss you guys and the kids.”

Annie smiled. “Well you can visit, and it’s not like we won’t come back to Manhattan. Besides, we’ll be able to get a house with a backyard for the kids.”

John shrugged. “If you want a house with a yard, move to Jersey or Long Island.”

They stared at John, expressionless.

“What about you?” he asked Annie. “Will you be able to get a job there?”

“Sure. Although I’ll take some time off and make sure the kids get settled before I look for something.” Her tone had a touch of defensiveness in it. Maybe I can sway them after all.

John knew New York wasn’t the best place for kids, although living as close to Central Park as they did, Joshua and Christina had a good life. The city had great schools and plenty of places for amusements. He’d taken the kids to the Bronx Zoo, the Children’s Museum of the Arts for painting and crafts and Colour Me Mine in Tribeca to make ceramics. Joshua had made a goblin for Halloween, and Christina had made a horse. A backyard couldn’t compensate for that, or for the proximity to their grandparents.

“Good idea,” he said. “But who will look after the kids when you’re both working?”

Annie pursed her lips.

“We’ll probably get a nanny to help out with things,” Hank said.

John tried to smile for them. “It sounds like a really good opportunity, but I imagine the long hours will take the shine off it with time.”

“I’m surprised to hear you say that,” Annie said sharply.

“I don’t have two beautiful children and a wife waiting at home for me.”

There was an awkward silence, something unusual for the three of them.

“You’re right,” said Hank. “I’ll be working longer hours, so we’ll have to make sure the kids don’t feel the change.”

After a pause, Annie asked John if he’d spoken to their mother lately.

“Not since we were last here for dinner together.”

“Still the same between you two?” Her tone had relaxed now that the subject had changed.

He shrugged. “You know how she is. I can’t stand having her play career coach all the time.” John and Annie’s mother was a hardworking, God-fearing Presbyterian who spent much of their childhood working 18-hour days, six days a week. She’d never taken a sick day, no matter how ill she’d been. After finishing school, she’d worked in an office until she’d married John’s father. Part of her ambition was ingrained and part was the result of circumstance. She’d married young and was a stay-at-home mum until John’s father had died of a heart attack. He was 14 years older than their mum and drank and smoked heavily. John was nine and Annie was 11 at the time.

“She does it to me too,” Annie said. “But she’s still our mother.”

“Yep. Have you told her about Chicago?”

“No, but it’s not like she comes around to see the kids much anyway. Hank’s parents see more of them and they’re three hours away.”

The truth was, their mother had her own life, and that’s what was most important to her. John was curious to see how she would react to Annie moving. Maybe he could bring her in as an ally to try and persuade them from going. Annie was, after all, the glue that kept them all together.

No one had gone anywhere yet, but as he watched his sister pick up the empty dinner bowls, he already felt a tinge of loneliness.