‘May. May, come on,’ the idiot implores me. I sigh extra hard over my bowl of chocolate puffs. I’d ask how we’re keeping our parents from finding out this couple thing is a lie, but I think it’s working its charm fairly naturally. Even with all four of them under the same roof, they seem to be taking our constant bickering as a sign of affection. Which is dumb.

He takes my hands. Another fairly natural thing. The physical touch between us, something neither of us was prepared for at first, has also become strangely automatic since we talked, out on the porch. I wonder if Colt overthinks it as much as I do. ‘May. What are you wearing?’ he grills me.

‘Same thing every year,’ I tell him with a shrug. ‘Something you would know. If you had been here. Every year.’

‘She got you there!’ Mrs Bradley hoots from behind us, where she shoves all the ties into a box gleefully, never to be seen again. ‘Why don’t you ask your sister?’

‘Ohhhh, no.’ Colt looks like he’s ready to throw up. ‘Savannah would laugh at me until her face turned blue from losing oxygen.’

‘Are you scared?’ I tease him, and gosh, the little tormented wrench of his face is actually kind of satisfying. ‘Of your sister?’

‘She’s kind of … like you … about the whole “leaving home” thing.’

Serves you right! I’d like to cackle. ‘And she could get you a tie?’

‘She’s in fashion design,’ he mumbles. ‘She could make me one to match you. If she didn’t hate my guts.’

I don’t know if he thinks I think he’s low effort, or something, but quickly he says, ‘I’ll fight Sav to make sure we match, though. Because Pop’s ties …’

I snort. ‘If you show up in one of those atrocities, with respect to your poppa, we might have to kick you off the team.’

‘That bad?’

‘Worse.’ I look to Mrs Bradley for confirmation. She nods, adding a little wince for emphasis. ‘Looks like you’re gonna have to head into the hornet’s nest.’

Colt shivers. Watching a five-ten man who’s got an ego the size of a small house get all terrified of his little sister is wonderful. ‘I’ll talk to her once I’m done outside.’

‘Outside? Are you digging up my plants?’ Mrs Bradley tuts, dropping the box of ties and stalking our way. ‘Colton James Bradley. Get your hands off my begonias.’

‘My hands were never on them!’ he insists, face going pink. ‘I’m just … pulling weeds.’

‘Pulling weeds,’ announces Mrs Bradley. She looks about as unconvinced as I am. ‘Right, then.’

Colt takes his leave all awkwardly, darting out through the sliding back door like his tail’s on fire. The second he’s out of earshot, his mother and I burst out laughing at the same exact time.