‘And we have set nights that we spend in each other’s rooms, and set nights we spend on our own. And we still go on dates outside of the house, every Thursday night. And we have an agreed-upon code word we use, when we want or need space from each other, and you can use that word up to three times a week, without the other person getting offended.’

‘The code word is wackadoo,’ Henry blurts out, apparently also wanting to be included now. He smiles nervously at me, and I look at him in slight horror. Why would he say that? Why would he even pretend to know our code word? And why would it be wackadoo?

There are too many people trying to help and get involved now.

‘Wackadoo. Okay, sure,’ Tristan says. ‘That’s a lot of rules,’ he adds, but without judgment. Tristan knows me. This all seems normal to him. He helped me colour-code my study schedule six months in advance, blocking in time for ‘intense study’, time for ‘light study’ and time for ‘productive rest’ to absorb everything I had learned.

‘I have the rules all typed up, and spiral bound. They have a table of contents and everything,’ I say, because I can see it, in my mind’s eye, a lovely black folder of rules that keeps a relationship on track, contained, safe.

I feel Jesse’s shoulder press into mine ever so slightly, a warning, perhaps, that I am taking it too far.

‘Huh,’ Tristan says, and shakes his head. ‘Brooke and Jesse. Jesse and Brooke. I just never would have picked it.’ That’s the part bothering him most, I can tell. That he can’t understand it, that he doesn’t see how it could have happened. Maybe he’s not convinced. I feel acutely aware of him watching us closely. We’re still sitting up against each other, but it might have been long enough that we should have touched in some other way by now.

I try to think of a natural way to touch Jesse. How did I used to touch Tristan? He was very touchy-feely. I don’t remember ever thinking about it, other than wishing he wasn’t touching me so much. He would come up behind me and rub my shoulders, which should have been a lovely gesture, and it was, but it always got on my nerves. It made me feel like I was wearing a heavy, oversize, itchy jumper that I just wanted to pull off. It was suffocating. It’s things like that that make me think I’m not cut out for intimacy.

I glance at Jesse, and he looks back at me, and there’s a lot we are both trying to communicate in a two-second exchange of facial expressions, and I don’t think either of us successfully gets anything across.