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Chapters (86)
  1. Title Page
  2. CONTENTS
  3. Love
  4. Before
  5. One
  6. ONE
  7. Two
  8. TWO
  9. Three
  10. THREE
  11. Four
  12. FOUR
  13. Five
  14. FIVE
  15. Six
  16. SIX
  17. Seven
  18. SEVEN
  19. Eight
  20. EIGHT
  21. Nine
  22. NINE
  23. Ten
  24. TEN
  25. Eleven
  26. ELEVEN
  27. After
  28. One
  29. ONE
  30. Two
  31. TWO
  32. Three
  33. THREE
  34. Four
  35. FOUR
  36. Five
  37. FIVE
  38. Six
  39. SIX
  40. Seven
  41. SEVEN
  42. Eight
  43. EIGHT
  44. Nine
  45. NINE
  46. Ten
  47. TEN
  48. Eleven
  49. ELEVEN
  50. Twelve
  51. TWELVE
  52. Thirteen
  53. THIRTEEN
  54. Fourteen
  55. FOURTEEN
  56. Fifteen
  57. FIFTEEN
  58. Sixteen
  59. SIXTEEN
  60. Seventeen
  61. SEVENTEEN
  62. Eighteen
  63. EIGHTEEN
  64. Nineteen
  65. NINETEEN
  66. Twenty
  67. TWENTY
  68. Twenty-One
  69. TWENTY-ONE
  70. Twenty-Two
  71. TWENTY-TWO
  72. Twenty-Three
  73. TWENTY-THREE
  74. Twenty-Four
  75. TWENTY-FOUR
  76. Twenty-Five
  77. TWENTY-FIVE
  78. Twenty-Six
  79. TWENTY-SIX
  80. Twenty-Seven
  81. TWENTY-SEVEN
  82. Twenty-Eight
  83. TWENTY-EIGHT
  84. Eleven Months Later
  85. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
  86. Copyright

When I take them home, I have to tell my mother that the florist on Manor Road gave them to me because she didn’t want to throw them out, so I can’t object when she puts them in a vase on the kitchen window. I’d rather they were on my bedside table so I can fall asleep and wake up to them, but they’re there, which is all that matters, and I smile every time I think of Poppy in the florist, picking one of each flower.

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And so it goes. Days melt into weeks, weeks into a month then another. I don’t know when I stop counting, but I don’t have to because Poppy is always there. She always answers her phone. Always replies to my messages.

I didn’t know it could be like this.

That it could be this easy.

I should feel bad that I only ever see Adara at school now. I know her well enough to know that she’s not happy about that, but every time I apologise, she just reminds me that she did the same thing to me when she first got together with Mark.

Eventually, I stop worrying if it’s too easy. Stop worrying if anyone will see us. If someone will pass us kissing goodbye at the Old Steine and tell everyone at school that I’m a lezzer. Or if one my mother’s friends – another Gillian – will tell her that they saw Poppy and I trying on hats in Snooper’s Paradise when I was supposed to be studying homeostasis in the library.

I don’t know. Maybe I want to get caught. Maybe I want to get caught so I don’t have to pretend any more – hide who I am – and my mother and I can have a proper conversation about this.

Until then, though, I intend to enjoy every moment.

When it’s too cold to sit outside any more, we retreat inside the café on Sydney Street – our café – claiming the table in the corner by the window as our own, the first thing that is ours. It’s so small that our knees touch and it feels like the earth is turning a little slower.

One afternoon, Poppy turns to the condensation-clouded window and writes our initials with the tip of her finger. When she draws a heart around them, I make a show of rolling my eyes, but I have to hide my smile behind my mug because my heart is knocking against my ribs like a sparrow trapped in a bathroom.