Chapter Fifteen

Ashleigh

Most Likely to Kill Each Other

I am the centre of attention in the very best of ways, for once. I m in the middle of the little dance floor near the stage, hips swaying and arms waving in sync with the music, enjoying when a few other people like Elise look my way and copy what I m doing. I am the trendsetter here, I am the queen bee.

It s new, and novel, and glorious.

I m enjoying this weird blend of night-out vibes and the school hall setting, surrounded by strangers I used to know and have been dying to show off to. I m enjoying Freddie s arrhythmic thrusting and air-punches a whole lot less; he almost takes my eye out with one overly enthusiastic gesture during Dancing Queen .

He s the reason the dance floor begins to lose its appeal, because he keeps putting his clammy hands on my hips rather than just letting me dance, and his hot, beery breath on the back of my neck feels anything but sexy. So much attention from one of the most popular guys in school is undeniably flattering, but when Freddie tries to slide his hand underneath my shirt for the fourth time, I peel away and excuse myself from the rest of the group and take up refuge against the wall, tucked neatly in the corner near the stage where I can survey the rest of the party.

I m on the lookout for Hayden or Bryony when Freddie lurches into sight in front of me. I think that walk he s doing is meant to be a swagger.

And I think that leery expression is meant to be charming and flirty, because then he winks and says, Who knew you were such a good time? Where were you hiding that all this time, Ash?

I don t bother pretending to smile or laugh at his joke , but Freddie, it turns out, doesn t need my encouragement to continue his attempts at flirting.

I mean, you used to be so He pulls a grossed-out face. You know? But now, you re so He puffs out his cheeks, blows out a long breath, eyes me up and down and waggles his eyebrows for good measure. You know?

And to think, he really believes this works.

He sweeps a hand over his hair and starts regaling me with the story of that time he scored the winning try in a school rugby match as if it wasn t twelve years ago and as if I cared even back then. Does he realise how insufferable he is? This laddish attitude might ve appealed to some girls when he was a teenager, but surely it can t actually woo women now? The man is a child. A toddler. He s a walking advert for weaponised incompetence, I d stake my life on it.

But, like, obviously I hit up the gym a few times a week, he s saying, and I don t know how we got here but also, don t care. He steps closer and places a hand behind my head against the poster of Bryony from the yearbook, taped up on the notice board. The paper crinkles as Freddie positions himself up close, side on, his torso pushing against my arm. Do you work out?

It s such a line that I laugh, because, God, does this buffoon hear himself ?

My eyes land straight ahead to the dance floor, where Ryan is dancing with Bryony and paying her no attention, because he s looking this way. Staring hard, mouth in a tense line, jaw clenched.

Is he mad that I ve stolen his friend s attention, proved myself worthy of it somehow when he always deemed me so beneath them all? Good. I want him to know how wrong he was about me.

Because I m the bigger person, I don t give him the middle finger - but I m not above turning to Freddie with a false, flirty smile and laying my hand on his measly bicep and giving it a squeeze.

Not much, I finally answer him. Maybe you could give me some tips. Show me a proper workout, sometime.

Eyes widening, he shifts a bit more in front of me. I could definitely show you a few things, Ash. Yeah. Sounds good. Do you have Snapchat?

I weep for the women unlucky enough to swipe right on this idiot s dating profile. Truly, I do.

But I just know Ryan is still watching, and other people must be, too, and I don t want to lose face. I can t prove him right by chickening out - have them all know I m still a square and boring and unsexy and drab. So what if Freddie Loughton wants to flirt with me and so what if I end up snogging him? He wouldn t be the first guy I kissed on a night out just because, even if I wasn t totally into him.

Anyway, tonight, I m a cool girl, the it girl, the envy of everybody, and if this were ten years ago, that kind of girl would die for the chance to kiss Freddie Loughton.

I m debating my response - I do not want to give this man my number, but neither am I about to download Snapchat for him - when there s a high-pitched squeal and a body slides right in between us, so close and moving so fast that my bra is knocked askew.

Bryony has sandwiched herself right in between us, her hip knocking me backwards and out of the way as she sidles up to Freddie and manoeuvres him slightly away from the wall, so she s now the one he s caging in. She blanks me completely, not so much as acknowledging my existence, as she bats her eyes up at him.

Oh my God, Freddie, I totally missed you on the dance floor! You have to dance with me - you were always so good! You ve still got moves, haven t you?

I stand there, stunned by her behaviour, but Freddie doesn t seem to care that I ve been replaced - is only interested in the warm female body fawning over him right now. His attention is stolen completely.

Which, really, is Bryony s MO. She always wanted to be the centre of it all.

I shouldn t be so surprised that she couldn t even stomach me having a sliver of spotlight for just one night, ten years on, but still - it stings. It s a rejection after her early display of friendship and affection, and, worse, there are even more eyes on us now. Her voice fucking carries. She makes such a spectacle of herself doing just about anything, and this is no exception.

I notice a couple of boys pointing and some girls snickering behind their hands, and I hope the heat in my cheeks isn t as obvious to all of them as it is to me. I hope they can t see it written all over my face, or the tears that threaten, prickling at the backs of my eyes.

Come on, big boy, Bryony is saying, her hands pressed flat to his chest as she pushes him back towards the dance floor, her body already twisting in smooth, sultry motions in time with the music. You don t want to waste your time over here. Show me what you ve got.

The second they re out of the way, I make a beeline for the exit.

I don t rush, don t hunch my shoulders, don t let my expression shift from the bored one I school it into on instinct.

Not that I m running away. And not that I m about to hide in the toilets for a quick, angry cry like I used to have to do sometimes between school council meetings and biology lessons, because I m not seventeen fucking years old anymore. I m an adult, and an emotionally mature one with a grip on herself at that.

But something about this reaction makes me feel so much more like myself than who I was ten minutes ago. I ve spent the night peacocking for these people I don t even think about most of the time, and certainly won t think about much after tonight is over.

I guess I got too caught up in my new popular-girl mystique and this burning need for validation.

And I can t even blame that on Ryan. I ve been parading and performing for everybody; he s bottom of the list of people to impress, because it s always been easier to think of him as someone whose shoulders I can stamp on to lift myself up.

Which is mean, and petty, and an irrefutable fact.

Am I always this bad? Or do these people - this school - just bring it out in me, now that I ve grown up and moved on, left them all in the dust?

With the hall and the music and the party and all my self-centred, careless old classmates firmly behind me, I falter to a stop outside the cloakrooms and an impulse roots deep in the pit of my stomach that cries out for me to just go . Walk away - an Irish goodbye, how glamorously dramatic it would look, too - and call a taxi and go back to my hotel, maybe get a chippy tea on the way and then polish off that and the rest of my hip flask of tequila from the comfort of a plush hotel bed. How dreamy that sounds, rather than wringing myself out just to prove to everybody how fantastic my life is.

I know it s fantastic. I love my life. I love my career and my apartment and my sleepy Sunday lie-ins with my Kindle and the nights out at bars or comedy nights or gigs with my friends. I don t need anybody to tell me how great it looks; I live it, I know.

So why do I care? Why do I need them to tell me?

I take my phone out, on the verge of redialling the taxi firm I used earlier. In the reflection of the screen, I see my lipstick is smudged. Should I fix it - or just wipe it off altogether and go home?

Come on, Ashleigh. Don t chicken out now, or they ve won. Last woman standing. Show them all they were wrong; you ll regret it if you don t.

Yes, but counter point: chips. And battered sausage, and curry sauce.

Counter-counter point: cold pizza. Get your shit together and get back in there.

Yes, but-

A chuckle from somewhere in front of me startles me to attention, and my head whips up towards the sound.

Ryan is lurking in the shadows, leaning against one of the display boards with one ankle crossed over the other, and his arms folded across his chest. His eyes glint at me, his teeth like a damned toothpaste advert. How long has he been there? How long has he been watching me?

Sorry, he says in a low, smooth voice that suggests he is absolutely not sorry. Don t let me disturb you. Carry on.

My chin jerks up of its own accord, shoulders braced. I wasn t doing anything.

Yes, you were. You were doing that thing where you get ready for a debate. Should I warn Freddie he s got his work cut out for him?

I glower, and that prickling anger he s always instilled in me spreads from my fingertips to smother my lungs and scratch at my throat as Ryan pushes away from the wall to stride towards me. He stops about two feet away, unsettlingly close, but I bet that s exactly why he s done it, and keeps grinning down at me. I ll hand it to him, that s a feat in itself; he s hardly taller than me, with the heels I m wearing.

I m not debating anybody, I inform him. Lie. But I don t think it counts if I m debating against myself, and I hate that Ryan has ever known me well enough to recognise what it looks like when I m having a silent argument. I hate that he still , apparently, does. And as for Freddie-

And his gross, clammy hand and stinking, boozy breath and not-even-a-little-bit-subtle cleavage ogling Ugh.

Not, of course, that Ryan needs to know that. And not that I need to acknowledge that Freddie traded up for Bryony the second he had the chance

Well, I don t think it s any of your business how I spend time with Freddie, is it?

I shouldn t say it. It s stupid - silly. Reckless, because I know I m only saying it to try to drive a wedge between Ryan and his friend, like if Freddie picks me , it s some kind of insult to him . And it s so bloody ridiculous, because we re all grown-ups, and won t hold it against our friends if they spend a night out flirting with somebody, so it s not even like I ll achieve anything anyway.

At worst, it ll just give them all an excuse to laugh at me and say I m a frigid bitch and that s why Freddie rejected me.

I put on my best poker face, all but daring Ryan to call my bluff.

Except it s not me with the tell.

It s him.

Because as I stare at Ryan with my sneer firmly in place, I watch as his gaze sharpens, his grin vanishing, and then - his eyes dip to my mouth. Zeroing in on the smudge of my lipstick on my lower lip. He doesn t look away for a very, very long moment.

Long enough that my heart does something funny and disturbing and quite possibly also medically concerning, and my lips part involuntarily as I swallow, my mouth bone dry, and it s only when I inhale a bit too sharply, the noise audible in the deserted corridor, and when I don t exhale , that Ryan s eyes tick back up to mine.

His cocksure grin slides back into place as if that never happened; the only reason I m sure it did, and wasn t some punch-induced hallucination, is because the usual tension that charges the air between us is suddenly thick and oppressive, making me want to bolt.

And I ve never wanted to turn my back on Ryan. Never run away from a fight. I ve stayed till the bitter end every time, even when it s a losing battle.

Oh, fuck, please don t let this be a losing battle.

I m - not prepared for this.

I don t know what to do with that look. This tension.

But Ryan just slides his hands into his trouser pockets, nonchalant as ever, and nods his head in the direction of the girls cloakroom I m still loitering outside. You know, I thought we weren t supposed to go sneaking off around the school. Didn t take you for such a rule breaker, Easton.

I don t think you know me half as well as you think you do, Lawal. And anyway - at least I m not still swaggering about the school hallways like I own them.

Please, Ryan scoffs, and, just like that, the tension shifts - returns to our usual back-and-forth. If either of us felt some sense of entitlement to this place, it was you. Or do I need to remind you of the fact that you forced the school to display your certificate for that essay competition in the trophy cabinet?

The words - the memory - make me jerk backwards. I d forgotten all about it. Ryan can t possibly have held some kind of grudge over that all this time? Just because I pointed out to the Head of Year how unfair it was to only display sporting accolades and not academic ones Which, I totally stand by as an adult.

I cross my arms. I won a national competition . You - what, kicked a ball better than the school down the road? Whoopee. Your glory days are long behind you; it s a bit sad you re still clinging to the memory of them, when I highly doubt any evidence still exists here. That trophy probably went in the bin before long.

Oh, what, like they ll have kept your award, because it was so much more important?

I doubt that, too, but I just shrug one shoulder, rather than give him the satisfaction of being right.

One of his thick, dark eyebrows arches, pulling the side of his mouth up with it. Want to bet?

The tension is back with a vengeance, crackling like static before a lightning storm near my ears, and, suddenly, I cannot get back to the party soon enough. I d take the humiliation of everybody else laughing at me for thinking I had a shot with Freddie over this. Anything but stay here and indulge him in a fight.

I m not sure I d win. But for now, at least, I have the last word.

What, you want to go wandering around the school just to see if they still have your old rugby trophy? Give me a break. Isn t it time you grew up already?

I make sure to shove him with my shoulder as I walk past, even if it doesn t make him budge or stumble in the slightest, and almost definitely leaves me with a bruise. Damn rugby arms. Damn him.

Until he calls after me, when I m nearly back to the doors to the hall. Chicken. I should ve known you d still be the same stick-in-the-mud you always used to be.

There s no pretending I didn t hear that, and I can t bear to let him one-up me. I stop, turn on my heels and cross my arms. I am not a stick-in-the-mud.

He takes a long, loping stride closer, head tipped back slightly and a glimmer in his eyes that just smacks of triumph, and riles me up immediately. So like him to celebrate a victory when the fight s still on.

Yes, you are. Boring, uptight Pretending you re better than everybody else.

I move towards him. The corridor becomes a chessboard where we both only move in one direction; the difference is that he s only a pawn, and I m a queen. He just hasn t realised that yet.

I m not pretending. I am better than everybody else. Some of them, anyway. Him , specifically.

He steps closer again. And too much of a goody two-shoes to break the rules.

I come up level with him. Closer than before. His face is doing a weird thing I don t usually see on Ryan, where he seems to be fighting a smile. If it s a poker face, it s a shitty one, and I elect to ignore it.

And yet, you re the squeaky-clean politician who has to toe the line if he wants to keep his job. Checkmate. Welcome to the stick-in-the-mud life, Ryan.

I poke a finger into his torso to drive home the point, in the space just between his ribcage and his stomach. It s a firm wall of muscle I try not to notice. Battle won and war still not over - because it s never over, not between us - I snatch my hand back and, if I walk briskly enough, I ll be back in the hall before he can come up with a retort better than I know you are but what am I?

But then

Then he breaks the rules.

He catches my wrist as I move away, holding me in place.

And he winks .

Come on, Ash. For old times sake.

And, fuck. I m suckered right back in. I tell him, Fine, even as I tell myself, Game on .

It s wholly uncomfortable. This whole thing. Him. Me.

This is far from the first time I ve spent any time alone with Ryan. There was many a time at school when we d loiter in the corridors after the bell rang to bicker over something, usually to do with school council. One time we were so into it that it was a full hour after the buses home had all gone before we realised.

But this is different , and I don t like it.

I also can t admit defeat, because that would mean admitting that something has shifted beyond our usual dynamic of deep, unadulterated loathing and contempt and competition, and and God, I do not fancy him - that s not what this is about.

It s just. Just.

It s all wilful deception on his part, I m sure. The dynamic has only shifted because he s made it so; this is his new way of getting under my skin and trying to one-up me. He s decided to pretend to seduce me, so he can turn me down and walk away triumphant, that s all this is. And that s such a Ryan thing to do, the bastard.

So, I don t fancy him, and I m not thinking about the whiff of cologne I catch as I trail after him that makes my eyes practically roll back in my head, it s so good, and I m not admiring the tailored cut of his suit around his broad frame, or the way his butt looks

Damn it.

My pace quickens and my strides lengthen so that I don t just catch up, but take the lead. This way, at least, I can make sure we don t steer off track from finding our old awards.

Like, I m not setting foot in the common room. I can t bear to find out if that crappy old leather sofa that sagged practically to the floor is still there. The way he d sit on it like a fucking throne , holding court for his adoring subjects. The way it was a really crappy chair , so I organised to get it taken away, and everybody kicked up such a fuss that the school agreed to repair it instead, if we raised the money. Which, of course, Ryan made sure they did.

Heat flares across my face when I remember how he showed off about that damned sofa after it was fixed. Gloating at me, sprawled across it, arm flung across the back and legs wide, while I sat rigid in a plastic chair by one of the computers. Don t you want to try it out? See what all the fuss is about?

He meant the sofa, but it was so obvious he didn t , not really. The shrieks of laughter and jeers creep out of the depths of my memory, snarling around my mind like barbed wire. I can remember shutting them out, rolling my eyes, picking up my bag to leave like I was above it all, and one of the boys shoving me so I fell on Ryan s lap, his joke about my bony arse, and then everybody laughing harder when I was beet-red and half running out of the room. And even now, I m thinking about the crude, cutting remarks I should ve made, the comebacks I was too humiliated in the moment to come up with.

I glance back at him now to glower, seething at the recollection. As my head whips around, his eyes dart upwards - from looking at my arse.

Does he still think it s bony?

And, moreover, WHY DO I CARE?

We could check out the common room on the way, he says.

I tell him, No.

Ryan s lips curve into a slight and scathing smirk, but it s - off. Wrong. It doesn t look the same without the eye roll or the tilt of his head. Feels too serious, hits a different kind of nerve, when his eyes stay fixed on mine, dark and strange and wondering.

I face away from him, and even though I know I should have just gained the upper hand, somehow the only thing I feel is lost.