I join her on the couch. “Hey, can we talk?”
“Sure. ’Sup?” she says, eyes on the TV.
“Just wanted to see how you’re doing. Is…everything okay with you?”
“Yep. Fine.”
“Are you sure? Because if there’s anything you’d like to talk about—”
She lowers the remote and looks at me, keen eyes searching mine. “Is there somethingyou’dlike to talk about?”
“Err, no.”
“How’s your music going?”
“It’s going well.”
She hums approvingly. “Excellent. And your love life?”
I splutter, “I don’t have a love life. Willoughby and I had one date.”
“Two, technically, if you count today.”
“Fine. Two.”
“Three if you see him tonight.”
“Currently two.”
“Aha.” She scrutinises me. “Is he treating you well?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Otherwise, I’d have to kick his arse. Anyway, look! They have that show.”
“What show?”
“This BBC one. With that handsome detective who looks like Brandon.”
“Oh?” Jealousy sparks as something tightens low in my stomach, and my tone cools. “You think Brandon’s handsome?”
She makes a face at me. “Ew. Did I say that?”
“Yeah, you pretty much did—”
“Hush. It’s starting.”
My nostrils flare. “Press pause, then.”
“No. Stay and be silent, or go. SherlockMcBrandondeserves my full attention.”
“I’ll go,” I mutter.
I’m nearly out the door when she calls, “Wait. Just to be clear—you realise those roses were meant for you, right?”
I freeze. Slowly turn back. “What?”
“Brandon got them for you.”
