‘Don’t get him started,’ I warn. ‘If you provoke Pop, he’ll talk your head off about Prosperity lacrosse history.’

Pop raises his hands in disbelief, but Ma, Sav, and I just shoot him knowing looks. My dad is the original Division One yapper.

‘Well, May.’ Rod fully turns to face her. ‘I know all about Colt’s story. How’d you get into the sport?’

Her face immediately lights up, and I kick myself when I realize just how shit I’ve been doing at the fake boyfriend gig. How can Rod do that in a split second, and I haven’t managed it yet at all?

‘It’s a strange story,’ she begins, as a wistful laugh – one I’d probably give my heart and soul to hear for ever – leaves her lips. ‘My mom wanted me to dance, same as her and her mom before. A very safe pastime. But my father was her polar opposite. He’d ridden bulls in his youth, stopped right before he got married. I was four when I started training for barrel racing. It was everything I wanted as a kid, but soon, I realized I wanted to feel the same thrill my horse got to feel when he ran round the course. I wanted a sport where I could run free and still get to cause a little chaos, and Prosperity was just starting to shape its youth lacrosse programme, feeding into the frenzy of the college leagues. You can guess the rest of it.’

‘She was the captain of the high school lacrosse team. And even then, she’s still been in the annual rodeo fifteen years running,’ someone blurts. That someone, tragically, is me. The implication of my stupidity doesn’t hit me until all the heads around the table, including May’s, have turned my way. Am I fanboying? I’m fanboying.

Ma is the first one to croon, ‘Oh, you two are just the sweetest.’

May’s cheeks go pink, but there’s a hint of gratitude in her eyes that I return when I grin. ‘Almost makes me wish I hadn’t moved up to New England so I could’ve seen every year she’d run in it.’

Not a single word out of my mouth is a lie, and I hope May knows it. I hope she knows I used to sit at every rodeo, listen to the announcer call her name over the booming speakers and join in the applause after she and her horse had done the cloverleaf perfectly – effortlessly – her braid thumping against her back, a tip of her hat as she finished the run.

At the end of the dinner, May’s tiramisu sits completely cleaned out, the glass container empty on the table, and the two of us help clear dishes. At the sink, she hands me a plate, meets my eyes, and says, ‘You wish you hadn’t moved. But you moved anyway.’