“I know,” he says. “That’s why I thought this thing with Celine—you know, you trying to act like you’re not into her at all, and being friends with her, and finally admitting that you watch her TikToks, meant you had real, big boy, serious feelings for her.”
I don’t say anything; I’m too busy freaking out.
“But, hey,” Jordan says cheerfully. “What do I know?”
“Nothing. You know nothing, Jordan Snow.” See, my strategy is: if I ignore this, it will go away. Which is literally the opposite of what Dr. Okoro would tell me to do, but she’s not the boss of me, so there.
“Are you telling me you’re not in love with Celine?”
“No,” I say firmly.
“No, you’re not in love with her, or no you’re not telling me you’re not in love with her because you are?”
“What…No, as in, no, I’m not in love with her! Obviously!”
Someone rings the doorbell. I pop up out of bed and plaster myself to my window because I’m waiting for my paperback copy of Black Leopard, Red Wolf, but instead of the postman, I see a familiar scarlet coat. “Crap.”
“What?” Jordan demands.
“Celine’s here!”
“At your house?”
“No, at the Eiffel Tower. Yes, at my house.”
“The Eiffel Tower?” he echoes dryly. “Seriously, Brad?”
“Shut up! What do I do?” My room is a hideous mess and I’m wearing glasses instead of contacts and I have a halo of frizz around my head because I’ve been lazing around in bed all day without my do-rag. This is why people aren’t supposed to just show up unannounced. “I haven’t put my washing away!”
“Just…throw it in the closet and close the door.”
“Jordan,” I say, aghast.
“Okay, fine, put it in your sister’s room.”
Now, that…that could work. I snatch up the basket of washing and tiptoe across the hall. Downstairs, the front door opens, and I hear Dad’s voice. Thank God. He can talk for England.
“Maybe she’s not even here to see you,” Jordan says as I sneak into Em’s room. It’s colder than the rest of the house and half empty. I put my washing down and get out of there sharpish. “Aren’t your parents friends?” he asks. “Maybe she’s come to pick something up.”
Ohhh. “Maybe,” I say, my heart slowing. And dropping. Stupid heart. Then I hear Dad say, “Brad’s in his room,” and it bounces back to life. “Nope,” I correct, rushing back across the hall. “Definitely here for me!”
My brother Mason sticks his big, square head out of the bathroom door. His hair is in perfect glossy curls and he has a wax strip stuck between his eyebrows. “What are you doing running around out here?” he demands at foghorn volume.
“Shut up,” I whisper.
“Did you go in Emily’s room? We’re not allowed in there.”
“Celine is coming upstairs,” I tell him, “so unless you want to demonstrate your monobrow management technique, get lost.”
He gives me the finger and slams the bathroom door with all the force of his overdeveloped biceps.
Jordan is laughing in my ear, which is not helpful. “Stop snickering,” I tell him sternly. “What do I do? What do I say—”
“Normal stuff,” Jordan instructs, then corrects himself. “Brad stuff. The usual. You do know this girl, remember?”
Right, yeah. It’s only Celine. I take a breath and plop back onto my bed. “Of course. Thanks, Jordan.”
“You’re welcome. By the way, I think she likes you too.”
“Jordan!” That is not helpful, either, because it’s ridiculous. Celine is…Celine. She doesn’t like people. In her world, we’ve only been friends again for, like, five minutes, and I’m pretty sure she requires ten years of loyal companionship and smoldering eye contact and maybe a few deadly battles fought side by side （or back-to-back—that always looks badass in films） before she’d even consider developing a crush. I know she had a…thing with Luke Darker last year, but it was weird and aggressive, and I don’t want that. I want something she’s not going to give me. “That’s not…She doesn’t…Shut up.”
“If you say so.” Jordan snorts.
“I do say so!”
“Fine, whatever,” he singsongs. “Let’s pretend neither of you is remotely interested in the other, if that makes you feel better. Oh, and, Brad?”
“Yeah?”
“Get off the phone.”
“Oh yeah!” I hang up.
CHAPTER TEN
CELINE
We’ve only just settled into December, but when I knock on Bradley’s front door, a holly wreath frames my fist. Trev Graeme answers a few moments later.
“Hello, Celine!” He beams. （He’s just like Bradley, smiling all over the place.） “Come in, come in. How are you? How’s—” He breaks off, clocking the garden’s wonky SANTA STOP HERE! sign with a scowl. “Oh, not again. This raatid wind. Excuse my French, sweetheart, one second.” He tiptoes outside in his slippers.
When Brad and I fell out, I stopped coming around, so I haven’t spent much time with Trev these last few years. He visits my house every so often—mostly when Mum needs help lifting things, and then they have a cup of tea in the kitchen. I tend to make myself scarce. It’s not because I don’t like him. He just reminds me how shitty I am.
Trevor Graeme, you see, loves his family quite a lot and would probably rather die than leave them. When I was younger, I went through this absolutely mortifying phase of envying Brad his good fortune.
I know. It’s awful. Don’t worry, I’m over it.
But maybe there are other, shitty dad-related things lurking in my brain that I’m not quite over. Maybe Giselle made a few teeny, tiny points yesterday. I can’t stop thinking about that possibility, which is why I’m here. So I smile through a few minutes’ chat with Trev when he returns, graciously accept a drink and a packet of biscuits, then scurry upstairs to find what I hope is still Bradley’s room.
It is.
He must hear me hovering on the stairs because he comes over to lean against his door frame like a bouncer. His hands are in his pockets, his expression is amused…
And he’s wearing his glasses. They’re oversized circular frames made of pale gold and I don’t think I’ve ever noticed how adorable his nose is until I see his glasses perched on top of it just now. This is mortifying. I think I’m already having heart palpitations.
Stop. Get ahold of yourself!
Brad arches an eyebrow. “You know you have my number now, Celine. You can text me if you’re coming over. I could…unlock the door for you.”
I try to sound unaffected by his presence. “And let me bypass your father like a mannerless heathen?”
He rolls his eyes and steps aside to let me in. But I notice him flicking looks back at me as I walk through his room, like he’s nervous. “What’s up, anyway?”
There’s no easy way to ask someone if they think your entire life plan amounts to BIG FAT DADDY ISSUES, so I decide to subtly ease into things. “Nothing. I’m fine.”