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Norah couldn’t help but smile slightly. ‘“Norah’s Song”?’

‘Shut up, OK? I know it’s silly,’ Poppy said.

Norah swallowed. ‘I don’t think it’s silly.’

‘Whatdoyou think?’ Poppy asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Norah replied honestly.

Poppy accepted that with sadness. ‘Right.’

‘Why didn’t you want me to hear it?’ Norah asked.

She felt nervous asking that question because it wasthequestion. The answer was going to blow this thing wide open.

‘Because I wasn’t sure if I was ever going to tell you how I felt. So I told my guitar instead,’ Poppy said with sincerity.

Norah understood that completely. But what she didn’t understand was what made this whole thing so bloody scary to her. Why was she freaking out? Why couldn’t she just say, ‘Hey, it’s OK. I don’t feel that way about you, but we can still be mates.’ That was what sheshouldsay, wasn’t it?

‘You could have talked to me,’ Norah said.

‘You had enough going on. It didn’t seem right,’ Poppy said.

That niggled Norah. ‘You think I can’t talk about anything because of my dad?’

Poppy looked surprised. ‘I, I don’t know. Maybe? It was hard to know.’

‘Well, Ican. OK? I don’t need to be tiptoed around. I thought you knew that,’ Norah snapped at her. She didn’t like her own tone, but it had snuck up on her.

Poppy gave her a long look. ‘How could I knowanything? We don’t talk about that.’

‘Because I don’t want to. I thought you understood.’

‘Why do you keep saying I should understand everything?’ Poppy asked, irked.

‘Because it happened to you, too. I guess I just thought you got everything without being told,’ Norah said, and they were officially having their first real argument.

‘Well, I don’t! I know the same kind of thing happened to us, but it doesn’t make me a mind reader,’ Poppy told her.

Norah wanted to argue with that. But it was a bit too reasonable.

She suddenly felt silly. She’d thought there was some unspoken agreement. A silent understanding. But maybe it was just a way for her to let herself think she didn’t have to talk about her dad. That it would all be OK somehow without ever having to do anything. Maybe that was stupid.

She wasn’t healing. The grief wasn’t going anywhere. It was just sitting, stewing, waiting.

‘Right. Then let’s talk. Let’s talk about how my dad kept falling asleep randomly and vomiting and decided to pretend nothing was wrong until the seizures started. Let’s talk about how, by then, the tumour in his head was the size of a fucking tennis ball. Let’s talk about how that fucking tumour absorbed all his kindness and spat out a mean stranger. Let’s talk about how his last words to me were, “Fuck off!”’

Poppy’s eyes were wide with shock. And Norah did something then that she had never done in front of Poppy. The balloon had finally popped. She started to cry.

‘OhChrist,’ Poppy whispered, rushing over to her, kneeling in front of Norah’s chair and putting a hand on her shoulder. ‘I’m so sorry.’

Before Norah knew what was happening, she was leaning over, weeping into Poppy’s shoulder, not just crying but flat-out sobbing.

It went on for an amount of time that was impossible to pinpoint. It could have been seconds; it could have been minutes. But then it ended, and she realised she was on the floor, in Poppy’s arms, released from something.

She looked up at Poppy, and Poppy looked down at her with her electric-blue eyes filled with compassion. Before Norahhad time to think about it, she leaned up and pressed her lips to Poppy’s. And it was happening. They were kissing.

A second later, Poppy jumped back. ‘You’re upset. You don’t know what you’re doing,’ she said anxiously.