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It was 2 a.m., and Molly was wide a-goddamn-wake.

The bunk was cosy enough, and god knew she’d slept in worse places, but her brain was keeping her up. She stared at the padded wall an inch from her nose, tracking the steady thump-thump of the tyres rolling down the M1.

Molly rolled onto her back, her fingers clutching the edge of the stiff duvet. Every instinct she possessed was screaming at her to throw back her curtain, walk down the dimly lit corridor, and knock softly on Ashley’s bunk. To just acknowledge the glaring elephant sitting squarely in the middle of the bus.

‘This is weird, right?’ she wanted to say. ‘We’re faking a relationship for the paparazzi, but five years ago you broke my heart into a million pieces, and we haven’t spoken since.’

The urge to have an honest conversation—to finally ask the questions that had haunted her throughout the latter half of her twenties—was almost overwhelming. They were trapped in a metal tube on wheels, miles away from their publicists, their agents, and the flashing cameras. If there was ever a time to lay it all out on the table, it was now.

Molly sat up slightly, propping herself on an elbow. Her hand hovered over the edge of the privacy curtain.

Just go talk to her. Clear the air.

Then fear took over.

What if Ashley shut her down? What if Ashley didn’t care enough to explain? Worse yet, what if Ashley did explain, and Molly realised just how little she’d really meant to her? What if the defining relationship of her life had been someone else’s fling?

Her ego couldn’t face that.

Molly swallowed hard, the lump in her throat aching. Slowly, reluctantly, she pulled her hand back from the curtain and sank into the mattress.

She turned onto her side, pressed her face into the pillow, and closed her eyes, letting the hum of the engine drown out the silence.

It was cowardice, plain and simple. But right now, pretending was the only thing keeping her safe. And she’d always been good at that.

Five Years Ago

The celebratory bottle of five-quid prosecco was sitting in a plastic salad bowl full of tap water and ice on the busted coffee table in the living room.

Molly was ready for Ashley’s arrival. She had spent her final shift shaking off the weird grey fog of Steve’s kitchen talk. Steve was just an old, bitter bloke who hadn’t made it. The hell did he know about her and Ashley?

When the buzzer rang, Molly jumped up and ran to the door.

She threw it open. ‘Well!?’

Ashley was clutching her guitar case. She looked… Molly couldn’t really tell. Her expression was kind of blank.

‘Ash?’ Molly’s hands dropped. ‘What happened? Did the bloke cancel?’

Ashley pushed the door shut behind her. She set her guitar down very carefully against the wall, like it was made of glass.

‘No,’ Ashley said. Her voice was flat.

‘But he liked you. I know he liked you.’

She stood there in the narrow hallway and explained it. A woman in a navy suit. An opening slot. International stuff. Arenas. A band called Rocket something.

And then the bit that mattered.

‘They want me to go next month,’ Ashley said. ‘For four months.’

Four months. They’d been together about five minutes, and now Ashley was going across the Atlantic.

Before Molly could process it, the kitchen door creaked open.

Deacon wandered into the hallway wearing a faded kimono over a faded grey vest and even more faded pants. He looked at Ashley.

‘Did she get it?’ Deacon asked.