He clenches his fists and shuts his eyes for a moment. ‘Why can’t we talk about this stuff without fighting?’
‘I’m not fighting,’ I say coolly.
‘No, of course not.’
‘I’m just asking myself what you expect. What do you want to hear from me, Sinclair? That Val treats me like shit and you were right? Is that it?’
‘I’m just bloody well worried about you, OK?’
‘In that case everything’s fine. Just as well we spoke about it.’
‘Tori,’ he growls.
‘What?What, Sinclair? If you want to tell me something, then do it. Right now. I’m all ears.’
We look at each other. His blue eyes spark, but I can see uncertainty in them. His jaw muscles stand out, and he swallows. He doesn’t say anything. Same as ever.
I exhale loudly. ‘Good, that’s what I thought.’ I look at the clock behind him. ‘It’s late. I should head back. Or do you still need me here?’
‘Tori . . .’
‘Do you still need me here?’ I repeat.
He looks at me. I’m praying he’ll shake his head.
‘No.’
Great.
I reach for my script and turn away.
All the way back to school, I’m wondering why it always goes like this. Why we keep hurting each other and lying to each other. But maybe they’re not lies. Maybe it’ll just never happen. Maybe I’ve spent six years reading too much into this thing between Sinclair and me. But in that case, how is it possible that I want to burn up whenever he looks at me? Can you really be that wrong about something?
The night is cold. My heart is too.
I’m afraid you can.
SINCLAIR
You shouldn’t decide anything when you’re angry. Mum’s saidthat so often it ought to be engraved on my heart. Normally, I try to listen to her words but right now I don’t want to be sensible. I want to pound the shit out of this sourdough and, because there’s nobody here to see, I do so. Frustratingly, it doesn’t even make a satisfying sound when my fist connects with the soft mass. I repeat the process twice more, but it doesn’t relieve my feelings the way I’d hoped, so I pull out my phone and use my floury fingers to bring up my contacts list.
I’ve never messaged Eleanor and I wouldn’t normally dare. But there isn’t normally rage boiling in my belly because I have – yet again – picked a fight with my best friend. Eleanor Attenborough wouldn’t normally have given me her number after our last rehearsal, and we wouldn’t normally be acting together in the main fucking roles in our school play. So I just type.
S:Hi, it’s Sinclair
Fuck, she’s online. OK. I didn’t think this far ahead but there’s no going back now.
E:Hi?What’s up?
I shut my eyes for a moment, then keep typing.
S:I hope you don’t mind me just messaging you
E:That’s why I gave you my number
S:What are you doing tomorrow? Want to go for a walk or something?
E:Yeah, sure. After study hour?
