‘No,’ I said. ‘I mean, I’m not a party animal, or anything, but, yeah, I don’t know. It was OK.’

June nudged me playfully, which I would have enjoyed more were I not one unstable moment away from becoming paralysed from the neck down. ‘Was it OK when you were puking?’

‘Actually, yeah.’ She laughed. ‘I feel a lot better. Are you, are you OK?’

‘Yeah. Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘Thanks for putting up with my misguided attempt at a surprise. I’m sorry again …’

That’s when she rested her head on my shoulder, and a bit of frizz from her hair grazed across my lips and stayed there and I didn’t brush it away. I craned my neck over the edge of the roof. It wasn’t that high up. Three storeys was normally the upper limit of survivability, so I wouldn’t die; if I fell the right way I probably could have made it maybe with just a cracked rib. Knees tucked, forward roll. If I fell on my head, though, I was a goner.

And from somewhere behind and below us, the countdown began.

Disorganized chanting at first, because no one really cares about counting down from twenty, but then it was fifteen, ten, five, four, three, two, one.

Happy New Year! Everyone shouted.

‘Shit.’ June looked back inside, debating, I was sure, how quickly she could scramble off the rooftop so as to start the new year with people who actually mattered. ‘Heath’s gonna kill me. Shit.’ She patted down her pockets. ‘The time just went. I don’t even have my phone.’

‘He’s not gonna kill you. Were you guys – were you supposed to –’

‘Smooch, yeah. It’s OK.’ She sighed. ‘It’s OK. It’ll be fine.’

I could feel my sobriety leaking back into my vision, and in ten seconds, maybe, the question would become completely unaskable, completely untouchable, so I had to ask it now, now, or else I might never get the chance to ask it ever again. Was I misreading the room? The words were right there. Something I simultaneously needed to know but didn’t want to, ask, don’t ask, back of my throat, up, up, tongue, tip, lips: ‘June, are you straight?’

But Heath arrived before the words could.

There was a knock on the bedroom door, first, followed by the creak of said door opening and then a sharp intake of breath. ‘June!’ he said, sticking his head through the open window to meet us. ‘It’s not safe to sit up here. I told you.’

‘I know, I know. We’re coming in,’ she said. I was the closest to the window, so she gestured with her eyes for me to go back in, which I did, like a newborn giraffe with no legs or brain. June followed close behind; I was conscious of my butt in her face.