Up one set of stairs, then another.

June slinked into a room off the main hallway, and I shouldered myself in to find her sprawled out on what I assumed was Heath’s bed, going by the Yale pennant that hung above it.

June tensed up, then relaxed when her eyes met mine. ‘God,’ she said, ‘you scared me.’

‘I’m sorry!’ I said, too loud, too quick. ‘I followed you up here.’ I held on to the doorknob to make sure the force of my words didn’t knock me over. ‘Do you want me to leave you alone?’ The roles had been reversed, I realized; now it was me, interrupting June in the middle of the night.

June sniffed. Scooted over on the bed. ‘No. Come on.’

I sat down beside her slowly; any quicker and I think I might have toppled on to her. A wave of nausea rolled through me. ‘Are you OK?’

‘Yeah, don’t worry. I was just feeling sick.’

Ugh. Her saying the word sick made my stomach rumble in the worst way. I tried to play it cool.

‘Oh. OK.’ I promptly flopped over on to my back, and she lay down next to me, hair spilling around her face like oil.

I was too drunk to press her about anything. My mind urged me to move on to the next thing.

And then, ‘You’re so great, Whitaker.’

I twisted my neck to look her in the eye. Giggled. ‘You’re just saying that.’

‘No, no, no. You’re exceptional. I’m so happy to have you. You’re honestly so great and it makes me really, really sad that the whole thing with Bea happened because now you don’t believe that anyone could really, actually, like you.’

‘OK,’ I said, like a complete idiot who fantasizes day in and day out about affection like this but shuts down when actually receiving that affection and says fucking OK.

She snorted. ‘See? That’s what I’m talking about. You have no idea what to even do right now.’

I felt thoroughly called out. But the interaction was tinted with such a carefree deliriousness that I didn’t even care, the sort of lightness that suggested nothing we’d say here would ever prove of any consequence.

She fell back on to the bed, the aftershock making me bounce. ‘Whi-ta-ker,’ June said, sounding it out like a chant. ‘Whi-ta-ker at the Ri-ver Styx.’

‘June,’ I cooed, like a baby’s first word. ‘That’s a month. Why are you named after a month?’ I said, as though it was very clever.

June changed the subject. ‘Oh. Dude. Hey. Speaking of. I was watching you chewing out Bea.’ Ugh. This. I willed her telepathically to rewind the tape. I preferred the babbling. ‘That was kinda wild. What happened?’