‘She’ll be fine,’ Harper assures me, giving my shoulder a quick touch of support as she leaves the room, phone in hand.

Now Jesse and I are alone, and my mouth is dry. ‘So,’ I say, steeling myself in case he says he regrets everything. Or that he was caught up in the moment and it’s too much, too soon. Whatever happens, I can handle it, I tell myself.

Jesse sits down next to me, grins, and then grabs me and pulls me down on top of him. I laugh, surprised. He hugs me to him and plants gentle kisses all over my face.

‘I wanted to do that every time we watched The Vampire Diaries together,’ he says.

‘You did?’

‘Yeah. I did.’

God, he’s so cute. He’s so cute, and he’s kissing me so tenderly, and I’m going to ruin the moment with my insecurities.

‘If you regret what happened, before, it’s okay,’ I say.

He stops, confused. ‘Regret which part?’

‘The, um, the telling each other how we feel part,’ I say. ‘If it was too much, if you felt pressured—’

‘You think you pressured me into saying I’m in love with you?’ he says. I feel a little shivery delight snaking down my spine at hearing the words again.

‘I can be persuasive,’ I say.

He’s smiling, but then his expression changes and he looks concerned. ‘Is this about what happened back at school? I know it still bothers you.’

‘It doesn’t bother me. I have the map hanging in my bedroom,’ I say.

‘I noticed,’ he says. ‘But that doesn’t mean you forgive me. And you don’t have to forgive me. I just want to know what you’re thinking.’

I open my mouth to automatically say I have forgiven him, and I realise that it’s true. I have completely forgiven him. The memory still has an ache of embarrassment and pain, but I’m not mad at him anymore. That Jesse, fourteen-year-old Jesse, feels far away. So does fourteen-year-old Brooke. I feel a little bit sad for them both. I wish I could go back and tell them, ‘Just wait, it’s all going to work out.’

‘I do forgive you,’ I say to him, firmly. ‘And I trust you.’

His eyes soften at this, and I can see it means a lot to him.

‘But you don’t believe I’m in love with you?’ he says.

‘I think that’s the part I’m struggling with, yeah,’ I admit. I was so focused on telling him how I felt, I didn’t spend any time thinking about how I would feel if he said it back. The intense joy of it, and then the aftermath of that joy, the worry that it might not be true and, if it is true, that it might disappear.

‘Why?’ he says.