“There’s no one like you.”Her voice is serious now.“No one.”
And I understand.It’s her version ofI love you.I stroke her temple with my lips.
“Just don’t say anything naff.”
I can’t help grinning.“Never, babe.”
She loves these nicknames, though she’d never admit it.Olive Garden, Livy, Henderson.I’ll come up with more, no problem.Because we have time.We have so much time.
38
Olive
The scaffolding on the west wing comes down before the Christmas holidays.The first snowflakes are falling as we sixth-form girls pack our things and form little processions carrying them from the east back to the west.You can see our footprints back and forth across the snow-covered courtyard.
The west-wing staircase still smells of paint and fresh starts.I’d be lying if I said there was nothing nightmarish about climbing the stairs I last ran down in a panic, almost not making it out alive.But fortunately, I don’t have to do it on my own.
Colin’s behind me, carrying a huge box full of my school stuff; he says nothing but doesn’t take his eyes off me for a second.He’d notice if this was getting too much for me, I’m sure of that.
I’m waiting for it to happen, but even as we get closer to the lower sixth’s floor, my heart doesn’t start racing wildly.Not much has changed here, and it looks fundamentally the same as the boys’ corridor in the east wing.The only difference is that we all have more space now that each year group has a floor of its own.
I got my old room back because I asked if I could have it.It’s a room full of memories, but no more than that.I’m no longer going to let my life be driven by fear.
Colin follows me in silence as I walk in, and I’m sure he knows what I’m thinking just now.
Here we are then, I should say.Welcome!But I can’t speak.I put my bag of clothes on the floor and stop in the middle of the room.
Does it smell of smoke or am I only imagining it?Is my heart beating faster, or am I just out of breath from having heaved my stuff up three flights of stairs?I listen to my senses for a while, until I have no choice but to stop.Colin puts the box on my desk, turns to face me, and takes me in his arms.Just like that.
He says nothing, just holds me tight.And I shut my eyes because I feel safe.I feel his heart beating against my cheek.I smell the scent of him.In my mind’s eye, I see Colin Fantino standing in the semidarkness by that trophy cabinet, raising his arm, and saying “You need to break something or the anger’s gonna break you” before he put me back together again, piece by piece.Like I did for him.
“You OK?”he asks quietly, not looking at me.
I nod instinctively, because everything is OK when it’s him asking me.He puts his hand on the back of my head and gently strokes my hair.
“The view from the east wing is way better.”
I laugh.“Nope.”
“Whatever.Not that I care—I’m not usually interested in the view when I’m in a room with you.”
“Are we being naff again, Fantino?”
He nibbles gently on my good shoulder.“No, just honest.”
“Stop it.”I giggle.
Colin raises his eyebrows.“Was that a giggle?Did badass Olive Garden just giggle?”
“No, it was not.”
“Oh, it so was.Can you do it again?”
“No,” I say firmly.
Colin sighs.“Fine, you asked for this.”And then he goes on the attack.
“Stop it,” I cry, gasping for breath as the bastard actually tickles me.
