‘It’s all ancient history,’ I say airily, waving my hand. ‘Now tell us about you.’

‘Who made the first move?’ Tristan says, ignoring my desperate attempt to turn the conversation back on him. He has always been a good listener, a good asker of questions. Too many questions. He likes to analyse. His parents are psychologists, after all. He loved saying, ‘Tell me what you’re thinking about right now’, or ‘Tell me what you think about this’ and would hand me his phone open to 5000-word article I didn’t have time to read on a topic I knew nothing about, but I would stop everything and skim-read it, determined to say something intelligent, because I never wanted him to think he was smarter or knew more than me, because I suspected he thought he was. It was exhausting. He’s a deep-diver, a person who needs to understand something intimately.

He also loves gossip.

‘Well, I mean, that’s kind of private,’ I say, and at the same time as Jesse says, ‘Brooke did.’

‘Brooke did?’ Tristan says. His eyes are wide.

Damn him. Him being both Jesse and Tristan.

‘Yes, I did,’ I say, because I have no other option and this whole situation is basically an improv sketch now.

‘She held my hand during an episode of The Vampire Diaries,’ Jesse says. It takes all of my power to stop my face from reacting with anything other than what I hope looks like a glow of happiness. On the inside, I am a desperate churn of emotions. Anxiety, as always, front and centre, the star performer.

‘Since when do you watch The Vampire Diaries?’ Tristan says to me, and it occurs to me how many bits and pieces of myself I hid from him to make sure he considered me an intellectual equal.

‘Oh, I made her watch it,’ Jesse says.

‘So how does it work? Getting together while living together?’ Tristan asks. He’s leaning forward, sleeves rolled up, ready to dissect our life. He’s holding a beer, thank god, because I need him to lose some of his sharpness. Tristan doesn’t handle his alcohol well. He’ll turn from sober and thoughtful to a gluggy mess very quickly, and the faster he gets there right now the better.

‘Well, we have a lot of rules,’ I say. Rules seem the obvious solution. If you were to date a housemate, it could work, with the right structure, the right boundaries, the right system. A contract even.

‘What kind of rules?’ Tristan asks.

‘We really limit any displays of affection around Harper. No kissing unless it’s a peck hello or goodbye. Small amounts of couch snuggling,’ I say.

‘Except when I have Penny over, and then it’s, like, we’re on more equal ground,’ Harper interjects.