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to see when we were teenagers, if it was there at all. I’ve felt her fingers inside of me and her tongue between my legs. And how can I possibly run away from that, no matter what she has to say?  
    Instead of going to bed after the last guests have left, I borrow my mother’s bike, because I’m too tipsy to drive a car, and cycle to Amy’s house.
    It’s late and the air has cooled off, but an alcohol blush burns on my face and I have the memory of my afternoon with Amy to keep me warm.
    When I arrive at Amy’s house, everything is quiet and dark. For an instant, I wonder if it’s appropriate to disturb her night rest, but I tell myself she’d want me to. I park my bike against a bunch of low shrubbery and, not wanting to ring a loud and intrusive doorbell, go round the back.
    As I approach I hear a crackling noise I quickly identify as fire. To my surprise, Amy lounges in a deck chair, wrapped in a quilt, by an iron fire pit I hadn’t noticed before—understandably, as earlier I was suffering from a severe case of tunnel vision.
    “I was hoping you’d show up,” she says as if she’s been expecting me. “This time.” There’s no malice in her voice, only a playfulness and maybe a hint of hope. She looks up at me, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “I couldn’t sleep.”
    A bit wobbly with too much wine in my blood, I crouch beside her. “I know an excellent remedy for that.”
    Amy’s eyes sparkle in the light of the flames. She circles her fingers around my wrist again, and I’m glad for the extra support.
    “This is all terribly romantic, isn’t it?” I quip, because I have a lot of things I want to say but I don’t really know where to begin.
    “Let’s go inside, anyway.” Her fingertips already scorch my skin and I’d follow her anywhere. This time, I would.

    The day I said goodbye to Amy without her knowing was an ordinary Wednesday. I was leaving for summer school the next Monday, but Amy was joining her family on a road trip to the coast the day after and wouldn’t be back before I left.  
    We sat in the kitchen at my house, eating scones my auntie Ella had brought over. Amy loved scones, mostly because no one in her family knew how to make them properly. A big dollop of cream stuck to her nose, but I didn’t tell her because it looked so adorable. I believed that if I remembered her face like that, more goofy than sexy, I’d get over her quicker.  
    For Amy, the summer still seemed to stretch itself out endlessly. A few weeks of no responsibilities and expectations had that effect. I sat there, looking at her and the cream on her nose, and the thought of leaving her behind made all the words die in my throat.
    I let her rattle on about another party she was planning next week when she got back. I’d have to bring scones—preferably the ones my mother made—and everyone had to wear a white t-shirt, but I shouldn’t forget to bring my bathing suit. And could I possibly get my hands on some beer?
    I just nodded and watched her being Amy, cringing every time she mentioned Brett, and even more so when Paul’s name came up.
    At a bit past four—I remember because we had an old cuckoo clock in the kitchen that had just chimed four times—she got up because she had to take her little brother candy shopping for the road trip.
    We didn’t hug, because we weren’t that type of people. Just a quick wave, and she was gone, out of the kitchen, our house, and my life.
    I stayed glued to my chair until my mother came home from work an hour later, debating if I should go over that night to say something. But I knew I couldn’t do that because I couldn’t possibly face the accompanying questions.
    I should have, but I couldn’t.

    “I should have told you,” I say as I stand in Amy’s kitchen. It’s a dimly lit, stark white, handleless cupboards affair with lots of stainless steel and a host of Smeg appliances lining the countertops.
    “I can’t disagree.” Amy