“No. Although she’s asked plenty.” He rolls his shoulders, like trying to rid a weight there. “Truth be told, I dare not even talk about you to Kate. I don’t know what I can say or can’t say, what Ava knows or doesn’t know.” He hits me with an accusing look, and I shy away from it. “This is getting a bit stupid.”

His flippant comment riles me, and I stand, swinging away and stalking to the fridge to grab some comfort. It’s that or swing at one of my closest friends. “It’s not stupid, Sam. I have a list as long as my fucking arm of shit to share and I’m fucking terrified that sharing any one of those things will result in a swift return to nothingness.” I yank the fridge open and snatch down my peanut butter, diving in without delay. He’s quiet behind me as I work my way through half the jar, getting more worked up by the second. “There’s only ever light when she’s around. There’s only ever hope when I’m with her.”

“You can’t glue her to you.”

I laugh. Should I tell him that I’ve thought about it?

I’m still pondering that when my phone pings, and I quickly forsake my vice and rush across to the island to grab it. Opening Jay’s message, I read, and every word I absorb seems to raise my temperature by a few more degrees.

“What?” Sam asks.

“She’s on her second glass of wine.” Second? She’s not been there more than a half hour.

“Oh my God,” Sam breathes, but not in despair for the level of alcohol being sunk in such a short space of time. No. His despair is directed solely at my reaction to the level of alcohol being sunk in such a short space of time.

“Is it necessary?” I ask my screen.

“What?” he questions over a sigh.

I shove my phone in his face, as if he’s not getting the same message as me. “It’s reckless.”

His eyebrows blend with his hairline as he looks at me. “They’re enjoying themselves.”

What he means, but will not say, is they’re not drinking for the sake of drinking. They’re not drowning themselves. They’re not escaping.

“I’m just going to say it how it is,” he begins before I can counter. He’s right. Of course he’s right, and I have a feeling I’m about to be hit with some more home truths. “Sit,” he orders, and like an obedient dog, I do. He leans in, my usually cheeky, fun, jokey friend as serious as I’ve ever seen him. “You have an unhealthy relationship with alcohol, Jesse.”

“Had,” I pipe up. “I had an unhealthy relationship with alcohol.”