‘I think the correct thing to say is I’m sorry, and that’s terrible, and that must’ve been so hard to cope with, but I also get the feeling that you’re sick of mindless platitudes, so I’m just going to say that life is unfair and cruel and leave it there. Because it is. Cruel things happen and somehow you have to keep standing up and carrying on, even though it doesn’t feel worth it some days, because horrible things keep happening and there’s nothing you can do to change them.’

I concentrate on my breathing. In and out. In and out. There’s something about his bluntness that’s so real, and so open and honest – I can’t stop myself pushing it. ‘You know, don’t you?’

‘I was 16 when my dad died. Cancer. Months of watching him gradually deteriorate. Being told by well-meaning family how much my mum would need me to be strong. The distance from friends because teenage boys don’t know what to say to other teenage boys whose fathers are dying. The way people don’t understand that sometimes there’s nothing to say and that’s okay. The awkward silences with relatives terrified of saying the wrong thing because they aren’t sure if you want to reminisce or if you want to pretend nothing’s different. The sheer terror that something might make you cry, and the overwhelming fear that if you start crying, you might never be able to stop.’

‘The way it makes you want to pull out of life and pull away from everything?’ My eyes are still closed and his shoulder has left mine now, but the hairs on my arms stand on end from the closeness of the brushed cotton shirt covering his arm. His hand is resting right next to mine, and if I reached my fingers out, I could probably touch his.

But I don’t, obviously.

‘Exactly. And you wonder what the point in getting close to anyone ever again is because everyone’s going to leave you anyway, it’s better to protect yourself and be alone?’ He finishes the sentence for me in much more eloquent words than I could ever have chosen.

I lean my head back and look up to catch his eyes and he gives me a gentle smile, and a little fizzle of something sparks between us. If I tilted my head just a bit, it would be so easy to kiss him.

He must feel something too because he clears his throat and turns away, looking intently back towards the pumpkin fields.

‘So you were 16 when you took over the farm?’

‘Are you kidding? No. I ran away.’