I pace the hall, chewing the inside of my cheek. Every time there's a sound outside, I peek out through the half-moon window on the door and each time, it's nowt but a neighbour arriving home from work or—in one case, the women who live three doors down, heaving a Christmas tree down the street that they might've either stolen or chopped down from Alexandra Park because it weren't netted.

When the current footsteps prove to be someone walking their dog, I resume my pacing.

This is the first time Joe is coming over and I've cleaned the air vents and wiped the dust from the skirting board. After I pulled the pandebono from the oven a few minutes ago, I've had nowt else to silence my thoughts with.

What if she's one of those people who thinks she'll get shot the second she steps within Moss Side limits? Or what if she sees the mural on the street corner and reckons that's "ghetto", unlike the murals in the Northern Quarter which are cool? Not that that would make sense considering she knows I live here and insisted on coming even though I told her fifty times I don't mind going to hers, but when've my thoughts ever made sense–?

The bell rings.

I wipe my palms on my corduroy trousers, do my best not to appear frazzled, and open the door. The sight of Joe has me smiling in an instant, the string of hearts tickling my chest, and I'm glad she hugs me so I have a few seconds to compose myself.

The way she takes me in knocks my attempted scaffolding right down. I'm surprised I don't turn to goo on the spot.

'You look nice.' She says this as though I don't wear these trousers to every occasion more festive than going to work because they're the only nice pair of trousers I own. She reaches a hand to feel the granny square waistcoat I'm wearing over my usual cream turtleneck. 'This is gorgeous. Is it new?'

'I got it from a charity shop for a tenner!'

My excitement tapers into a furrowed brow. I dunno why I always tell people that. Since I were a kid, every time I found some proper bargain I'd think "no one would guess I got this from a charity shop" and proceed to tell everyone that I got it from a charity shop.

But this is crocheted so someone had to make it by hand. For a tenner. C'mon! That's a proper bargain. Caleb didn't even have to strong-arm me into buying it.

I also bought a ceramic dish for the toilet where she can put her eyelashes and jewellery when she stays over. Not that I'll tell her that's why I bought it cause that would be weirdly domestic and non-casual.

Joe slides off her jacket, revealing an emerald green outfit, her chest flattened with a binder under her top. She's added a brown cardigan for warmth. Good that she thought to do that; my house definitely don't have underfloor heating. Her eyeliner, as usual, is engineered for her outfit and blends into a smoky eye while her hair is styled in elegant fingerwaves.

She still hasn't put her white topaz necklace back on.

'You're stunning,' I say as I hang up her coat. 'I love this shade of green on you.'

Joe smiles in that way where she tilts her head and shows all her teeth. I wish I had a photographic memory so I could keep all her smiles in a mental album.

I jolt when I realise I've spent several seconds staring at her. 'Right, come in. I'm sorry if it's a bit messy.'

I guide Joe through the open kitchen door though she halts at the threshold with a cautious look at the table. Is she surprised it's so small? I only own two chairs. There's space for a bigger table, this is just the one I found at a garage sale when I got this place.

Maybe it's the candles. I don't even own candlesticks so I stuck them in old olive oil bottles that I've luckily been too lazy to take to the recycling, but this is just a casual friend dinner. Or is it a practice date? So maybe the candles are overkill. Fuck. I really am rubbish at–

'How many people did you invite over?'

Yeah, might've accidentally made enough food to feed a village. I just wanted to make her all the Colombian dishes Papá had the time to teach me. Definitely overkill.

'If there are leftovers, I won't have to cook every day.'

Joe shrugs. 'True.'

'Sides, our kid's coming Friday and they're gonna eat that in two seconds.' Though as I say it, I'm not too sure. Cece weren't such a hoarder with food in the summer as before Oak Shaw. Maybe they don't feel the need to wolf it down now that they have regular access to it.

I scythe the vines trying to climb up my spine. I'll wallow about that later.

Pulling out a chair, I invite Joe to sit, offer her wine, and take the seat opposite her. For several minutes, I only watch her try the empanadas, the red beans and coconut rice, and finally, the ajiaco, gaging her reactions to each flavour. Then I realise it's creepy to stare at her eat and busy myself with my own plate.

Joe tears an empanada in half but don't eat either piece. 'I–um... I applied for that internship. Like you said: no harm in trying, right?'

'Brilliant! I'm proud of you.'

She diverts her attention to the plate. Am I making her uncomfortable?

Casual. This is casual. Or practice. Or platonic. Whatever it is, I need to stop begging like a dog at her feet. What use has she got for my defective love anyway?

'Thanks,' Joe mumbles and eats her empanada without looking up.

'Did you wanna ask me summat?'

'Huh?'

My cheeks burn. 'So I can work on my... "issues" with receiving attention.'

Joe's eyes widen as she remembers. Were that not what this were for? Fuck.

'Sure. Um...' Joe has a tendency to tap her fingers when she thinks. 'What do you most look forward to?'

'For our kid to move back in.'

'Here?' Her lips part, then purse. Lines dig between her brows. 'Your brother lives in your house?'

'No, they live in that group home in Somerset. But I'm looking forward to when he moves back here after A-levels– if, I should say.' I stuff the fissure in my chest with orchids. 'When he left, he said he wanted to move back once they're... but I dunno if they'll still want to. They might find somewhere better.'

It's my turn to fixate on my plate. The burn in my eyes promises an ending to this evening where she either mocks or complains about me being too emotional over summat like that. The halves of my body keep drawing apart, tearing the fault line from sternum to stomach.

I know it's not much– Who am I kidding? Whatever I have to offer is worth about as much as a packet of chuddy and a Poundland teddy. But it's still... summat, right? He said he wanted to come back so it can't be all useless. Right?

'What about your parents' house?'

Take a shot.

'They don't have a house here cause they live abroad.'

'So do they live here when they come to England?'

Take another one.

'Erm... yeah.'

Joe blinks to log the information into her memories, then flushes at her unmitigated shock. 'I'm sorry, you've probably told me this before. I just never realised that when you talked about your brother living here or coming to visit, you meant your house.'

I fork my beans around my plate. 'That's why I have a house. I'd be happy in a studio, I don't need this—I ain't even got furniture to fill it up, have I?' My attempt at laughter grows mouldy on the back of my tongue. 'But Cece started having trouble with placements and they moved around a lot. I wanted to make sure they had some semblance of security. So I got this place.'

Not that they stepped in until they had nowhere else to go and even then, I'd wager a good part of him would've rather just been homeless.

I can't scratch the vines off my spine this time; they stretch through my bones to cinch them so tight it hurts. It's my fault. I should've put in more effort to visit him when he were still a kid, before the hurt took up permanent residence and ensured he never would. I should've protected him, supported him, known about it...

I abandoned him. I abandoned him just like our parents did.

And though they're doing better now, it's no thanks to me. Their social worker wanted to send Cece to Oak Shaw in 2015 and I refused. They wanted to stay in Manchester. I thought maybe they just needed someone who loved them and was delusional enough to think that could be me. Maybe if I'd–

A warm hand falls over mine and I Iook up at Joe. I can't see the cognac of her eyes or the lashes that frame them as more than a blotch of colour and I realise my face is wet with tears.

'Fuck. I'm sorry. I keep crying during these.' I swab my cheeks with my free hand. 'Don't worry about it, I'm just over-emotional.'

'No, Nicolás, it's wonderful that you're in touch with your emotions like that. You're allowed to cry.' She massages my knuckles. 'Thank you for letting me know you like this. I understand that it's not easy.'

Nettles flourish in my gut. I focus on the candles.

She won't be thanking me when she knows all of it, when she knows just how deficient I am. Couldn't love my parents enough, couldn't love Cece enough, couldn't love any of the people I've been romantically interested in enough. No matter how desperately I hack through my body, there's nowt in it to find.

I yank my mind back into the present, to Joe.

My hand slides out of hers when I stand up. 'I have your Christmas gift.'

When I return to the kitchen, Joe is sitting sideways in her chair and beams when I hand her the gift bag. 'It's just summat small, I'm sorry. I used most of my budget to get our kid a phone. Also, you have to open it now.'

I shift my weight from foot to foot as she peels the tape from the top of the bag. Joe peers inside, glances at me, and eases the plant out.

I propagated the string of hearts from my own months ago though it's still small enough to fit well in the pot I found from the thrift. I tried my best to cover the clay in mosaic with Rishi's leftover materials from when he decided to tile his coffee table. The heart-shaped leaves are marbled on top and purple under, both shades that she would look beautiful in.

When all Joe does is stare at it, I clear my throat. 'It's a Ceropegia woodie, named after the Latin words for "wax" and "fountain". Colloquially known as string of hearts, rosary vine, and hearts entangled–'

I stop myself before I can infodump about its symbolism for the endurance of true love and devotion.

The point: 'It's a succulent. You think you're so incompetent that you can't even keep a succulent alive. Well, I think you're wrong.' My nerves untangle and I lock my gaze with hers, glad when my voice comes out robust. 'I think you're incredible, Josephine. You're nurturing and responsible. And I think you will keep this plant alive and it'll grow and it'll bloom.

'You better do your best, anyway, cause that's my child and if you kill it, I'll have to kill you.'

Her laugh snags on a sob.

Eyes glassy, Joe eases the plant beside her plate and stands up. For a split-second, I think she'll march right out the door but then she's hugging me. I tuck her into my chest without words. Her voice muffles against my crochet waistcoat. 'Thank you.'

I press a kiss to the crown of her head. Thankfully, Joe pulls away before I get high off the honeysuckle scent of her shampoo and start thinking summat stupid, like the possibility that her heart is also growing in her chest.

'I also have your gift.' She retrieves a card from her wallet and hands it over. It's a Build-A-Bear gift voucher. 'I think you do want a Build-A-Bear. And you deserve to have one. Usually, I'm not a gift card person, but the whole point of this is to make it yourself. We can go make it together after I'm back from London.'

My hand trembles under its weight. It's just a friendship gift! Casual casual casual casual casual casual casual. I am not falling in love with her. I'm not.

Counterargument: Every ray of attention she gifts me makes my insides bloom.

Notes

Pandebono: Colombian cheesy bread buns.

Empanadas: Filled savoury pastry eaten in most Hispanic countries.

Red beans and coconut rice: (Spanish: Arroz con coco) A side dish of rice often made into coconut water or milk, with coconut oil, and/or with bits of coconut and red beans.

Ajiaco: Colombian chicken and potato soup (Nicolás would obviously be making a vegetarian version).