‘Sounds good,’ says Reeni. ‘We have an Olly-free evening. I’ll go with Ellie and meet you there?’ She looks over to her husband for confirmation of our plan.
‘I’ll stay with Mum,’ says Milo to his brother. ‘You lot go. We’ll be good.’
Reeni and I decide to walk back to mine, while Milo drives his Mini home and Jackson and Sophie travel back in Aaron’s car. It’s early evening now, and the weather is still close and sticky. Reeni links her arm through mine and I’m incredibly thankful that there’s not one smidge of frostiness between us anymore.
Seventeen Years Ago
I hold my breath and try to paint the edge of my nail in one smooth line like I always do. My tongue is poking out of my mouth with the effort to concentrate, but I can’t stop my hand shaking. The brush jolts sideways and the pearly pink nail varnish splodges over my skin. I close my eyes and take a breath, before wiping my finger clean and trying again.
My shakes only get worse and I paint even more of my skin. Great. My frustration boils over and I scrub at my already raw skin, the varnish remover stinging my open wounds. The more I scrub, the more it stings, but I don’t care. It serves me right. I can’t believe it’s only been a week since I found out. My hand slides across my tummy. It’s still so hard to believe it’s real.
A knock at my door sounds and Reeni waltzes straight in at the same time as my hand slips and I knock the little bottle sideways, the polish pouring out over my desk leaving a glossy pink smear.
It’s only bloody nail polish and it shouldn’t matter, but mythroat closes and before I can stop them, the tears spill down my face.
‘Woah. What’s up?’ Reeni says, jogging across the room to me.
I drop the sopping cotton wool I’m holding onto the desk. ‘I just wanted to feel better, but all I’m doing is making things worse.’ I stick my fingers under her nose. ‘Fucking nail polish. Who needs it anyway.’
My chin sinks to my chest and I swipe the tears away from my cheeks. Reeni cleans the desk before scooping everything up and grabbing my hand to tow me towards the bed.
‘Sit down. I’ll do it.’
We sit in silence as Reeni holds my hand gently and uses even strokes to paint my nails the soft girly colour. Tension slowly releases from my shoulders.
‘There,’ she says, leaning back to admire her work. ‘Blow on them to dry ’em before you smudge it all.’
I curl my fingers up and obediently blow back and forth over my knuckles.
‘So, why was that such a big deal?’ Reeni asks without looking at me. Instead, she’s looking down, painting her own nails now.
‘Everything feels like a big deal at the moment.’ I sigh. ‘Shannon and Taz still aren’t talking to me, which means none of that lot are. I don’t know what the hell I did wrong. I went to her stupid party and joined in, what more do they want from me.’
‘They’re all dicks. Ignore them. You didn’t do anything wrong,’ Reeni says, holding her thumb closer to her face as she concentrates with the little varnish brush.
‘No. I didn’t.’ The words come out too fast, too sharp. As if saying them hard enough can crush the guilt that’s choking me. The guilt I’m never telling anyone about. Not how much I drank, just to fit in. Or the consequences of that decision.
The phone rings downstairs again and I shake my head as ifthat will clear the voices in my head, then hold my nails up to admire them. ‘Thanks, Reens.’
There’s a single knock on the door and Mum opens it and sticks her head into the room. Her wary expression turns to a soft smile when she sees us messing with our nails.
‘Oh, it’s lovely to see you doing something nice.’ She nods towards my hands. ‘The colour’s gorgeous. It suits you too, Reeni.’
I scowl at her. I know she’s only trying to help and I hate it. I wish she’d leave me alone instead of trying to make me feel better. I don’t deserve it.
Her face creases in a frown and I know what’s coming next.
‘Jackson’s on the phone. Do you want to talk to him?’
‘No.’
Reeni tilts her head to look at me out of the corner of her eye.
‘Ellie, love, you don’t have to speak to him for long. He keeps calling. Just go and say hello to the poor lad.’
‘Poor lad? Why hasn’t he taken the hint by now. How many times do I have to tell you, Mum. I’m not talking to him. I’m never talking to him again.’ I get up and turn my back on her to organise the pencil pot on my desk. ‘I told you, just tell him that I’m out if he calls. I don’t want to speak to him.’
There’s a pause and then I hear my door close softly.
