I woke up with my arm wrapped around Michelle’s sleeping form: we had fallen asleep while spooning, and I basked in her warmth for a while because carefully disentangling myself from her and the covers and getting up. My head pounding from the hangover, I looked around perplexed for a few moments, before remembering we were in Michelle’s room; quietly, as to not wake her up, I went to my own room, picked out some comfy clothes (we weren’t planning on going out that day), got dressed, and then went downstairs to make breakfast. Or lunch. Or whatever meal one eats when it’s the middle of the afternoon and they’ve just woken up. For the time being, I decided to make coffee and fry up some bacon. A few minutes later the coffee was ready, and I was standing in front of the stove when Michelle hugged me from behind.

“Mmmmhmmm… Smells good,” she murmured.

“Good morning,” I said, smiling. “Breakfast is almost ready.”

“Izzit?” she replied. “Morning, I mean.”

“Nah, it’s like, four PM,” I answered. “But personally I think that ‘morning’ is whenever you wake up, no matter the actual time.”

“Good call.”

“Want some eggs?” I asked, turning around and taking a good look at her: she was wearing her slippers, the dress shirt I’d left on her bedroom floor, and a robe on top of that. Her hair was dishevelled – she clearly hadn’t brushed it that morning – but her face was clean, she’d washed away the previous night’s makeup. And she looked as beautiful as ever.

She nodded. “Eggs sound good. Sunny side up.” She was usually a raisin oatmeal kind of gal, but clearly she wanted something savoury to chase away the lingering after-effects of all the booze we’d drank the previous night.

“Coming right up,” I said. “But first...”

I paused, and she looked at me, puzzled, for a few moments, until I motioned down to the apron I was wearing. Emblazoned on it were the words, Kiss The Chef. She smirked. “Well, if you insist...” she said, lifted herself on her tiptoes, slung her arms over my shoulders, and planted a kiss right on my lips.

I smiled and held her close. “So this is it, then?” I asked. “We’re officially together?”

“Why, do you mind?” she replied with an impish smile.

“Not at all,” I smiled in return, and kissed her again.

After that nothing really changed in our days, except that we no longer slept in separate beds, and that we kissed when leaving in the morning and when coming back home in the evening. And on other occasions. Many other occasions. And our dates were now proper, actual dates, not just two friends going out together as Not A Date as we did for weeks before that. Our life became a comfortable, regular thing, punctuated by sleep, work, dates, and visiting Michelle’s mother at the hospital.

The reactions of our friends, and Em’s family, to us hooking up made me wonder if we had really been that obvious in liking each other before getting together. Ralph saw us one morning when we left the house to go to work, and held hands to the bus stop, and his comment when I met him at the book shop was “’bout bloody time.” When I told Em’s mother I hadn’t fucked it up she smirked and said, “Yet. Attaboy.” She then proceeded to ask for details, which I firmly refused to provide; I have no idea whether Michelle did the same.

Sadly, however, our visits to the hospital didn’t last long. By mid-July Abigail had taken a turn for the worse, and she died peacefully in her hospital bed at the beginning of August, surrounded by friends and family. Em cried a lot that day, as I held her and shed tears too: it was really unfair that they’d only been able to reconcile a few months prior, and it was already time to say goodbye. But such is life I guess.

They often say that how much someone had made a positive impact in life can be known by how many people show up to their funeral to say a final goodbye, and Abigail was certainly second to not many in that respect: hundreds of people filled up the church, and some who couldn’t find a place to sit were even forced to stand in the aisles. It was a beautiful ceremony, and it seems that everyone had a good word to say about Em’s mother.

That day in mid-August, though, was also when we met Danny again.

He had never shown his face at the hospital, not even once: it seemed he was completely uninterested in his mother’s illness and eventual fate, but at least he wanted to keep up appearances by showing up at the funeral. Unlike the first time I’d seen him he was wearing an ill-fitting black suit which he’d clearly borrowed from someone a few sizes bigger than he was; he spotted me and Michelle as we entered the church and walked to the first row, which was reserved for close family members, and kept glaring daggers at us throughout the ceremony, but at least thought well enough not to make a scene – that came later, after we’d finished burying Abigail.

“What in the bloody hell are ya doing here, freak?” he asked Michelle with a hostile tone, after everyone except family had left. “What gives ya the right to come here now?”

Em didn’t back down; she stood up straight, crossed her arms in front of her chest, and gave Danny a challenging stare. She looked magnificent in her black skirt suit.

“She was my mother, Danny. I am here to say goodbye,” she said, defiance in her voice. “Got a problem with that?”

“Why you...” Danny said, taking a step forward. In return I took a step forward too, to stand beside Michelle. I glared at him. “What, ya wanna go, you fag?” he said.

“Alright, you cut it out right now, all of you.”

That was Jennifer’s voice. I turned around and saw her approaching, surrounded by some other family members. When she reached us, she placed a hand on both my shoulder and Michelle’s, in a calming gesture.

“We just buried mum, and you wanna have a fight right here and now?” she asked in a disapproving tone.

“But...” Michelle started, but Jennifer cut her off.

“I’m not blaming you, Michelle,” she said, shaking her head. “You were standing up for yourself.” Then she turned her gaze to Danny. “How dare you. You don’t show your face for months, you never visited mum in the hospital, and yet you come here and want to have a say about who has the right to be at the funeral? How dare you.”

Danny was clearly taken aback. From how Michelle and Jennifer had spoken to me about him, he wasn’t used to having a woman stand up to him, especially not his sister Jennifer, who had always been passive before. He raised his hand and opened his mouth as if to say something, then took a look at us – me, Michelle and Jennifer, flanked by some of their relatives, all staring at him – and thought better of it. He swore at us, turned on his heel, and just left.

I felt Michelle slowly exhale beside me, and my body relaxed too. I hadn’t realised how wound up I’d been. Slowly the small crowd dispersed, and only me, Jennifer, Michelle and Simone, the solicitor, were left.

“Sorry about this,” I said to Jennifer.

Jennifer shook her head again. “You have nothing to apologise for, Frank,” she said. Then she turned to Michelle. “I was talking to Simone before all that went down, and I think you need to hear what she has to say too.”

Simone was a very short girl, shorter than Michelle; even in the mid-heels she was wearing, she barely came up to my chest. She had long blonde hair, which was bound in a no-nonsense bun at the moment, but I’d seen her before when it was untied and I knew it came down to the middle of her back; her eyes were steel grey, and shone with determination. I knew she was nearly thirty-five, but she looked much younger; I’d never really talked with her much when we’d met at the hospital, but I knew from what Jennifer had told me that she had to fight tooth and nail to get people to look past her youthful appearance and take her seriously, but as a result she had a promising career in law ahead of her.

“Michelle,” Simone nodded. “Again, my condolences. I’ve never lost a parent, so I can’t even imagine how it feels.”

“Thank you,” replied Michelle.

“And I’m sorry I have to do this, so soon after aunt Abigail passed,” Simone continued. “But she’d asked me to be the executor of her estate. Which means I’m the one who has to open her will, and give away her belongings according to her wishes.”

There was a brief moment of silence as Michelle digested what Simone had said, then Em nodded. “Okay. How do we do this?”

“According to the law, I have to notify the government that Abigail had charged me with this duty, so they will authorise me to open the will,” Simone explained. “That will take a few weeks. Then the will has to be opened with everyone who would inherit if there weren’t a will present and witnessing. Since Abigail’s husband is no longer with us, that means you, Jennifer...”

Simone paused, but Michelle understood. “...And Danny,” she said.

Simone nodded. “Yes, I’m afraid so. Of course I only have to notify him by registered mail that the will is to be opened at a certain place and certain time, so there’s a chance he might not show up. But I wouldn’t count on it.”

The silence stretched for a while, as Michelle considered Simone’s words, then she nodded. “Okay. Let me know when and where.”

Michelle and Simone shook hands and hugged, and then we got into Jennifer’s car to return home. We were quiet for the whole trip, thinking about everything that had happened and was yet to come.