“You are such a cow,” Sophie says after they’ve fled, stumbling over chairs in their haste to get away from us. “He wasn’t bad close up.”

“Oh, please—you would have hated yourself in the morning. And he would never have called again.”

“But I wanted to be Maeve Larson, top detective with fourteen brothers and sisters. And you—I would have called you Nibs as a nickname and you could have told them all about your charmed life as…”

“A single, broke woman. Living in a one-bedroom flat. Who has to be up for school in the morning to teach five classes of snarky teenagers.”

“Ugh. The truth does not make for a sexy story. Although do I really want fourteen brothers and sisters? Sometimes I wish I was an only child. My brother is twenty-five going on twelve and a total pain in the ass most of the time.”

I pause by the door to stare at a blond girl walking away from me. It’s another game I play a lot—the pounding heart, the twist in my gut when I see a blond girl in skinny jeans, or hear a laugh that sounds familiar, the tilt of a head. Sometimes I make myself look away. Sometimes I follow her, just to check, just to see…

Of course it can’t be her. Could never have been my sister.

“Shit,” Sophie mutters, going pale and touching my arm. “Sorry, Tess. I didn’t think—my crass remark about wanting to be an only child…”

I sometimes wish I’d never told Sophie about Bella—it’s such a tragic mess. It’s easier to be what I pretend to be to the rest of the world, my own permanent version of our games: an only child, a city girl with a nice flat and a good job.

“Oh God, I don’t want to go to school tomorrow,” Sophie says as we walk toward the bus stop.

I laugh and tuck my arm in hers. “A sentiment echoed by every kid we’re teaching tomorrow.”

“At least we get paid for it, I suppose. And I do love it most of the time.”

“Do you? Really love teaching?”

“Of course.” She sounds surprised. “Why on earth would I put myself through all the crap bits if I didn’t love it for the good bits?”

Do I love it? Even the good bits? Have I ever loved teaching, like properly “it’s-my-vocation” loved it? It’s a question I’ve been asking myself too often lately.

“Do you want to stay at my place tonight?” I say as I see a bus heading toward us. “It’s not late—we can be sensible and drink tea, but continue the evening.”

I’m feeling…melancholy. Flat. None of the night-out buzz I felt earlier, getting ready for two-for-one happy hour with my best friend.