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She swallows hard.

“For a while, I thought it was the worst thing that could’ve happened to me, but looking back now, if Mum hadn’t moved us away, my life never would’ve gone the way it did, and I’d never have met Drew.”

Her expression softens at his name.

“He helped. Still helps. He’s…” She sighs, which raises her bangs. “He’s amazing.”

She presses her lips together, and warmth blooms in my chest because she found him—the man who helped put her back together and proved that true love does exist, even after she stopped believing in it.

Our tea has long since gone cold. People have come, shared a coffee with friends and family, moaned about the weather, and laughed at the springer spaniel with frothy milk on his chin as he’d lapped up his pup cup.

Yet we remain.

We’ve cried, we’ve hugged, and I’ve ridden the waves of emotion that have come with such a reunion. Relief when we embraced, saddened by what she went through when her parents separated, and upset with myself that I didn’t try harder to reach her.

But most of all, I’m hurt by the fact that she chose to endure this alone for so long.

But then Romeo Drew turned up like it was always meant to be. A chance meeting, Sydney said, when they both picked up the same suitcase on the conveyor belt at the airport.

Chance, my foot. Nothing is left to chance.

Destiny holds the cards, and she’s finally dealt Sydney the hand she’d been waiting for. She has her happily ever after, despite everything she’s been through.

I just wonder what joke Destiny is playing on me. She seems to have taken a break or retired or something, as she’s never done anything to help me out on my now-redundant quest for my Romeo.

The teapot is refreshed, and the tiny waitress arrives with a chocolate-covered flapjack and scones the size of snowballs, and the mood lightens.

“I’ve taken up far too much airtime,” Sydney says, selecting a scone from the floral plate. “So, how about you? What have you been up to?” She carefully cuts her scone in half, raisins erupting from the soft, crumbly dough.

Motormouth was one of my many nicknames growing up, as I’m sure Sydney will remember. The inability to keep my inner monologue under control has always been one of my more unfavourable traits, but it also means there’s never a dull moment in any conversation. Despite this, I find myself faltering at her question.

What have I been up to? What have I been doing for the past twenty-one years?

Sydney’s eyes are wide and full of hope. And I want nothing more than to tell her I’m living my best life, having opened a llama farm, or having discovered the cure for cancer, or that I’m happily married with a beautiful house and a dog named Rufus.

But I’d be lying.

I’ve been trundling my way through life from one frivolous job to the next and one terrible relationship to another, still cooking up plots to try and snag my Romeo, still living my life as if I’m in my teens and the world is my oyster.

But all I’ve managed to find is a small apartment and a job at Kitchen City, which I owe to my mum and dad sitting me down on my thirtieth birthday and telling me I had to stop living like a student and start thinking about putting some roots down and being a grown-up, which, at the time, I hated them for.

Now I see they were only trying to help. I’d been living with no thought for the future, which is fine when you’re young, but there comes a point when you have to start thinking about tomorrow and maybe even the day after.

But I want to give her something. I want my happily ever after just like she now has hers.

“Oh, you know, just working, paying the bills.” I laugh, hoping it doesn’t sound like a cat being strangled.

“Where do you work?” Sydney spreads cream on top of her scone, and I pick up my own, hoping it’ll distract me from how dull my job actually is.

“I work at Kitchen City.” Trying to ignore her blank face, I move on. “It’s the country’s largest kitchen warehouse,” I begin, in the same fashion my mum did after she and my dad bought a kitchen from them and saw the Staff Wanted advert. When they told me I should apply, I pulled a face—much like Sydney is now. But when I went for the interview, I quickly changed my mind about the place.

“It’s kind of unique,” I continue, “in that people come and look around the showroom, and then they download an app where they design their own kitchen. My job is to help them use the app and choose fixtures and fittings, and then, when their plan is done, they submit it to one of our designers. It’s kind of fun.”

I lift the last four words higher than they need to be because I’m not only convincing Sydney but also myself that my job is actually “fun.” It’s not fun, but it’s, and I quote my dad, “A proper job.” I tried to argue that all my employment endeavours had been “proper jobs,” but he stared at me over the top of his glasses, and we both knew that I’d never really thought about a career with prospects and was just happy flitting from one place to the next—whether it be selling bath bombs or men’s clothing.

“It sounds nicer than when I had my new kitchen fitted,” Sydney says. “I chose the units from a brochure and then had to endure this annoying sales rep who kept insisting that my kitchen was ‘crying out for an island.’ He was the worst.” She rolls her eyes.

“He sounds it,” I agree. “You should’ve come to Kitchen City.” And I mean this. My job might sound a little dull, but the warehouse is nothing short of amazing.