Chapter Sixteen

Ryan

Most Likely to Kill Each Other

She won t look at me, and I ultimately decide that s probably for the best. I know what to do with Ashleigh s uppity glares and self-righteous hah, take that looks, but right now, I m at a loss. A couple of times since I cornered her after she ducked out of the party, she s looked out of her depth.

I ve never seen her that way before.

It s probably because Bryony told us not to go wandering around and she s worried about getting into trouble.

Probably.

A sliver of doubt, a little crack in my rationale, has me wondering if it has more to do with me than I d like. Or maybe I would like it, if that coil of excitement snaking through my abdomen is anything to go by.

Or, worse, if it s nothing to do with me at all. If this is about Freddie, and how she lost her shot with him, and that she might actually be upset about that. That she was into him , and is genuinely stung by the rejection.

Impulse has me asking her, So, you re not seeing anybody right now, even though I m pretty damn sure what the answer is.

Ashleigh doesn t even turn around, but I just know she rolled her eyes. She pauses until we re more in step with each other, then says, I m not.

You re not going to ask me ? Tsk, manners, Easton; it s only polite.

I m not, she repeats. Spare us both the list of B-list celebrities and socialites you ve dated recently, please.

Who says I ve been dating socialites?

Um, I m pretty sure everyone knew you were dating that Scottish girl from Love Island .

Keeping tabs on me?

She ignores the grin I throw her, and looks far too smug for comfort before pointing out, Twenty million people saw you with her in that TikTok. You know, the one of her throwing a tantrum at that nightclub and pulling some poor girl s hair? Hardly keeping tabs when your girlfriend goes viral.

I hide a wince. That was two years ago - I thought everyone had pretty much forgotten about it by now. In my defence, I was trying to calm her down and smooth things over after some catfight with a frenemy, but trust Ashleigh to make me feel guilty for even being involved.

Out loud, I boast, Hardly newsworthy that I was even there when partying with celebs is a pretty standard night out for me. Part and parcel, when you re as notable as I am. Not that you d understand, of course. I don t imagine you re chatting to Will and Kate at the polo, or grabbing drinks at a bar with the likes of Richard Ayoade or Daniel Radcliffe.

Neither of which is exactly normal , even for me, but she doesn t need to know that.

Ashleigh only levels me with another self-satisfied smirk though, and says, No, you re right. I m not rubbing shoulders with the rich and famous - because in my line of work, I m busy helping real people with real problems.

She waits through the beat of silence where all I can do is think, touch .

Besides, she continues, I don t see you being the face of a ground-breaking ITV documentary about the incredible breakthroughs being made to combat degenerative disease-

I cut her off with a chuckle. I don t see you doing that, either.

Well, it s not been released yet.

That documentary got axed before it even made it to production. Legal issues, right? Something around risking the spread of misinformation when some drugs hadn t passed - what re they called, clinical trials, or whatever?

Ashleigh s lips press into a fierce pout and she side-eyes me. How s that for touch , I think. She says, How would you know that?

Maybe because she alluded to it on an Instagram Story, which led me to find the pretty impressive rant she posted about it and certain elements of the industry on LinkedIn.

I shrug. I heard from someone attached to the project.

She levels me with such an accusatory look that for a second I think she sees right through me, but she only harrumphs and struts ahead.

It is way too much fun to one-up her like this.

I wonder what else I know about her life for the last ten years that I could throw back in her face like that? But I also wonder what she knows about my life in that time that she might try to levy against me, and if it s worth it when I ve already won this round.

Nah, better to quit while I m ahead.

God knows Ashleigh Easton is a force to be reckoned with. I don t want to try my luck.

Stuck walking behind her, I notice how tense her shoulders are, and try not to look too long at the smooth, creamy skin or the smattering of freckles across it. I never thought of Ashleigh as freckly.

I shake the thought away now, trying not to wonder how far those freckles go.

She reaches the door to the library before me and hesitates, gripping the handle but not opening it, and I wonder if she s going to chicken out. Maybe she s secretly hoping it s locked so she can give up on this and get back to the party - away from me. Maybe, back to Freddie.

But then she throws open the door, looking a bit surprised that it isn t locked, and storms inside. The lights flicker on as she strides past the banks of desks with computers, beyond some sad-looking beanbags and all the way past the stacks to the trophy case on the other side.

There s a thump, like a book falling, and I think I hear someone whispering, but I don t see anything when I look around. Probably just the pipes, or the door.

Either that, or someone else snuck off and was trying to hook up with their other half in the library. I smirk to myself at the thought, wondering who would be bold - or maybe just drunk - enough to do that. Didn t Steph and Shaun used to snog up here all the time? I guess someone could have taken a leaf out of their book.

I didn t, obviously. That s not why I suggested to Ashleigh we come looking for our old awards.

This is just - good old-fashioned rivalry, that s all.

I don t get a proper look at the rest of the library but, aside from being modernised, it doesn t look a whole lot different to how I remember. Not that I spent much time in here, admittedly. This wall showcasing photos of year groups or staff over time looks more or less like I remember - photos from the seventies and eighties, mainly. Relics of a tradition that hasn t been maintained.

The trophy cabinet is new, though. It s a huge glass monstrosity now, not the vintage piece with sagging shelves and nicks in the wood. It s well organised and so full that it s a little overwhelming to look at - but I find what I m looking for quickly enough.

I jab a finger at the glass door, where there s a photo of our rugby team when I was in Year Twelve and we won the regional championship. I m front and centre, man of the match as well as team captain. The trophy is there with everyone s names engraved, and then there s even a separate photo of me in my jersey from my days as a pro, which is a nice surprise. I always wondered if the coaches and PE teachers here would say to kids on the school team, You could make it, one day - like Ryan Lawal!

See? I tell Ashleigh and she scowls - not at the photos, but at my finger leaving a smudge on the glass. I don t remove it. Told ya. So where s yours, Ash? Were your school-girl achievements worth holding onto?

I m pretty sure I already know the answer, but she gives me a cool smile and points at the top shelves. Even better, she says, and when I look, there s a whole host of framed certificates crowded together - all from recent years, but all for essay competitions or awards for languages or science projects.

She doesn t bother to rub it in the way I did, because we both know we re looking at her legacy, a lasting change she made. How many Ashleighs are showcased here, because she demanded they should be? It s probably a better mark of success than my old trophy and a photo from a career I had to give up, as much a relic here as those class photos from the eighties.

Not, of course, that I ll ever say that out loud to her.

The two of us stand in silence, looking at the accolades on display, taking it all in, and I find my gaze drifting to Ashleigh. To the freckles on her bare shoulders. Her reflection in the glass and her mouth, parted just slightly, and that smudge of lipstick.

My mind immediately goes back to Freddie dancing with her. Flirting with her. Hands on her.

She s entitled to kiss him. Obviously. I m not his keeper.

Ashleigh breathes in. Holds it a second or two, like she wants to say something. Breathes out.

It s fucking astonishing, that she has this way of sucking all the attention in the room and making it focus on her. I never understood how she did it back at school - when she was dorky and brash and too serious and not even very good-looking. She never cared about being popular or cool or pretty or even nice , half the time, and somehow everyone still listened to her.

I remember in Year Eleven, when Ms Potts was teaching us about electromagnetic fields in physics and someone made a joke that Ashleigh and I were north and south poles on a magnet because we drew people in but were so opposite. And Ms Potts laughed and said we were more like two north poles: completely repellent of and to each other, while drawing everyone else towards us. Even our own damn teachers understood that.

It s why they made us Head Boy and Head Girl. Although I think they probably came to regret it, based on how bad we were at working together .

Now, though, I think maybe Ms Potts was wrong because Ashleigh is just standing there, quiet and still, and everything in me is acutely tuned towards her.

So why d you do it? she asks, the question rushing out of her in a soft rush, like she s almost afraid of being overheard. She straightens up, turns towards me - and I m closer than either of us realised. I can feel her breath, warm and sweet, against my face. Her blue eyes dart between mine. Flicker down to my mouth - once. Fleetingly. Provoking some wild, unthinking urge to run my thumb over the blush on her cheek, feel the heat of it spreading down to her neck, see if her shoulders are as soft as they look.

I shake off the urge and find her eyes still boring into mine with that new, unfamiliar twist on a look I m so used to, and - yes, it was better when she wouldn t look at me.

This time, it s me who has to look away first. That s new and unfamiliar, too.

My fingers unfurl from the fists they bunched into at some point. I slide them into my pockets instead.

Do what? I ask, my voice just as quiet as hers.

Go into politics. You could ve - I don t know. Been an influencer. Become a rugby coach or managed a team. Gone on reality programmes and quiz shows and stuff. Made a living out of that chipper attitude without getting your hands dirty.

Ah. There she is.

What?

Little Miss Judgemental. You ve got a shitty opinion of politicians, haven t you?

I ve dealt with enough of them putting up roadblocks for our funding and research and belittling the work we re doing to know. Sometimes it s not all about the big picture stuff, you know. Sometimes it s all the hard work on the ground adding up to that, that matters.

You know, I don t think you can take the moral high ground when you re the one who s been eavesdropping.

She huffs a sigh. Please. Don t act like you weren t doing it on purpose, or like you weren t listening in on my conversations, too.

Hard not to, when you were so loud and lording your life over everyone like you ve always done. Always had to make sure everybody knew what you were doing and just how good you were doing it, didn t you?

I don t-

And you ve always liked making sure I look bad in the process. I flash her a grin, but even I know it must look stiff and bitter. Even though this isn t new for us - we ve always bickered and tried to one-up each other - it feels twisted now; it s something I don t want to be saying, but can t seem to stop myself. This woman brings out the worst in me; she always has. Ashleigh pales a little bit, just as the smile drops off my face and I shake my head. Good to see you haven t changed a bit, Easton.

Excuse me? she exclaims, and the words bounce off the walls, the ceilings, fill the space so much that I have to grit my teeth.

Forget it, I mutter. I move away from the trophy cabinet. Maybe we are the same pole of a magnet after all, because suddenly, I can t get far enough away from her - from this conversation, from who I am around her. Let s just go back to the party.

No! Answer me. What do you mean, I always made sure you looked bad? Don t you dare try to act like I was some petty, nasty little bully when you swanned around like you ruled this place, and when you did the exact same thing to me . I had to put up with you putting me down for years. You re not better than me, Ryan, you re-

Yeah, and don t I know it. Didn t you make sure I knew it, every damned day?

I stop, but only to turn on her so she can feel the full brunt of my words like I had to feel hers. Ashleigh collides with me and I snatch her arm to haul her back upright. I don t let it go.

You want to know why I m in politics? Why I m gunning for PM? So that you ll have to suck it up and realise once and for all that you re not better than me .

Ashleigh recoils, flinching, and stares with wide eyes for a moment before wrenching her arm out of my grip. A muscle ticks in her jaw, eyebrows furrowing, and

Fuck. She s about to cry .

I ve never seen Ashleigh Easton cry. Not once. I didn t think she was capable of it.

She shoves me away with both hands, the clasp on her clutch bag digging into my shoulder. I fall back, still trying to wrap my head around the fact that she s on the verge of tears. The stony, ruthless bitch, flesh and blood after all.

Go to hell, Ryan, she spits, and storms out of the library before I can register what just happened.

And - that s it, I think. Fucking checkmate. I ve finally won. Not just the battle, but the entire damn war between the two of us. It s over, she s conceded, and I can emerge victorious.

I forgot, though, that both sides suffer casualties in a rivalry as bitter as this.