“Man, of course she did. How else would you have taken it?”
As a brush-off. Obviously. I pushed her away.
“I’m such an arsehole,” I mumble as I think about the hurt expression in Emma’s eyes.
“A supersensible arsehole.” Sinclair shrugs his shoulders.
“I have to talk to her,” I announce, and I’m about to stand up, but Sinclair pulls me back down to the bed.
“You’re drunk, Henry.”
“Don’t care.”
“I do, though. And so do you. You want to be sober when you tell Emma you love her.”
I groan. And I’d like to press pause. I’d like to stop being so confused. I’d just like to do the right thing. But instead, I’m leaving Grace—because I can’t see any future with her—for Emma. And I don’t have any future with her either, because she’s leaving in a year. What’s the point?
At that moment, I understand. There is no point in love. There is just the heat in my belly and the fluttering in my chest the very first moment I saw her. At the airport, when I didn’t know who she was but was sure I wanted to find out. And I tried not to let myself get involved with her, I really tried, but the truth is that I want to kiss Emma Wiley. I want her in my bed. I want to be the guy she tells everything to, whose arms she falls asleep in. And I’m not prepared to deny that any longer.
21
Emma
All I can think of is Henry and that horrible moment when he pulled back. We don’t meet all weekend, which is fine by me. I skip the dining room and go to Irvine’s for pasta and tomato sauce, which I cook in the kitchen for our wing. Anything’s better than bumping into Henry. Or Olive, who keeps giving me the kind of look I’d give anyone who wanted to pinch my best friend’s boyfriend.
And it’s not even true. I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to fall in love with Henry. I wanted a quiet life, but he had to go and turn up and be drop-dead gorgeous, like I’d been begging for it. I don’t want to see Henry or Grace, Olive, or anyone else. But I don’t want to think about Glasgow or my dad either. I have to push it all down, so I run. Two and a half hours on Saturday, cross-country, until I end up in some forest with no idea where I am and get scared that I’ll never find my way back to school.
I do get back though, by which time I can’t feel my feet, and I have a long, hot shower. And then I lie motionless on my bed. Henry and I almost kissed. And I wanted to. I wanted him to. Ididn’t want him to pull away. I wanted him to put his hand behind my head and push me up against a wall, with his whole sinewy body and the unrestrained desire that was in his eyes for just one second. He can’t sleep next to me and wake up with a hard-on, then expect me not to think stuff like this. He can’t ask me how I am, listen to everything, always, go to Glasgow with me and follow me through the city. It’s not OK. I hate him. I hate Henry Bennington. I hate Noah Friedrich. I hate Jacob Wiley. I hate every fucking man on this planet. And most of all, I hate myself.
I press the balls of my thumbs against my closed eyes as the tears sting them.
It’s not fair. I thought I’d feel better if I came here. But I feel worse. I’ve found my dad, and I wish I could have my naive ignorance back.
I can’t think about it. All of it is driving me crazy. I should be studying, reading the novel we’ve been set for English, doing my prep, using my time here wisely, but I’m not doing any of it. I’m lying motionless on this mattress, hoping that eventually I’ll fall asleep.
I don’t see Henry on Monday either. Not at morning assembly or in the dining room, as he seems to be skipping breakfast.
I only feel Sinclair’s eyes resting heavily on me, then Olive’s as I pass her and Grace on the way to lessons. Grace’s eyes are red and swollen, and I can’t breathe. Has he told her everything? Did they fight? Over me? Did she find out for herself? Has she forgiven him?
I don’t know, and it’s none of my business. I can’t concentrate on PSHE. Not with Olive and Grace staring at my back. I want to get out of here.
I have a free period now before English, but instead of going to the library, like normal, I’m heading for my room. Or that’s the plan as I make for the west wing after class. I’m probably imagining it, but it feels like every pupil in this entire school is watching me. And that’s not possible.
All the same, I keep my head down. At least until I pass a little group of people and hear someone say, “No, they split up, seriously. Come on, you could see she’d been crying.”
My first impulse is to stop, turn back and ask who they’re talking about. It could be any random couple, but somehow, I’m absolutely certain.
“That’s wild,” says one of the girls. “Grace and Henry were so perfect together.”
My heart starts racing, and the thoughts are whirling in my mind.
They split up?
They fucking split up?
Are they crazy?
I force myself to walk on when I feel the girls staring at me. Whispers behind hands. Nods in my direction.
