I meanme.
At least, I think it was me.
‘I still can’t believe he sketched out a whole forest,’ Rach says. ‘And you requested that on Instagram! Do you think he saw the post?’
‘Hemusthave,’ Amy chips in.
I agree.
Dan comes through from the kitchen.
‘What are you lot talking about?’ he asks, proceeding to massage Amy’s shoulders.
She groans, her head lolling back.
‘Sand art,’ I reply as Rach pretends to vomit.
‘Pot calling the kettle black!’ I exclaim at Rach. ‘You and Ellie are just as sickening.’
‘We donotdo PDAs,’ she argues. ‘At least, we don’tmeanto.’
Ellie is Rach’s girlfriend. Amy and I didn’t even know that Rach was bisexual until a couple of years ago. She used to have a crush on Chris, one of Dan’s bandmates, and when we were at school, she’d fly off the handle if anyone called her alesbian. She’s always been a surfer tomboy in her baggy T-shirts and boardshorts.
Turns out it was more the assumption than the label that bothered her.
‘Actually, you’reallrevolting,’ I declare casually, the only singleton at the table.
Dan removes his hands from Amy’s shoulders and her head returns to an upright position.
I didn’t mean for him to stop on my account, but I’m distracted by the song spilling out of the speaker.
‘Can you skip this one?’ I ask.
Dan frowns at me. ‘It’s “Sweater Weather” by the Neighbourhood. We didn’t evenplaythis one.’
‘I know, but it reminds me of him and his holey jumper.’
Amy and Rach exchange looks.
‘Don’t make a big deal out of it,’ I say a little impatiently. ‘Can you please just skip it?’
I’m doing well; no need to put hurdles in my path.
Dan reaches for his phone. My relief doesn’t last more than a couple of seconds because ‘Sold’ by Liily is the next song to come on.
‘Urgh,no!’
‘This single hadn’t even come out when he fronted the band!’ Dan exclaims at my reaction.
‘Yeah, but he put their EP on at Seaglass a couple of years ago.’ I added it to my Music afterwards. ‘Do you reckon we can have a different playlist?’
I’m such a shit dinner guest, but Dan, bless him, doesn’t so much as sigh.
‘What would you like?’ he asks me placidly.
‘Um, jazz?’
‘I fucking hate jazz, Liv, and you know it.’
