Ruby and I don’t talk. I tried again and again, called her, texted her. She ignores everything. Sometimes I’ll see her by the lockers and she’ll look as if she’s about to flounce over and tell me something funny that happened in class. Then she’ll change her mind. Sometimes she sits a table away in class and she’ll open her mouth before shutting it.
That drives me nuts. She wants to talk to me, maybe wants to make up. Why won’t she?
I spend my free time with Oliver. We spend almost every lunchtime and recess together, but I make a point not to drag him away from his friends. Sometimes I make excuses to study alone in the library. Sometimes I join him and his friends, some of whom are friendly, some of whom I abhor (Richard).
Sometimes we’ll see each other after school, always at my house and never at his. We kiss a lot.
It’s nice. My younger self would be screaming. I have a boyfriend. I have Oliver, who I’ve liked for so long. Except …
There’s a hole in my heart, the size of two friends.
On Friday, hours before the social, I flop down onto the couch as soon as I’ve changed out of my uniform. Oliver said he’d be at his Dad’s until Sunday night, so I won’t see him all weekend.
“Ruby will be here, though,” he added.
“She’s not going with you?”
“She’s angry with him because of their last fight, which was months ago. I would have thought they’d make up by now, but you know how stubborn Ruby can be.” He paled when he realised what he’d said.
“Is she going to the formal?” I asked, changing the topic.
He nodded. “Yeah. But maybe you could swing around the house sometime? Say that you have something of mine and try to talk to her?”
I thought of when I returned Noah’s clothes. “Yeah, maybe,” I said.
I think about his suggestion as I turn on the TV and scroll through a streaming service. I could go find Ruby, but I’ve already tried to talk to her fifteen times. Every time she rejects me, my resentment builds up. If she never wants to make up, fine. I’ll accept that.
I put on an adaption ofEmmaand distract myself with Regency-era England.
Half an hour later, my doorbell rings. It must be someone looking for my mother because the only person who’d want to see me is travelling to the city to see their father.
I open the door.
“Hey Eve.”
He’s smiling sheepishly. Like me, he’s changed out of his school uniform into casual clothes. His hair has grown out and his summer tan is fading. I notice these things because I haven’t looked at him straight on, for more than a millisecond, for almost two weeks.
“Hi,” I answer.
His smile disappears at the sight of my expression. “I can leave if you want,” he says. “This was a bad idea.” He takes a step back.
“No!” I say. “Um. Do you want to come in?”
He nods. The living room is dark because I pulled down the blinds to make the room look like a cinema, which means that Noah won’t see the terror on my face.
He stands in front of the couch, looking around self-consciously. When we had our movie nights, he’d drop onto the couch without a second thought.
“Is thatEmma?” he asks, eyes on the screen.
“Yeah,” I answer, gesturing for him to take a seat. When he does, I sit on the other end of the couch, aware I’m sitting straight like a teacher’s pet. “Have you seen it?”
He nods, before adding, “It was on Netflix, so I thought I might as well.”
“You don’t have to make excuses,” I say with a wagging finger. “I’ve converted you. You’re an Austen fan.”
“Nah—”
“Don’t deny it. Which reminds me — I sawPride and Prejudicein your bedroom. You’re reading it!”
