I WAS JUST TRYING TO BE FUNNY | ✓

▬ 56: I like how you turn me inside and out

            The chime of the bell when we exit Hannah's Pantry jerks my memory. 'Ya Allah, I almost forgot.' I freeze on the threshold until Miles nudges me over it so I don't block the door though as soon as we're out of the direct lane into the café, I grab my new Xperia from my pocket. 'Look.'

Since Iya and Baba refused to take a pence of the money I saved up, I decided it was a ripe time for a cell that's actually mine to cover in as many stickers as I like. I also bought back my bike and my books (at twice the price I sold them for, mind you — Johan is a cretin). The rest, I'll use on birthday presents so I can sneak it to them whether they want it or not.

I slide the screen up and back onto the keyboard with rapid flicks to ensure they note the full QWERTY pad which enables me to type quickly and annoy everyone in public places with the click of the keys the way businessmen do with their Blackberries.

'I reckon I'm officially cool now. I mean, it's no iPhone, but it's got Google and everythin.'

My eyes find Miles in three-forward-two-back movements to gauge his response. He's watching my hands with a lopsided grin stretching the right corner of his lips. 'You're gonna break the hinge if you keep doing that, you will.'

'Can you let me enjoy this for five seconds?'

I turn to Sonia for back up but she picks his side instead. 'He's right. I broke the hinge on my DS and now I can't lie on my back to play because it shuts.'

'Okay, I get it. You both hate me. I'll never speak again.'

My hands remain raised in mock surrender for only a moment before I point at her with my phone, held like a plastic gun in my hand.

'For the record, this ain't mean I'm textin you while you're in Italy cause I'm not a millionaire.'

She smiles with a gentle shake of her head. 'My dad always brings his laptop. I'll email you.'

Since Sonia's leaving for Florence tomorrow where she'll stay for three weeks, this is our final meeting until mid-August. On Tuesday, my swim with Miles exhausted the little energy I had gathered and I slept from the afternoon to the next morning, but on Wednesday I told her everything.

Though I managed through it considerably more calm than I had for Miles's version, it didn't go without occasional roundabouts and pauses to wait for the lump in my throat to ease up. Sonia listened patiently through all of it, and I've seen her, along with Miles, every day since.

Dal too. Neither he nor Iya told me a word they exchanged that night in the back garden, but they must have reached an understanding because, aside from the occasional disapproving frown, she hasn't opposed. Nor has he kicked me out when I show up at his flat.

When I told Iya and Baba about Oxford and my bike tyres and the way I had to police every inflexion of tone or tension in body language for all seven years at North Chapel, they listened without taking it into themselves for the first time in my memory.

I think they still feel guilty. And maybe they wished they sent me to Providence instead, spiralling about what-ifs and all the versions of me that might've developed. I don't think they'd be parents if they didn't. But they left the guilt in second place in their list of priorities, and that effort means everything to me.

'Speaking of,' Sonia says, reading a text on her phone, 'he's going to pick me up in a few minutes.'

'But it's not even two yet!'

'We're going to our neighbours' for dinner and I've got to practice my violin, and walk Winnie, and be alone for a bit, and change first.'

All entirely valid reasons, but my pulse skyrockets.

I glance at Miles, then step away as subtly as I can, standing in front of Sonia as I do to guide her along without touching her. Once we're at a safe distance, I look at him again. His hands are tucked into his shorts pockets as he scans the rooftops of the flats that line the road like he's spontaneously taken up birdwatching as a hobby.

Despite his accommodation to our privacy, I dip my head and lower my voice to a whispered exclamation. 'You can't leave me alone with him. What am I supposed to say?'

Sonia's gaze is trained on something behind me and she furrows her brow at it, demanding it to put sense to my words. 'Just tell whatever you're thinking.'

I scoff. 'I can't tell him that.'

'Well, if you're trying to master subtext, maybe don't ask your autistic friend for advice.'

'But you're my only friend. I can't ask anyone else.'

A grin blossoms on her mouth that she tries half-heartedly to restrict. 'Sorry, but that's really not my problem.'

I huff. Apparently, they've both made a habit of quoting me back at myself. It's very annoying. I swear, these phrases are not this annoying when I'm the one saying them.

Sonia smiles with her whole body: eyes screwed up, neck buried into her shoulders, and rocks on the balls of her feet. The twinkle in her eye is clear — she's feeding me my own medicine to see how I like it but all in good fun. Unlike me, she knows when jokes are appropriate.

With a deep breath, she steadies herself. 'If you actually care about my opinion, I think you should just tell him you're in love with him and stop making it so complicated. And don't say it in that way when nobody can tell if you're joking or not.'

Screw your survival kits, she might as well say.

Five minutes later, when Sonia climbs into the passenger seat of her dad's Ford and I stand next to Miles on the curb to wave her goodbye, my heart pumps nothing but the eight letters of my avowal. Once the car is lost in traffic and I can no longer stretch time, I edge my gaze to him without turning my head only to find his already pouring onto me.

My eyes flick to the pink and violet petunias on display outside the flower shop opposite.

Why do you always catch me looking? Why am I always embarrassed by it? How is it possible to be embarrassed by a look when I've already kissed every granule of orange-flavoured sugar from your tongue once?

Maybe that all happened in an alternate reality or to different people. We were different people back then. "Back then" of twenty-eight days ago. All the firsts are still ahead, a second time. The intimacy we once shared functions only as a teaser of what I'm missing, of what I'll miss for the rest of my life if I don't stop being such a coward.

Rolling my shoulders with a click of the knots in my muscles, I turn to face him. But my determination lasts only until I open my mouth. The words are tethered to my uvula, tickling my throat, yet I don't have the tools to free them without irreversible damage that'll bleed for days.

Miles smiles. If you already know, why are you torturing me like this?

"Just tell him". Don't say it like a joke, and don't shroud it in a dozen convoluted sentences so, when he doesn't sieve my true meaning through subtext, allowing the smaller letters to drain through until only eight remain, and rearrange them on my behalf, I can pretend it's a sign he doesn't reciprocate and God has graced me to save face.

'Wanna go swimmin?'