I let my fingers run across the elastic waistbands. Remember how his skin felt when I would slide my hands inside. That first time: so vivid. In the hotel after that terrible Brexit musical. Against all the self-help books’ tips on finding love; against every best friend’s advice: fucking at first sight. Our clumsiness was overcome with tipsy giggles. I only felt shy afterwards – that self-conscious lull as if you’re covering yourself with a blanket, except the blanket is transparent, exposing what you want to hide. And why? Because it had been so good. Whoever coined the phrase ‘earth-shattering’ was spot on. The fumbles of two strangers who met in a bar – well, theatre – brought together in sexual confidence by the power of booze and mood lighting, had ended in a brilliant, movie-worthy simultaneous orgasm. I did look into Jack’s eyes. I did well up. I did know for damn certain that this wasn’t a one-night stand. I should’ve just told him I loved him right then and there. Why did I break all the rules but stick to that one?

‘I reckon I love you, Chloe Roscoe,’ Jack had said the next morning, mid tickling me so hard I wanted to beat the shit out of him. I was gasping for air, writhing so much I could barely laugh. And why would I want to laugh? Tickling, in reality, isn’t funny. It’s fucking horrible. But I’d fallen in love with this man literally overnight.

NEVER tell a fella you love him after the first—

‘And I reckon I love you, too, Jack Carmichael,’ I’d said, angry and out of breath from his torture. ‘That is your surname, right? Since your mum is the one and only—’

‘Ugh, don’t talk about my mother when you’re naked.’

‘Oops. Rewind.’

I start to fold Jack’s t-shirts à la Marie Kondo. It’s therapeutic. I come across an off-white rag with the remains of a fading print: The Mighty Boosh. It smells of musty wood, forgotten in a drawer, belonging to a person I never knew. Jack circa 2005. I think of those who knew him; the Ross Robsons and the Florries. They were a firm part of his past; his history. What am I? His end?

‘I don’t wanna go on any more dates,’ I’d told Beth earlier this year.

We were face to face, sat at a small wooden table against an indoor brick wall, swimming in garlic oil and Rioja. She’d come up to Liverpool for her birthday and we were eating tapas at our favourite spot on Bold Street. We always treat each other to a meal for our birthdays. Rock salt and chilli had tingled my tongue as I chewed the calamari.

‘Babes. How are you gonna meet someone if you don’t date?’

I’d sucked the salty crumbs off my fingertips.