Page 100 of Little Miss Fortune

I look around the room again. It’s just as bare as last time, no posters or art on the walls to show that it’s Toby’s place and not a mid-century modern showroom. Like it’s only temporary.

Decorations and set design are so important to show the inner workings of the world and characters.

‘Toby’—I suddenly realise—‘do you ever sleep?’

‘Of course I sleep.’

‘But do you sleep well? Would you say you have a normal sleeping schedule where you sleep for six-to-eight hours a night?’

I sound like a concerned mother, but he doesn’t respond. Sophie’s warning grows by the second, dropping seeds in my gut, feeding my thoughts of maybe all of it being connected. His lack of sleep, his pile of NHS letters that has moved from his entranceway to the desk in his room, his parents’ strangling hands around his throat.

The question forms from those worries, but he looks up at me, eyes so sincere, so tender, as if a single gust of wind could break him. I bite my tongue for now. This is not the time to talk about this. Later.

‘Game that good, huh?’ I divert to the other possibility at hand. ‘What’s it about?’

I grab the blanket from the sofa and throw it over us, nuzzling into Toby’s chest. His arms with the controller go over me in a tight squeeze. Every couple of button presses, he leans forward to give me a little kiss on the forehead, sometimes kissing out the beats of the tune from the game.

‘Do you want to try?’ he asks.

‘No, I like watching you play.’

‘C’mon. I’ll teach you.’

He explains the mechanics of the history-inspired turn-based game about different civilisations. At first the game seems to go well. My cities are growing and people are happy with me. But then a prompt appears.

Gandhi declares formal war against you.

‘What? What did I do?’ I sit up, eyes round in horror.

‘Uh-oh.’ Toby tries to hide his smile behind a fist.

Next turn, Gandhi drops a nuclear bomb on me.

‘Oh nooooo.’ I hide my face in my knees. ‘Why did I get nuked? By Gandhi?’

Toby’s laughter is clear and bright, like a schoolboy who just witnessed his friend doing a failed backflip. He squeezes me into a tighter hug as I die from embarrassment.

We play for another hour. My eyes are getting heavy again; Toby’s breathing is deep and even; I let myself drift for just a moment.

I wake up, still on the couch pressed against Toby’s lying body. His chest rises and falls a lot slower than I would expect—about 14 breaths per minute (I have counted). And his resting heartbeat is at about 44 beats per minute, which I think is the average rate of athletes. How much running does he do?

His eyelashes flutter in the light and are soon open.

‘Morning,’ I say.

‘Morning. What time is it?’

‘About eleven.’

He grumbles, throws his leg over me, and gives me another squeeze with my head against his chest. ‘Do you want to stay for the rest of the day? I am meeting with some friends you’ve met later. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind seeing you again.’

‘As much as I would enjoy it, it’s my turn to cook dinner, so I have to be home in about two to three hours.’

‘Noooo.’ His nose is deep in my hair as he shakes his head. ‘Don’t go.’

‘I’m sorry. I have to. How about a proposition—walk me home?’

‘Fine, but I am not happy about it.’