“You didn’t see the look on his face that afternoon.”
“True, I didn’t. But Henry’s not only your best friend. You are his too. He’s hurting as much as you.”
But what if his fear and anger outweigh his hurt and love for me? By love, I mean platonic love, because he doesn’t love me that other way.
“Are you holding up well?” Ben asks.
“I suppose. Not really.”
Ben leans over to hug me, surprising me.
“This whole situation upsets me more than it should. I’m annoyed at Eve, but I’m more annoyed that she’s gone. And I’m not just annoyed. I’m … angry and … sad. As for Henry, it sounds like I’m being dramatic, but I feel sick. I can’t eat.”
“Oh, Noah,” Ben says, patting my back. “You’ll get through it. You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for.”
I think about Ben’s words for the next couple of days. He checks up on me, but never often enough to be intrusive or annoying.
While I try to avoid looking at Henry, the way I did for the past week, now I can’t help myself from seeking his face. I glimpse his profile, the curve of his cheekbone, the line of his cheekbone. The pink lips I used to kiss. The fall of his brown hair.
After school on Friday, I take my time packing my school bag, knowing Ben won’t arrive for another fifteen minutes. I wander the long way to the car park. I let my eyes read the posters stuck to the walls. Bake sale for charity. Auditions for the school musical. Volunteers wanted for the canteen. The Senior Summer Social.
Eve and I talked about it at one point, when we were discussing the Jealousy Pact. When it seemed like a fun idea, a genius plan. I remember how quickly I agreed to it. No, I didn’t agree. I insisted.
It could have worked, I can’t help but think. Even though my life is a disaster now, I’m not sure whether I truly regret the Jealousy Pact.
I blink, realising I’m still staring at the social poster. There’s a graphic of people dancing under the party lights. If we’d gone, I’d wear the same suit I wear to all school events. Eve would wear a pretty dress and instead of a high ponytail, her hair would fall over her shoulders. At the hotel, we’d eat a delicious but overpriced three-course meal. Everyone would take photos and update their Facebook profile pictures.
I read the poster again. At the bottom is today’s date — the last date to purchase tickets. They’re being sold at student reception. I don’t have my wallet on me, but I have my debit card details on my phone. I imagine the social, a happy ending playing out. That’s impossible. Despite that, I can’t stop myself from standing there, staring at the poster.
29
Eve: Two Tickets
I pull a weed out; the roots torn out of the soil with a satisfying rip. Who would have thought weeding would be so gratifying?
Since I’ve been moping so much, Mum told me to do some gardening and get some sun. It’s mid-morning, so the sun is still rising, and the weather is pleasant. Music plays from my headphones, but despite distracting myself, my eyes catch on the glittering lake through the cracks in the fence. My eyes seek Noah’s home. I do that all the time, even though I try to stop myself.
It’s strange. We became friends quickly. We became strangers quicker.
My fingers dig into the grass, and I try to enjoy the moment as much as possible. Tomorrow, the weekend will be over and school will begin again. I can’t wait until the school holidays. Two weeks to go.
Even with my earphones on, I hear the pound of feet on the lake path. My head whips up, remembering my jogs with Noah. They were painful, but I enjoyed spending time with him.
I wait for the runner to pass. It will be a middle-aged person making the most of the morning breeze—
I understand why I don’t see Noah on my evening walks anymore. He runs in the morning, and he’s running past my garden now. His cheeks aren’t red, his face free of sweat, and the sight annoys me. When I run, I look like an oily tomato.
Noah’s eyes flick over. Did he feel my eyes on him? Or did he look over because he knows I live here?
His jogging slows, mouth parting. Is he going to say something?
I realise my mouth is open too and clamp it close. I look down, then back at him.
It’s too late — he’s gone, although close enough for me to call after him.
I don’t.
Another week passes. Oliver predicted that people would forget about my drama, and he’s right. I’ve drifted back to the shadows, turned invisible, which suits me fine.
