Will drifted off, trying to parse the air of vague amusement and impatience and uncertainty he’d picked up from her last night. The twins and Will had been best friends forever, like the three musketeers or something—but Abbie was always harder to read, and his feelings complicated the issue. Right now, for example, he couldn’t decide if the slight unease in his stomach was just nerves, or if it was because his plan was all wrong somehow.

Which was why he needed Jase.

“Hey,” Will nudged. “You there? You’re not saying anything. This is usually the part where you say something.” He got out of bed, the wooden floorboards cool against his bare feet. He needed to pace. If he didn’t get the nervous energy out via his legs, more of it would escape via his mouth. The phone in his hand remained silent, and he wondered if he’d accidentally cut off the call while speaking. He did that sometimes. Bloody touchscreens.

But then, finally, Jase spoke. “Yeah, I’m—I’m here,” he said, his voice all choked. “Sorry. Just kind of stuck on the part where you apparently want to have a shot with Abbie?”

Will paused mid-pace and blinked at the flowery wallpaper in front of him. This room, like every room in Ms. Tricia’s house, was wonderfully, distractingly bright. “Oh. Er … Did you not know that I’m in love with her? I always kind of assumed you knew.”

“You’re—you—what?” Jase rasped. “Bloody hell, Will. You assumed I knew? You think I knew that—I mean—well.” There was a pause, and a slight, considering cough. “Well, yeah, maybe I thought you had a thing for her, at one point. But I decided I was imagining it, because, Will, you never said! And you always say. And that was years ago, and—and she got married. To that dickhead. And you didn’t say shit. What the fuck, Will?”

Will shrugged, opened the curtains, and smiled out at the bare, frost-kissed trees and snow-cloud skies. Then he remembered that Jase couldn’t see him and explained. “I don’t know. I was being subtle. And patient.”

“Subtle,” Jase repeated, “and patient.” His voice dripped with scepticism. Will could practically feel it sliding out of the phone.

“Fine,” he admitted, “I was shy. I didn’t have much confidence when we were young. And I didn’t want to fuck up the family.” He still wasn’t sure if Jase—if any of the Farrells—understood what family felt like for Will. Before they’d moved in next door and been effortlessly absorbed into their new neighbours’ lives, Will and his mum had had no one but each other for ten fucking years. They’d struggled alone. They’d suffered alone. They’d survived his father alone.