I need to learn how to deflect like Harper. Tomorrow is my creative writing class, when we’ll be discussing my story—my rewritten story. I got home from the trip on Sunday morning, sat at my laptop, and wrote for almost twelve hours straight. I was buzzing. I think I had runner’s high, but from writing. I went to bed at 1 am, woke up at 6 am, proofread it and, shockingly I still felt okay about it, and I emailed it to PJ. She replied at 8.30 am saying she was sending it to the class and looking forward to the discussion on Thursday. Nothing else. I don’t know if that’s a good sign or a bad sign or what. At least I can’t fail, surely. I wrote two stories for her. That has to count for something.

I thought nothing could distract me from the stress of the impending class discussion, but Harper has managed to prove me wrong.

‘So who is Jesse going on a date with?’ I say, trying to sound casual.

‘Amber. Remember, from the housewarming? With the nose-ring? And the fear of mice?’

‘Oh,’ I say, trying to keep my voice neutral. ‘I thought she wasn’t interested in him?’ My voice sounds way higher pitched and more desperate than I was aiming for.

‘She’s been kind of on and off with her ex, Brody, but now she’s definitely, finally over him. Which is good, because he had this weird moustache that made me feel a bit sick when I looked at him.’

‘Oh. Well, good for her, good for her. And Jesse. Good for Jesse. Sounds like perfect timing for the two of them.’ I hate myself but I keep talking anyway. ‘When is the date?’

‘Tomorrow night,’ Harper says.

Jesse walks in at that moment. ‘Whoa. I have never seen so many vegetables in my life,’ he says.

‘Brooke is teaching me about cooking. And meal prepping. And budgeting,’ Harper says proudly.

‘Sounds like a big day in life lessons for you,’ Jesse says, grinning.

Harper throws him a parsnip.

‘Can you chop that up?’ she asks.

‘Sure. What are we making?’ he says.

‘Soup,’ she says.

‘Soup!’ he says, with a level of enthusiasm that I try not to find adorable.

I have remained silent throughout this exchange because I don’t trust myself not to bring up his date. But I’m mature. I can handle this. We’re friends. It’s fine. I am not going to say anything, I am going to be normal and chill and—

‘So Harper tells me you’re on her matchmaking books after all,’ I blurt out. It was there, sitting in my throat, busting to get out. I had to do it. I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand then worry he’s going to think I’m so upset about the date that I’m crying.