Chapter 6

Erica

Heading into the main room of the student union is nerve-wracking after the decision to make amends with Rupert. Or maybe not making amends, but making it so that the past is where it should be and that we're not completely consumed by it. Which might be easier said than done, but I'm going to at least try.

Sami and D are leaning close together and discussing something to do with the decorations. Luckily for me, the paint we put on the arch yesterday needs to dry or something like that. I can't say I really understand what's going on, just that other people who know more have told me what to do.

Rupert enters the room and the nerves increase in intensity. Now is my chance. If I want to talk to him and put an end to what feels like a fight, then this is my chance. Even if there's a part of me that doesn't want to.

And a part of me that's worried that I'm just going to slip straight back into being catty towards him when I shouldn't be.

But I need to be the bigger person. Danielle's advice was good.

My footsteps echo through my mind as I make my way over to him. I clear my throat. "Can I talk to you?"

Surprise flits over Rupert's face. "Erm, sure."

I gesture for him to move over to the side of the room, well aware of the intrigued expression on Sami's face. Whatever he knows about the tension between us, it's clear that he's interested in finding out what this is about. And I'd really rather that nobody overheard in case Rupert outright rejects any suggestion of civility between us.

"What's up?" he asks, looking unsurprisingly guarded.

"I think we got off to the wrong start."

He raises an eyebrow. "When we were five?"

"No. Now." I take a deep breath. "I know that we have...whatever this is. But I think we should put it to the side and start fresh. A truce, so to speak."

"Wouldn't a truce be the two of us putting aside how we feel rather than starting fresh?"

I narrow my eyes at him. "Do you have to be so pedantic?"

"I'm just trying to be clear about what you want."

"I want to not have to be on edge while we're here because I'm worried about upsetting you," I say firmly. "We're going to be at the academy for at least another two or three years, this isn't going to be the only time our paths cross."

"You don't know that."

"All right, so you're willing to take the chance that this is the only time we're ever going to be in the same club or society? You're not an idiot, Rupert. Knowing our luck, we'll be assigned the same flat next year, and then we won't be able to avoid each other at all."

He wrinkles his nose. "Fair point. Though I think you can just apply to stay in the same flat if you want to."

"Yes, I know, I was making a point." I cross my arms.

"All right, fine. Truce," he says. "We'll reexamine the fresh slate when we've seen how well that does."

"Fair enough." I hold out my hand.

He stares at it.

"We've got to shake on it," I point out. "Otherwise it isn't a proper truce."

He sighs and takes my hand in his.

A strange feeling comes over me. It's been years since we've touched and I don't remember it ever feeling like this. His hand is warm, and it feels kind of comforting despite who it's attached to.

I look up and accidentally meet Rupert's eyes. Neither of us move, completely caught in whatever is happening.

"Have we accidentally made some kind of magical pact?" I ask without meaning to.

He clears his throat and pulls his hand away from mine abruptly. "Of course not. Robin said that we need to help stock the bar, apparently the mixologist is coming next week to help us work out some cocktails."

"That sounds like one of the most fun parts of the ball prep," I admit.

"I thought your family didn't drink? Because of your dad?"

"We don't. There are fun mocktails," I respond, trying not to let my surprise over the fact he remembered that show.

"Ah, mocktails." He nods and heads over to where a load of crates and boxes are sitting.

I look at the boxes and try not to feel overwhelmed by the amount of them. "Where did they even come from?" I muse.

"The bar downstairs," Rupert answers. "I asked Robin about it earlier. The bar is providing the staff and are the ones profiting from the sales on the day."

"Then they really should be doing it now," I mutter. "I know Robin wants to save money, but seriously? Aren't they worried we'll help ourselves or something?"

"Security cameras," he responds, gesturing to where one is overlooking the bar.

"Huh, guess so." Not that I would have done that anyway, and despite our differences, I don't think Rupert would do something like that either. But there are a lot of people coming and going while we're prepping for the ball, any number of them could just come in and take something.

I pick up one of the boxes, already missing the painting. I'd been stiff for the past couple of days after all the stretching, but I could already tell that this was going to be worse.

We work in silence, moving the boxes behind the bar and setting them down close to the fridges. It isn't until we're done that I stand back and frown.

"I have no idea where we're supposed to put what," I admit.

"We've got a map." He pulls a sheet of laminated paper off the counter.

"Can you have a map of a fridge?"

He shrugs. "How should I know? This is the first time I've ever encountered one." He turns it so I can see.

I'm not sure what I'd call it, but I guess I can see why he went with map. It has all of the different bottles and cans from the boxes labelled as to where they go in the fridge.

"Who even comes up with things like this?" I ask.

"I'm guessing people who have to use drinks fridges a lot. I've honestly never given it much thought. When I go to a bar, it's normally just to order a drink rather than to check out how they've organised the fridge."

"All right, fair point." I sit down on the floor, not knowing where else to go. "Have you got the box of coke?"

He slides it over to me with his foot. I rip off the tab and start pulling out cans, lining them up neatly so the company logo is to the front. I don't know if that's what we're supposed to do, but I'd rather be a little more specific than I need to be than have to redo it because I wasn't.

"So, what do you study?" I ask as I get used to the monotony of the task.

"A truce doesn't mean interest," he murmurs from his side of the fridge.

"So you'd rather just sit here in silence?"

"Business," he says after a moment.

"Specific."

"Dad wanted me to come here, and wouldn't accept it when I wanted to go straight into the workforce, so business was our compromise."

"Sounds more like you just did what he wanted," I murmur as I collapse down the box and throw it to the side. I'm sure we're going to end up with more work later when we have to collect them all and take them out to the recycling, but that's just what we're going to have to do.

"I'm not sure I want to talk about this with you."

I shrug. "Then don't. But maybe I'm a good person to talk to. I've met your dad, I remember what he's like, but I also know nothing about nineteen-year-old Rupert, so I've not got any way of judging you for anything."

He snorts. "Though you might provide a cutting comment."

"At least you know I'm honest." I check the fridge map to see what needs to go in next to the coke and find the box of orange juice cans. I'm not sure how I feel about the fact that they're in cans rather than cartons, but I guess I'll find out if I order one of them.

"True." He stops stocking bottles. "I guess I did do what he wanted. Do you remember the look he got on his face whenever he was really disappointed?"

Despite the seriousness of the conversation, I find a smile coming to my face. "Like the day we made ourselves sick with the toffee apples?"

Rupert chuckles, a warm sound that I think I want to hear more of, though it's nothing on the unrestrained laugh of his childhood. A pang of longing goes through me, one I don't think I've ever actually experienced before in regards to him. I think it's just the loss of what was between us and the change to what it is now. It makes me sad for what the two of us have lost.

"That's the one," he says, reminding me of the conversation. "Well, he looked at me like that every time I mentioned that I wanted to go work instead of studying. From his reaction, you'd have thought I'd told him I planned on lying around for a few years doing nothing."

"I'm sorry."

"What? No cutting remark?"

"Would that help?" I ask. "I remember what your dad was like. I don't think that's necessary."

He sighs. "Maybe not. So I'm guessing you followed through with your ten-year plan?"

"How do you know about that?" I ask. "We weren't even friends at thirteen."

"Everyone knew about it," he reminds me. "You would talk to anyone who listened about exactly what you were going to do, and how you were going to do it. Which means that everyone else in the vicinity got to listen."

I grimace. "Sorry about that."

He shrugs. "Nothing to be sorry about. You knew what you wanted, and you went for it. So, did you?"

"Yes, I'm studying psychology. The only downside is not being done with exams yet, my last one is on Thursday."

"Ouch. And you're here rather than revising?"

"I had study group earlier," I respond. "Not that you need to be worrying about my revision schedule."

"Wait, no, that isn't what I meant," he says quickly.

I snort. "You're the one who said it."

"I didn't mean to imply that you're not taking your studies seriously," he says.

"Don't worry about it. It might surprise you to know that I don't put much weight behind your opinion."

"I'm wounded."

I rolled my eyes. "Of course you are."

He gives me what appears to be a conspiratorial smile, and I find myself laughing along with him at the absurdity of the whole conversation.

And feeling as if we're kids again. Before all of the weirdness between us happened, back when we were best friends. It almost makes me wish that things were back to the way they used to be.