“Oh aye, did you like them?”
I frowned, because since when did Lily and Zac share music recommendations?
“Really good. Any more recs?”
“We Are Scientists. Album:With Love and Squalor.”
“Noted. Thanks.”
Inudged her now. “Would I like them?”
She turned to me, considering. “Actually, yeah. We Are Scientists more so than White Lies.”
“I’ll check them out too.”
The four of us ate and chatted and I was grateful that the lads were welcoming to Lily and didn’t bring up what they’d brought up earlier. About our friendship. About my monk-like existence since Lily and I had become close.
Afterward, needing her to myself for a bit, I asked if she wanted to go for a walk. It was a dry but chilly November evening. We couldn’t see much of the stars in the middle of the city, but the moon was shining bright, illuminating our way as we walked down South Bridge together. Buses and cabs passed us, as did pub goers and diners, while we strolled quietly. Sometimes that’s what I loved most about Lily. She never felt like she had to fill the silence. At least not with me. She’d told me she was different on dates. That silence made her panic. That she worried her date would find her boring. I told her if he did, then he was a clueless arsehole and not worth her time.
The thought of her on a date, as always, twisted me up inside.
“So … you were very weird when Harry brought up your school football career.”
Now my gut clenched. “Lil?—”
“And Harry looked panicked before he abruptly stopped talking about it. Did something happen at school with your football team?”
She was too bloody perceptive for her own good.
Lawrence’s face flashed before my mind and that awful ache he inspired scored across my chest like the blade of a knife.
I never talked about him.
Harry knew because he’d been there. Zac knew nothing. Everyone we’d gone to school with remembered. My parents knew. Lawrence’s parents knew and loathed me. Loathed me and all the lads on the team.
“Sebastian.” Lily’s hand curled around mine. “You can talk to me.”
“I know.” The words were hoarse. “It’s not something I particularly enjoy dredging up.”
“You don’t have to,” she assured me.
I looked down at her beautiful, upturned face. Those eyes so full of compassion and care. Perhaps the masochist in me wanted to push, to prod, to see if Lily Sawyer really was the most nonjudgmental person I knew.
Maybe it was self-sabotage that prompted me to tell her.
“I killed a boy at school.”
Instead of dropping my hand, Lily’s hold on me grew bruising. “Excuse me?” she breathed, the color leaching from her cheeks.
I gently removed my hand from hers and stuffed it into the pocket of my jacket. Hunching into the chilly breeze blowing down South Bridge, I continued to walk and talk. “There are multiple teams at our boarding school. Sport is a big part of the culture at the school. We play each other and we play internationally.”
“That’s how you got scouted?”
I nodded. “I was in the middle of discussions with Merseyside Under 18s.”
“Oh my God, that’s huge.”
“It was. I was ecstatic.”
