“Sabotaging the balloons, stealing the cake.”
“Baking the cake,” I correct. My neck cricks when I twist to look up at him. “How did the croquet thing turn out?”
“Croquembouche,” Thomas corrects. “I think Ned was a bit over-ambitious. And it’s meant to be a party for Grey, right? So I made a Black Forest gateau.”
Schwarzw?lder Kirschtorte. Grey’s favorite. “The best choice your mother ever made,” he always said, “was bringing a piece of Germany home with her.” I’d never seen him eat it without needing to be hosed down afterwards.
“Thank you.”
Gently, like he can sense my skull is about to burst, or maybe wondering whether I forgive him about Manchester, Thomas kisses me on the head. I could sink into this friendship like a comfortable sofa. But wouldn’t that miss the point of this entire summer? And Grey would kill me. It’s all through his whole life, all through his diaries, with their explosions of peonies and majestic goats. Take risks. Live boldly. Say yes.
Like a comet, I know: that’s how you stop a wormhole, that’s the opposite of grief—love.
Before I can think about it, I twist round to kiss Thomas—and boink my head on his. There’s a crack like thunder as we connect. Stars everywhere. Nothing spacetimey, just pain.
“Ow.” He rubs his jaw, looking at me with concern. “Are you okay? Of course you’re okay, your skull’s made of concrete.”
“Me?” I twist around and prod him in the ribs. “That’s twice now, you’ve chinned me.”
Then I flatten out my fingers and try to read him like Braille. Scrunch his cardigan underneath my hands. How are you supposed to be best friends with someone when they’re a hundred and eighty miles away?
“Third time’s the charm?” Thomas offers, jutting his chin.
We’re still laughing when we start kissing, messy and clumsy and happy. Dizzy and smiling and tentative, figuring out a way towards each other. I didn’t know it could be like this.
“Ready to face the death metal?” I ask, when I can finally speak.
*
We kiss-walk-stumble the couple of hundred yards home hand in hand, so by the time we get there, the party is in full swing. We stand in the driveway, hiding behind Grey’s Beetle. The hood is vibrating with noise. My skin vibrates too. I’m pulsating—with Thomas’s kiss, with Papa’s revelations. With what’s to come. My head has started to throb again. I can’t let go of Thomas’s hand; it’s tethering me to the world.
“Is there any way,” he yells in my ear, “that we can get to your room without anyone seeing us?”
I wish. From what I can see of the garden, this is not Grey’s party. No one’s in a toga, for starters. And his style of debauchery was much more aren’t-tea-lights-everywhere-romantic?-oops-I’ve-accidentally-set-the-rhododendron-on-fire. The hundreds of different-colored balloons pay lip service to that idea—I half expect to see Papa floating about up there—but ultimately this is Ned and his mates, rocking out.
“C’mon.” I lead Thomas into the melee. Immediately, we’re in a throng of people. Niall pushes a plastic cup of beer into my free hand and I accept it. He says to someone else, “That’s Ned’s baby sister.”
After that, “Heys” follow us through the garden as we push our way through clumps of people. And out of the corner of my eye, a pool of darkness follows us too. A kiss wasn’t enough.
“Heeey.” This comes from Sof, a vision in gold who bursts through the crowd to hug me. I let go of Thomas’s hand to hug her back, surprised by her warmth. When she peels away, I see her cheeks are flushed and both her beehive and eyeliner are wonky. She’s got a beer in each hand.
She peers at my own half-empty cup as someone bumps into us and we stagger sideways. I feel a sudden emptiness. “Gottie! You need to catch up! Where’ve you been?”
“The bookshop. And Thomas and I—” I break off. I’ve lost him in the crowd. “Where is everyone?”
“You see all these people?” she stage-whispers. I can smell the beer on her breath. “They are everyone!”
“People I know.” I only know her and Thomas and the band. “Ned.” Talking makes me wince, the headache building up steam with all the noise, and maybe Sof notices, because she says, “Drink.”
I follow her instruction, downing my cup like a shot, and she says, “Whoa, actually, slow down. You’re not used to it.”
Her fussing reminds me of last summer. We were both the same year, weren’t we? Both finished with exams, out of school uniform forever. I already don’t have a mum; I don’t not need another one.
“Seriously, where’s Ned?” I drop my empty cup on the grass. Under a nearby shrub, the darkness slides into view. A little bigger than before. I turn away, picking up an unopened can that’s sitting on the bench. Someone says “Hey” and not in a “Hello” way, and I shoot a glance at them: “What?”