“Henry, it’s fine,” she interrupts. Calmly. We aren’t fighting, we aren’t hurting each other. Not intentionally at any rate. We’re so fricking mature and grown-up, and there it is. The proof thatI like Grace, admire her, respect her, but I don’t love her. Because if I did, we’d never be able to speak about all this so calmly.
“I hate hurting you like this,” I whisper.
“I know. I hate it too. But I want you to be happy. I want that because you mean so bloody much to me, Henry. And yes, it hurts, but sometimes change does hurt.”
“I want you to be happy too. And we don’t make each other happy anymore.”
“No, we don’t.”
“Can I give you a hug?” I ask her quietly but don’t move. I just wait for her to nod. But Grace doesn’t. The tears glisten in her eyes, and then she slowly shakes her head.
No... This is the moment when I realize what’s just happened. That it’s over. Irreversibly over. “OK.” My body trembles. It feels like all this is just a dream. “I’m sor—”
“Go... please,” says Grace, her voice breaking on the second word.
I turn away without touching her. I’ve hugged her a thousand times. I’ve done it lightheartedly. I’ve done it thinking that this will be forever. But the truth is that nothing is forever. And I’d have held her for longer if I’d known it would be the last time.
I don’t feel a thing.
There’s nothing. Nothing at all. I’m simply empty, and something about that scares me.
I’ve been so composed since I walked down the Whitmores’ front steps and Grace shut the door behind me. It felt so surrealto walk back to school in glorious sunshine, the way I’ve done so often the last few years.
It must be the last scrap of common sense within me that carries me to the door at the end of our corridor. I know. I don’t know what I’ll do if he isn’t there, I haven’t thought ahead beyond this moment. Seconds tick away, then the door flies open.
Sinclair looks like he’s only just pulled on his hoodie, and I’m bracing myself for some remark. But he just looks at my face. “What happened?”
Fuck, coming here was a mistake. I can’t speak. Not even to my best friend. I just want to cry until I’m so tired that I fall asleep, so that I won’t have to feel all this anymore.
“Shit, Henry, what’s wrong?” Sinclair repeats, glancing past me. The corridor’s empty. I’m empty. There’s no point to anything. “Is something up with Grace?” he asks, and I don’t get how he does that. How he always knows just what my problem is.
My throat is still choked up as I nod.
“What’s wrong? Is she not well? Come on, say something! What’s—”
“Nothing’s wrong with her.” I get some words out, and my voice has never sounded so weird. Sinclair stares at me, and then I just say it. “It’s over.”
He opens his mouth. “What?”
“We split up. I split up with her. Over. Finished.” I’m raising my voice with every word, my eyes are burning again, and Sinclair understands. He takes my wrist and pulls me into his room, past the wall by the door, which is plastered layers deep with the Polaroids he started taking in the second form—one ofeveryone who entered our shared room for the first time. There’s a picture of me right at the top, next to the ones of Gideon, Omar, and Sinclair. The door shuts, and I just want to cry.
“Oh, boy. OK, come here, sit down.” Sinclair pushes me onto his unmade bed, and I wipe my eyes with the sleeve of my hoodie as he turns away. He digs around in a drawer, pushes aside a tea caddy with the school logo on it, and reaches behind it. Before I can ask what the hell he’s looking for, he’s straightened up again. In one hand, he’s got a packet of Tunnock’s tea cakes, and there’s a bottle of gin in the other. He raises his eyebrows inquiringly, and I make a grab for both.
I’ve never cared less about breaking the rules. The gin burns my throat. It has to stop. This terrible pain, I can’t bear it any longer.
I split up with Grace. It’s really true.
“OK.” Sinclair sits down next to me, takes the bottle away, and puts it on the desk. Then he hugs me. That’s the moment when I really start blubbering. Not in a cool way. Not cool at all. It’s the exact opposite of cool.
Sinclair doesn’t comment. He just waits till I’ve calmed down a bit. “So you split up with Grace,” he says slowly. “And the reason for that is called Emma.”
I shut my eyes because there’s no point in denying it. “It’s that obvious, is it?”
“Nope,” he contradicts me. “But I’m not your best friend for nothing.”
“I screwed up,” I whisper. “Shit, Sinclair, I’ve—”
“Henry,” he interrupts harshly. “Stop that shit. You haven’tscrewed anything up. You’re smart. You’ll have done the right thing.”
