Luke drops by every night after school for the next week.

We sit on the couch for hours and talk about everything and nothing all at once. Like on Wednesday, we start chatting about French, I quiz him on some Spanish homework, and then, I’m not sure how we make the leap, but we’re talking about cheese. Cheese. We spend the next hour discussing Cheddar as if the survival of humanity was at stake. He tells me his favourite kind is cashew nut cream cheese. I’ve never tried that. Shocker. Maybe I will start making a list of things I’d like to try . . . on second thoughts, that might do more harm than good. I’m not even sure we have enough paper in the house to cover it.

The space on the couch between us stays the same, lingering like a chaperone at junior prom, forever ensuring we don’t get too close. Not that there’s any chance of that. He doesn’t mention the handholding. Neither do I.

It’s Friday morning, and, as per usual, Mom is reading the paper. Not the real paper; they’re still not allowed in the house. This thing is a broadsheet called You and Your Garden Monthly. The scariest thing in there is an article about a successful aphid massacre in Minnesota. I checked. With bated breath, I stir the oatmeal in my bowl. It’s thick and creamy and smells amazing, but I can’t swallow it down yet because something is on my mind.

‘Mom.’

‘Hmm?’ She replies from miles away in her planter’s paradise.

Deepest of breaths. ‘When Luke comes over later, would it be okay if we watched a movie in my bedroom?’

The paper goes down and she eyeballs me from over the top of her wire reading glasses.

‘Should I be worried?’

‘No.’ I shake my head, whip my hair into a frenzy.

‘Have you gotten comfortable with him touching you yet?’

‘Sort of . . .’ In retrospect, I could have probably said no.

‘What does that mean? Exactly?’ She folds You and Your Garden Monthly in half, sets it down beside her empty bowl.

‘It means we take all our clothes off, and he turns into a koala, clings to me like a tree while we watch TV.’

Mom chokes on the sip of tea she’s just taken. ‘Norah Jane Dean.’

‘It was a joke.’

‘Obviously,’ she says. ‘I’m just a little shocked you made it.’

Her shock would be less, I’m sure, if she knew how hard I was working to keep a mental image of the aforementioned out of my mind. I take half a second to wonder if Luke would find my quip amusing. It’s a joke at his expense, after all, having an abnormal girlfriend, one he can’t touch.

‘So what is “sort of” comfortable?’ Mom prods.

‘I touched his hand last week, you know, before the fear kicked in.’

Mom pushes her glasses back on top of her head. I foresee a disaster when it comes to pulling them free from her hair later.

‘Does he get it?’

‘Get what?’

‘Your limitations?’

I’m not really sure what she’s asking. ‘I mean, we’ve talked about it a lot.’

‘But does he understand?’ Mom says, her Dr Reeves impression almost perfect. I load my mouth with a spoonful of porridge and nod. Nope. I still don’t have a clue what she wants to know, but a serious note in her voice suggests another ill-timed intervention, and I’m not sure I can handle two of those in one week. I’m still considering the scratching issue. ‘It’s nice to see you smiling,’ she says and I have a sneaking suspicion she’s decided it’s not worth pursuing this line of questioning. At least not yet.

‘So . . . is that a yes?’ I flap my lashes, throw my best grin in her face.

‘Sure,’ she says.

I’m sitting at the top of the stairs, using my teeth to file down the corner of my thumbnail, when Luke knocks.

‘I’ll get it!’ I yell, sprinting down the stairs, excitement level off the charts as I bunny-hop back up the last step before heading to the door. Mom laughs at me from the living room. She’s been swallowed. All that’s left of her is a pair of feet in penguin slippers hanging over the arm of the couch.

‘Hi.’ I’m a little out of breath when I answer the door. Worse when I’m done soaking up his smile.

‘You like vanilla ice cream, right?’ he says, holding up a brown paper bag. ‘Not the vanilla pod stuff. I remembered that thing you said about not liking black bits in your food. Assumed you were being literal.’ See. He does understand.

‘Aww,’ Mom coos from inside the mouth of the couch.

Luke winces like he just coughed too loud in church. ‘I didn’t know your mom was home,’ he whispers. Lately, she’s been doing a great job of making herself scarce.

‘That’s okay. We’re going upstairs,’ I tell him and lead the way.

Tonight we’re watching Mad Mad Mary, one of my favourite horror classics. I’m on my bed, legs crossed, and Luke is slumped on my sill. I didn’t ask him to sit so far away; he just sort of gravitated towards the window.

‘Who does that?’ he says. His eyes are on the TV. My eyes are on him, wondering for whose sake he’s bypassed the bed. I conclude he’s done it for me, but out of nowhere, for the smallest of seconds, I wish he’d done it for himself. ‘Don’t go up. Go out.’ The guy in the movie, the lead, runs straight past the door and takes off up the stairs. Luke starts reciting a list of mistakes the characters in horror movies make, a mental list I’ve made a thousand times before. It feels good to have someone to share with.

‘Don’t move to a house that’s a million miles away from anywhere,’ I add.

‘Yes.’ He almost chokes on a spoonful of ice cream. ‘Switch on the lights the second you hear a strange noise.’ I laugh so hard the urge to pee hits me.

‘I’ll be right back,’ I say, climbing off the bed. He hits pause on the movie. I try not to get teary over how considerate he is.

One relieved bladder and two fresh squirts of Mom’s perfume later, I float back down the landing, so happy I feel like there should be bluebirds frolicking overhead and stems of sweet roses to stop and sniff. Anxiety is forced to trail ten paces behind me.

I stop when I get to my room because I can hear Luke talking and I don’t want to gatecrash his call. ‘When?’ he says into his cell. ‘Next Friday? Are you serious?’ I see him through the crack in my door, pacing. Excitement has erupted on his face. ‘Yes. Awesome. Can you get me two tickets?’ Pause. Face scrunch. Headshake. Someone pulls the plug on his smile. He runs a hand through his hair. ‘Actually, dude, I’m not going to be able to make it. I already have plans.’ He laughs. ‘What makes you think they’re with a girl?’ My heart leaps into my throat. ‘There might be.’ Pause. ‘She might be.’ He perches on my bed, reaches for the antique silver photo frame that sits on top of a wicker table. He smiles at the picture of me blowing out eighteen candles on my seventeenth birthday – had to round the candles up to the nearest even number so as not to upset my psyche. Lame.

‘Trust me. You don’t know her.’

Anxiety catches up to me; I wobble when it slams into my back. Me. It’s me that’s pulled the plug on his smile.

‘Nah. Don’t worry about it. I’ll catch them next time. Thanks anyway, man.’ He hangs up, tosses his phone in the air and catches it. He’s all happy-go-lucky again as he heads back to his safe seat on the windowsill. I push my body up against the wall, count to ten as my finger carves out a crevice in my palm.

We need to talk. He can’t start missing out on things for me. He can’t do that. That’s like climbing into a car with its brakes cut. Disaster imminent.

I head back into the room, watch my feet move, one in front of the other. Everything feels uneven, so I use the furniture to ferry me back to my bed.

‘Norah. Are you okay?’ He sits up, startled.

‘Sure. You know me . . .’ I dismiss the worried expression he’s throwing my way with a wave. ‘Stability of spaghetti.’

‘Is the movie too much?’ He gets off the sill, walks over, sits on the very edge of my bed. ‘We can watch something else.’

‘No!’ I protest a little too intensely. ‘I mean, honestly, I’m fine.’

‘Okay,’ he says. ‘I’ll quit bugging you.’ He stands up.

‘You can . . .’ A heatwave washes over me. ‘You can sit over here with me . . . if you want to.’

‘Sure.’ I revel in the way the bed shifts when he sits back down, more on than off this time.

The rest of the film plays out, but I don’t tune in. Between his proximity and trying to figure out how to mention his phone call, which I’m totally going to have to confess to eavesdropping on – ugh – my mind is a hot mess. I’ll figure it out. I really wish Mom’s question from this morning wasn’t starting to make more sense.