Part of me wants to answer her messages, pretend it was all just a dumb mistake, like that kiss never even happened. The problem is that I can’t be near her perfect curves without every part of me feeling like it’s burning up. I can’t look into her kaleidoscope eyes without getting lost. And if I make her smile, it will completely undo me. What kind of friendship can we have if I’m consumed with desire for her and she never feels the same?

Even after Mom goes to bed and the house goes silent, I lie awake with my stomach churning like a pit full of venomous snakes. All I want is sleep. Oblivion. I don’t want to wake up until I know there is something to get up for, but every time I close my eyes, they pop open again. Sleep is impossible, but there’s no one I can talk to at this time of night, not even Will. If I texted him, he wouldn’t respond; he sleeps like a sack full of corpses.

Feelings climb and writhe over one another until I can’t figure out where one ends and another begins. I want to fast-forward my life to college, when I’ll be far from here, where I can start over and try to be a different person. I wish I could leave — just walk out the front door and not come back. But like always, there is nowhere I can go.

Then my mind leaps ahead eight hours — to London. Dad invited me, but did he mean that? I glance at my clock. It’s midnight here, which means he might be just starting his day in London.

The bright light of the phone screen makes me squint when I pick it up from my nightstand. I select my dad’s name from my list of contacts, and tap the call button with shaky fingers. It rings four long times, and I’m about to hang up when finally a voice comes through.

“Sammy?” he says. The familiarity of his voice stirs up forgotten memories. Tears sting my eyes even though I thought I’d surely run dry.

“Hi,” I say.

“It’s so good to hear your voice, love. Wait . . . isn’t it the middle of the night there?” He sounds confused, and I know he probably hasn’t had his first cuppa — Earl Grey with a splash of milk, like always.

“It’s a little after midnight,” I say.

“Is something wrong?” His voice is worried.

Everything is wrong.

“No,” I lie. “I just — I think I’d like to come visit sometime.” It takes everything I have to keep my voice steady and calm.

“Oh, splendid! That would be lovely. When can you come? For Christmas, perhaps?” He sounds excited now, and for some reason all it does is make a bottomless sorrow well up in me.