“Damn.” I manage a grin, though I suddenly feel incredibly tired.
The adrenaline from the match has worn off, and teenage jealousy rears its ugly head to mingle with whatever the fuck’s going on with Clemmie. Not to mention Sienna. I’ve officially reached my capacity for tolerance, and I don’t have the energy for a fight, nor the inclination to stand here and pretend to tolerate Sam Pelling and Story joking together.
I hated it ten years ago. I hate it now.
I put the beer down. “I’m sorry, guys, I need to go. Have a fun afternoon, Stor. Good to see you again, Sam.”
I’ve barely moved through six feet of people swarming the bar before she catches up to me.
“What’s the matter with you?”
“I’m sorry, I really am. I can’t do this right now. I’m not going to tell you who to hang out with, I’m not going to tell you who to be friends with, but . . .” I tug on my neck, trying to keep my tone neutral, and I fucking hate that I’m this person when I have no right. I know I have no right, but I can’t help myself. “Why does it have to be with him? There are plenty of other people we were at school with. What about the girl you teach with? Anyone but him, Stor. Please.”
“He was passing by and said hello. I’m not going to be rude, Hen. He’s done nothing wrong.”
I sigh. “Honestly, I don’t care. I don’t like him. I’ve never liked him?—”
She pops a hip, and I know I’m in for it. “You’re a hypocrite, you know.”
“Oh yes, how so?”
“You don’t want me, but you don’t want anyone else to have me.”
“I never said I didn’t want you, Stor.” Gently tucking my finger under her chin, I push her mouth—open with indignation—closed, then I lean down and kiss the top of her head. Breathing in the soft floral notes of her perfume until I’m lightheaded, it takes all my self-discipline not to throw her over my shoulder and carry her out with me like the Neanderthal I clearly am. “I never said I didn’t want you.”
CHAPTER 23
Story
It’s bittersweet to watch Hendricks walk away.
Bittersweet and fucking frustrating.
Sam’s still standing exactly where I left him. Of course he is, because where else would he be?
“Everything okay?” He takes a long draw of his beer.
“It will be.” I punch him playfully on the arm, the way friends do, the way he could infer no other meaning from. “Sorry to do this too, but I need to leave?—”
“I figured.” He nods, his mouth pulling downward. “I never could compete. It was good to bump into you, anyway, Story. Let me know if you’re ever in London.”
I don’t bother with a protracted goodbye because Hendricks already has a minute head start on me. “Thanks, Sam. See you around.”
I rush out of the drinks tent, figuring he can’t have gotten too far, except I fail to account for the second match of the day ending. It’s the Foxleigh Park under 21s, and the grounds are flooded with late teens, big poofy hair tumbling down their backs, wearing too-tighteverything.
“Fuck.”
I make a snap decision to head to the Burlington stand, though in hindsight, it’s the most likely place he’ll be.
Dodging around several groups of girls that bring back all forms of nostalgia, I rush past the presentation podium where the winning team is accepting their trophy. Deciding to take a shortcut via the car park, I’m too busy wondering if this is a good idea to pay much attention to a first glance of a solitary figure sitting in the doorway of a fire exit, face blotchy and swollen.
Only a double take has me grinding to a halt.
“Clemmie?” She looks like she’s having a hard time focusing through the tears to realize who’s talking to her. “It’s me, Story.”
“I know.” She hiccups.
“What are you doing?”
