‘Oh, my God,’ I realize. ‘You’re nervous.’ It’s flattering, obviously.

‘I’m not fucking nervous.’

‘You’re a little nervous.’

She hurls the basketball at my head. It hits. ‘You are a cantankerous bitch and I do not care if you live or die.’

‘Same.’

‘Don’t cut yourself on that edge.’ Peyton considers something for a moment, then slaps both hands down on her lap and says, ‘Walk? Little air? Little ice cream? I think Liam’s at the boardwalk.’

‘All right.’

I pull on my windbreaker and open the door for her when we leave. Peyton looks me up and down when she passes, standing on her toes to reach my face. ‘You have a scar.’

‘A two-day-old scratch is not a scar.’

‘No,’ she says. ‘A light one. On your cheek.’

‘No way?’ I’m kidding. I know about the scar on my cheek. What I don’t know is why she’s looking so closely at my face.

Then she’s closer than she’s ever been and without missing a beat pecks her lips against mine. ‘Whoops,’ she says, and scurries ahead of me down the corridor. I’m too surprised to speak.

You’re nice deep down.

I’m not, I’d wanted to say. The sooner you come to terms with it the better for us all.

The boardwalk really has no right to be open on a Wednesday. Aside from a couple of quiet stragglers, the only ones there are the Seasonals, mainly hanging out with their friends required to work there, and we’re evidently no exception. All lit up, and for who? Above us there’s the purple summer twilight, the heat licking at the edges of the air but not stifling; fluffy mauve clouds cling to the edges of the horizon. It’s a really nice night.

I’m, admittedly, quite buzzed. Peyton and I both devour a burger and portion of seasoned fries while talking giddy and delirious nonsense about nothing, and, after, Liam lets us ride the merry-go-round for free. For some reason it’s the funniest thing in the world and we can’t stop laughing; I don’t know about Peyton’s joy, but mine comes so unexpectedly easily that I almost stop, and I’m not sure whether it’s from the shock of having it or fear of losing it. I’m ghostly, but not in a bad way; I just feel as though I need to keep clinging to the moment so as not to be thrown off.

Four rounds is our limit before we get too dizzy to go on again and have to stagger off.

Peyton’s giggling behind me. I get the sense it’s about me.

‘What is it?’