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I walk around the bed to stand next to him. “None of us knew. He never invited anyone up here. I think Brian retrieved a few clothes for him when he went into hospital, but that’s all. He was a very private man.” Mitch’s grandmother died when Mitch was young, and I’ve never seen John with any other woman.

“He’s the equivalent of a crazy cat lady, just with books. Christ.” He looks at the stained bedding, the musty clothes. “I assumed he was at least looking after himself.” He clenches his hand into a fist, then presses it against his mouth, fighting with emotion.

“Mitch…” My heart goes out to him. “I’m so sorry. I should have guessed, too, I suppose, but he always seemed okay in the shop.”

“I should have come back…” He stops as his voice cracks and his eyes meet mine, filled with tears.

“Honey…” I go up to him and put my arms around him. He rests his forehead on my shoulder. I can feel his chest heaving as he struggles to regain control.

The guilt is going to crucify him. But what could he have done? Even if he’d visited more often, John wouldn’t have invited him up to the flat. I’ve seen shows on TV where people have piles of washing up to the ceiling, or they’re hoarders, who can’t bear to throw anything away. Ultimately, the way someone lives is their own affair.

I feel a little guilty myself; I suppose I should have realised something was amiss. But it’s not as if he came into the shop shuffling in his slippers, wearing jumpers covered in cat hair. We always used to joke that he was like Einstein, because he always wore the same thing—black trousers and a grey sweatshirt, even in summer. Maybe he only had one outfit. I’m sure I would have noticed if he’d never washed it. Wouldn’t I?

But this isn’t about me. I close my eyes, concentrating on Mitch. I can smell his cologne; something fresh that reminds me of the sea, even though he always joked that he didn’t know one end of a boat from the other. He’s always teased that he’s six-foot-one-and-a-half, half an inch taller than Jayden, and I’m standing on my tiptoes. My left hand touches the back of his neck, feeling his warm skin. I can’t help but stroke my thumb up, and it brushes against the short hairs on the back of his head.

I’ve known him a long time, but he’s just a friend. So why’s my heart banging away?

He lifts his head and moves back, his eyes meeting mine. Oh God, there it is again. The Look, the undeniable zap that makes my heart race.

He pauses, and for a moment, I think he’s going to say something about it. But to my disappointment, he brushes a hand over his face and turns away. “I need to talk to him about this. It needs to be completely cleared out.”

“Well, one thing is that it doesn’t look dirty, as such,” I say. “There aren’t any plates of uneaten food or cockroaches or signs of mice. It’s just books.”

“Be grateful for small mercies, eh?” He wanders out of the room. I follow him down to the two spare rooms, which are full of clutter and more boxes of books. We continue to the bathroom, squeezing past more boxes in the hallway, and we peer inside. At least there are no books in here. The room is clean enough, but the bathroom suite and the fixtures and fittings all look ancient.

He comes out and closes the door. Without saying anything, he walks back down the corridor into the living room. Picking his way through the boxes, he goes over to the sliding doors on the far side and unlocks them. As he pushes them apart, they give a horrendous squeak.

They lead onto a balcony, and I walk across and join him out there. There’s nothing out here, no chairs for sitting and taking in the view, but at least it’s free of boxes. We lean on the balustrade, our arms just an inch apart.

The balcony faces a public park. A stream winds along the edge, culminating in a small pool on which several ducks can always be found. A children’s playground sits to our right. Tall pōhutukawa trees tower over the paths that curve through the lawns.

I glance at Mitch to see him looking at the rolling hills in the distance. “Is it nice to be back?” I ask hopefully. “Forgetting about all this.” I gesture back at the mayhem in the flat.

He looks at me then. “Kinda.” I’d forgotten how bright his eyes are. They’re the colour of the afternoon sky at the height of summer—a deep, rich blue.

I clear my throat. “How’s Frieda?” He met her a couple of years after moving to Wellington, and they moved in together shortly afterward. I keep expecting to hear that they’re getting married, but so far the announcement hasn’t arrived.

He looks at his hands for a moment, then back out at the view. “We broke up.”

“Mitch! No! When?”

“A month ago.”

“Oh… that’s so sad. Why?”

He shrugs. “One of those things.” Clearly, he doesn’t want to talk about it.

What a man of mystery. He never brought her to Evermore, so I never met her. There aren’t even any photos of her on his Instagram account. I found her account, and she’d posted some pictures of the two of them. It was strange to see him with someone else. He didn’t date at all the year he worked here, as far as I know.

He takes a deep breath and looks at me. “How’s Jayden?”

I stare at him. “What?”

He looks puzzled. “Is he at home? Or did he get a job eventually?”

“When did you last talk to him?” I ask softly.

“Last Christmas.”