Gemma doesn’t note the wariness in his voice, because her own words are repeating in her head: “since we moved” as opposed to “moved back.” Which would have made it sound like she and Des had been an item in Ireland originally. But they hadn’t been. They don’t actually know how to be in their country of origin together. They stand around their breakfast bar, swirling espressi. They squirm palely, unsexily on their oversoft mattress, both appalled by Ireland’s lack of bidets. They wear waterproofs in the rain, or carry umbrellas, which once prompted a passing car to roll down the window and shout: “Gay!” In an effort to retrieve a social life, they’ve been leaving jaunty voice memos for school-era friends, inviting them to hang out—friends whose weddings they missed and whose children and health conditions they don’t know the names of. In the messages, Gemma hears her own accent separate out from her, like she’s been dubbed.

On Friday, they’d gone to the best restaurant in the county (something they’d planned for as soon as Gemma was able to belly laugh without wincing), but Desmond had shaken the bread basket on their table and commented: “These weren’t cut from the same baguette. This is the ends of other people’s breads.” The dismay in his voice stopped Gemma from finding it funny.