The bell goes for the next lesson. I follow Tori back inside, dodging running juniors, and pray not to bump into Henry.
Henry
The news got around quicker than I’d have liked, but I’m not surprised. Gossip in this school travels at a speed that would be the envy of any news agency. I could spend time puzzling over who leaked the information that we’ve split up, but I don’t care. Everyone was sure to hear about it sooner or later. And I haven’t the energy to worry about it.
I’m empty. Since being at Grace’s on Saturday, then waking up with a pounding skull after my evening with Sinclair, I’ve been empty. I couldn’t cry any more or speak to anyone; it wasn’t possible. I might have called Maeve if she weren’t in Kenya right now, where she’s sure to have more important things to do than listen to her kid brother’s love woes. So I spent the whole of Sunday in my room, only leaving my bed to go to the bathroom or get the minimum of nutrition into my body.
Sinclair came around—without alcohol this time—and wewatched some Netflix series that I can’t remember anything about, and I guess I must have fallen asleep, because suddenly, he was gone.
And then Monday came and I couldn’t hide any longer. It was awful to walk down the corridors this morning and pass little whispering gaggles. Yet that’s nothing to the pain I feel when I remember Grace’s red eyes, which show me that it must be way harder still for her.
We didn’t blank each other; we gave each other tense smiles and said hello. We’re so fucking sensible and grown-up, and I hate it. Because it hurts all the same.
No idea if Emma’s got wind of our breakup, but I’d be surprised if she hasn’t. But what was I expecting? That she’d come to me and we’d be able to pick up where we left off with that almost-kiss last week? That’s bollocks.
I see her again for the first time in English. Head down, no eye contact as I pass her desk. She’s staring at a blank page in her diary, and I don’t have the guts to say anything to her. Not here, in front of everybody else, let alone Mr.Ward, who appears on the dot, as always.
I can’t concentrate on anything, and I’m sure Emma’s the same. Mr.Ward’s still got it in for her. And today, his questions catch me out too because obviously I spent the whole weekend doing anything but my damn prep.
I don’t know how I dragged myself down to rugby training, and I have even less idea how I’m going to get through the next hour and a half on the pitch in the drizzle. Mr.Cormack’s in a bad mood, Valentine’s not holding back with the dumb wisecracks,but I don’t care. I just want to get back to my room, to my bed, to sleep and not think about anything until the chaos that’s my life lately has miraculously sorted itself out again.
Running with Emma seems to be over for good. We haven’t discussed it, but it’s obvious. At the Tuesday-morning run, we each do our own thing. I still haven’t spoken to her. And the longer I leave it, the more wrong it feels to go up to her and say,Hey, I dumped Grace, how about us getting together now?I know what that would look like. Like the kind of heartless bastard who just hops from one girl to the next. But it’s not like that. Fine, if I’m brutally honest with myself, I guess Emma is the reason I split up with Grace. But she’s not theonlyreason. It was already inevitable that we’d break up. Emma wasn’t the cause; she was the final straw. She showed me that there is more. That majorly intense emotions like these can be terrifying. And I want majorly intense emotions. But not this crappy despair. Although maybe that’s just part of it. At least it proves I’m still alive, doesn’t it?
Mind you, I didn’t think about what would happen next. What comes after I’ve done the thing I was most afraid of? Not relief, that’s for sure. It’s shit. I want to say so much to Emma, but I don’t dare. Maybe we both need time to understand what happened in Glasgow on Friday. What that means for us. Yet at the same time, all I want is to go to Emma and ask her how she’s doing. How she’s coping now that she knows who her father is. I think back to that moment when we walked into the pub and she saw him. I remember Emma’s frozen expressionand motionless body, the disappointment and pain on her face when she walked out of that restaurant without him and he let her go.
But I don’t ask Emma how she is. I watch her from a distance, pissed off with myself that she’s avoiding me. But I have to accept that she doesn’t want to talk to me. Because that’s obvious. Even though it’s driving me crazy.
After chemistry, I’m putting away Sinclair’s and my equipment when suddenly she’s standing right next to me. Emma, in a white lab coat that’s way too big for her, Bunsen burner still in hand.
I can’t move. Apparently, neither can she. My head is suddenly full of words, but my tongue’s been struck dumb. I can hear voices, scraping chair legs, the usual end-of-lesson sounds. I can feel my heart pounding in my throat.
I only come back to life as Emma’s eyes wander past me. To the cupboards, which I’m blocking.
“Can I...?” she begins, and I immediately step aside.
“Yeah, sorry.” My heart racing again, I stay beside her. I’ve got this nervous dizziness because I know I’m going to have to say something. More thansorryor evenI apologize, although those are the only things that feel right.How are you? Could we talk?Something like that would be appropriate.
“Emma?” My voice sounds rough, and it has some effect on her. I can see that, and, no, I’m not so desperate that I’m imagining it. Emma jumps. The beakers rattle as she puts the burner into the cupboard.
“Be careful with the equipment,” Ms.Ventura says sharply,but I don’t think Emma even hears her. Her whole body is tense as she turns away again.
“Could we maybe—”
She cuts me off. “What? What, Henry?”
It’s the first time she’s looked me properly in the eye. And I can see all her pain. Eyes like fire, burning with reproach. Because I’m not doing anything, just staying so bloody passive. At this moment, I wonder if I’ve waited too long. Or if I should have kissed her, regardless of Grace. And in the same second, I hate myself for thinking that.
It’s just a heartbeat. A missed chance, then Emma turns away. I want to grab her arm, but my hands are like lead.
She walks back to her place.
Emma
No way he’ll be there, Emma.
Why did I know that wouldn’t be true when I let Tori convince me to come to the midnight party? Did she and Sinclair take it upon themselves to lure Henry and me to this place, to force us to have a conversation? If so, it was a seriously crappy idea. I see him the moment I follow Tori into the old greenhouse, and my first impulse is to turn on my heel and leave.
I stop in the doorway, and Salome crashes into me. Tori looks apologetically at me over her shoulder. I ought to make a run for it, but I stay put when Henry glances in our direction. He looks exhausted, but he’s still gorgeous, and I hate it.I hate that I instantly forget everyone else in the room when his eyes rest as heavily on me as they are now. I hate that I’m boiling hot despite the pissing rain outside. I hate that I can’t help thinking about Glasgow. About Henry, who spent so long waiting for me. His hands on my arms, his face so close to mine. I don’t know why I keep subjecting myself to this humiliation in memory form, but I can’t wipe away the images. I have to get away from here.
