We used to sing it together at a karaoke bar called Same Same But Different during our J1 summer in New York, her on lead vocals, me on backing.
We’d mock fight over which of us could have Luke Goss, the one we had decided was the better looking of the identical twins in Bros.
It was 11pm in New York, which I later learned was the time the taxi slammed into Molly as she walked home from a night out in Brooklyn.
Even though I was at home while she was living it up in the Big Apple, the independence was freeing.
I gave her the silent treatment on the way home on the subway. We fought a lot that summer, I was tired of her finishing my sentences and speaking for both of us, a throwback to when I had a stammer as a child. Luke is looking at me curiously, he might have just asked me a question, something about New York, I’m not sure. Maybe I should have gone to Seattle, I hear it rains a lot there.
The recession was my official excuse for leaving but mostly I was trying to get away from my parents.
We all wonder what she would be like if she were here. We never experienced that sort of psychic connection. That said, on the night she died, 3,000 miles across the Atlantic, I sat bolt upright in my bed at 4am, as if waking from one of those nightmares that has a silent scream at the end.
I didn’t remember any bad dream but I did have a feeling of dread.