‘A bit.’ Kieron blushes. ‘What’s it like?’

‘What’s what like?’

‘You know…’ Kieron’s eyes flicker to the open door, reassuring himself Mum isn’t hovering on the landing, the way she sometimes does. ‘Kissing and stuff.’ He lowers his voice to a whisper. ‘Sex.’

‘Whoa!’ Connor holds out his hands. ‘Easy there.’

‘Tell me.’

‘What makes you think I know about… sex.’

‘You know everything.’ Again that unwavering, misplaced trust in him.

‘You’ll find out for yourself soon enough, Kieron.’

‘I might not.’ Kieron’s optimism slips along with the duvet as he sits up. ‘I might not live that long.’

‘Don’t be so dramatic, idiot,’ Connor says, hoping his voice doesn’t betray his own fear. He starts to repeat the words that he has endlessly read on Google. ‘Your prognosis is—’

‘Connor. Don’t. Just don’t.’

Connor reaches for his brother’s hand, their fingers linking together. Kieron is always hopeful, never self-pitying. Connor wonders whether that’s his default setting or whether he’s also wearing a mask. Putting on a brave face. He shouldn’t have to pretend.

Connor feels sad and angry and helpless.

He feels all of those things again. He can’t help pulling away, standing up.

‘Please don’t go. Tell me what it was like… with Hailey.’

At the mention of her name, Connor pinches the skin on his arm, digging his nails in, welcoming the pain.

The punishment.

‘Connor?’ Kieron prompts.

‘I… Another time?’

Images strobe. Hailey’s face pale, worried. Ryan and Tyler urging her on. The pleading look in her eyes as she turned to him. His indecision – his girlfriend or his friends – the nod of his head. It’ll be okay.

But it wasn’t okay.

It isn’t.

‘I… I’ve got to go.’ He turns his back on his brother and stalks out onto the landing but the memories, the memories come with him.

Back in his room, he opens his laptop once more and studies her Facebook page. The photos of them together, his arm awkward around her shoulders. Inexperience and hope shining from their eyes. He clicks on Messenger and sends two words:

I’m sorry

Just like all his other messages, they remain unread.

Chapter Four

Lucy

In the kitchen, Aidan is peeling potatoes. The smell of herby roast chicken already drifting from the oven.

‘How did you know that’s what I was going to cook?’

‘Because I know you.’ He scrapes peelings into the bin. ‘And because I was on call yesterday so we missed our roast.’

I sit at the breakfast bar. Classical music – soothing strings and a tinkling piano – drifts out of the Alexa.