Chapter Two

Steph

Most Likely to End Up Together

Sweetie, are you almost ready? We re meant to be leaving in fifteen minutes!

Uh-huh! he yells back from the bathroom, and I hear the shower start up.

I can t help but huff a laugh and roll my eyes, and my reflection in my childhood vanity unit is grinning back at me. She looks giddy and lovestruck, because of course he knows how much time he has to get ready - based not on when we re supposed to leave, but on how far through my routine I am.

In fairness, I ve only just started my eye makeup. He s got time.

As I blend in some sparkly bronze eyeshadow and catch sight of the dress laid out on the bed behind me, excitement fizzes through me. I feel like I ve just necked an entire glass of Prosecco in one go. There s something oddly familiar about this whole thing: shutting myself up in my room while the noise of Mum and Dad watching telly downstairs drifts through the thin walls of the house; a new party dress just waiting to be worn while I paint my face for the evening and think of all the things I want to tell my friends.

It s been years since I saw most of the girls from school. There are a couple I stay in touch with sporadically, but considering I haven t thought much about these people in the last ten years beyond liking their Instagrams or commenting congratulations! on the big life updates they share on Facebook, I suddenly can t wait to hug them and hear every detail of their lives. I wonder if Thea ever got over Josh cheating on her for a whole year , or if it wrecked her trust in men and that s why she doesn t seem to have settled down now; why Priya got a dog with her partner even though she always said she was allergic; if Morgan came around to like being a doctor when we all know her parents pushed her into doing a medicine degree.

I wonder what they ll think of me. If they miss me, like I realise I ve missed them.

There s a photo tucked into the frame of my mirror, faded from the sunlight that s been at it in the last ten years, of me and the girls on holiday. Seven of us stand in a tight group in front of some random club, arms wound around each other s waists and shoulders, all of us in skimpy outfits and sky-high heels, glitter and neon paint covering our skin ready for the rave we plan to go to later in the night.

I smile, looking at it, and it s easy to envisage us all now as more mature adults, sitting around with bottomless mimosas over brunch - every bit as raucous and vibrant as we were back then. Maybe I ll suggest it. I do love a Sunday brunch with the girlies, to be fair, and unless their personalities have taken a complete one-eighty in the last decade, I think the old gang would like it, too.

There are other photos around my room, remnants of a former life. There s a string of Polaroids strung above my bed, most of which are more pictures from that group holiday after we finished school. Tickets from bands that everyone went to see, or cinema tickets kept special from dates with Shaun - memories that teenage me felt it was so important to preserve - are pinned to a corkboard that would occasionally host a revision timetable; there are a couple of photos from my time at uni and a giant poster of Edward Cullen on the wardrobe door I never could quite bring myself to take down.

There s something surreal about the familiarity of my old bedroom. I know that pink duvet so well - remember picking it out of the Argos catalogue one time - and I could feel my way around in the dark no problem. One of the plugs by the bedside table doesn t work and if you don t close the curtains just so, they ll slip open, let the light in and wake you up too early. I know every inch of this room - but it s like a well-preserved relic. Something out of a museum that I m experiencing as a bystander, not quite able to marry it against the idea of my bedroom , the one where I sleep on the left side and he has one of those gentle-wake-up sunrise lamps, with potted plants and an expensive rug over the original parquet flooring - a room that s functional and comfortable, and doesn t need to be the sole expression of my personality in the home.

Oh, if teenage me could see me now

Applying a meticulous streak of eyeliner, I do a quick audit of my life. The misguided year studying French at university before realising I wasn t cut out for it and actually, quite honestly, could not stomach the idea of a year abroad all by myself, and the abrupt change to studying a business degree - useful, yet broad enough that I could grant myself time to decide on my future. The time bouncing between jobs every eight months, trying to discover what was right for me, and finally settling into the role of paralegal three years ago while getting my qualifications part time.

Then, of course, there s the fun side of the highlight reel: the holidays and monthly Sunday brunches, the horse-riding classes that turned into show-jumping competitions. The swish apartment, and the glittering diamond on my left hand.

I d give my life full marks, if it were up to me. Glossy and shiny on the outside looking in - and utterly lovely in reality, too. I m doing a job I love, have a beautiful home and vibrant social life, and I m planning the wedding of my dreams to the man I love. It s exactly where I pictured myself being.

I set aside the eyeliner, finish my mascara, and dig through my makeup bag for my lipstick before realising I forgot to pack lipliner. Damn it.

That s alright, though - teenage Steph to the rescue! I m sure I must have left something behind during the summers home from uni

I open the left-hand drawer on the dressing table and, lo and behold - makeup stash of old. The Benefit mascara there is so ancient that half the writing has worn off the tube, and the nail varnishes left behind are probably dried up and useless now, but there s also a stumpy MAC lipliner pencil - one I bought to match the Ruby Woo lipstick I got for my sixteenth birthday off the girls.

There s something so right , I think, about using this now. How many parties did I wear this to, back when? That Ruby Woo was my pride and joy. It s a very full-circle moment.

Curious, I root around in the drawer to see what else I might have left behind in here. There s a tiny pink pencil case that I used to carry around in my schoolbag to keep my tampons in (it s still got some in it, and I think I should probably throw them away but just push them further to the back of the drawer for now), a tangled-up and tarnished necklace, half a pack of long-dried-out makeup wipes

My fingers brush the glossy paper of a photograph, and I push the tat aside to get a better look, finding a small pile of them.

Oh , I think. I remember this.

It was the school orchestra trip to Italy, in Year Twelve, just after Easter. The photo on top is the entire group, with the teachers who chaperoned the trip and all, at some old church where we played a concert for the locals. We re all holding our instruments, beaming at the cameras. I pick out familiar faces of friends from my year group. Bryony is front and centre, hip jutting out and flute held high and proud above her head while she smoulders at the camera, which makes me laugh. I spot Shaun and Hayden in the back of the group with the rest of the percussion section, Hayden s bright orange hair and awkward grimace a sweet contrast to the funny face Shaun is pulling, undoubtedly because he knew Hayden wouldn t smile for the camera properly. He was always sweet like that.

There s a photo of me and the girls in some pizzeria, one of all of us in the wind section at another concert, one of a bunch of us in the hotel playing card games. I crack up laughing at one showing a crowd of random people in a square gathered around while Ryan stands on the ledge of a fountain and plays his trumpet, and Ashleigh stands facing the camera, glowering as if to say, Are you seeing this prick too? She looks ten thousand per cent done with him even as everybody else cheers him on, and I suddenly remember all their bickering on the bus - and in class, and in the hallways. The petty rivalry to end all petty rivalries. I can see why I hung onto the photo.

The last one in the pile gives me pause, and my fingers trace over it gently.

Teenage me looks up with a broad smile and glittering eyes, cheeks flushed and tanned from the Italian sun, face pressed against Shaun s. He looks so young there, with that softness to his face, the barely defined jaw hinting at the man he was growing into. His skinny legs stick out of his shorts in the photo, his toned arms are wrapped snugly around my waist to anchor me in close, and - he s not looking at the camera. Of course he s not.

He s looking at me. Like I m the only thing in the world worth looking at. I do a double take at how tangible it is, to see the adoration pouring off him in that photograph. I don t remember taking it - but I remember how it used to feel, with Shaun. How he was the very centre of my world right from the very first kiss we shared. It s no wonder everybody thought we d be the most likely to end up together; we were always destined to be the childhood sweethearts who rode off into the sunset. We were forever, we used to say.

My traitorous heart gives a little somersault, seeing the two of us so completely in love.

Quickly, I shove the entire stack of photographs into my handbag for the night. I bet the others will love to see them too, and we ll all get a kick out of that one of Ashleigh. I m sure she ll have a good laugh over how much she used to argue with Ryan over every little thing, and how silly the whole thing used to be. And, if nothing else, it ll be a nice little memory to pull out if ever the conversation gets a bit stilted - we can reminisce over the shared memories of the trip.

I ignore how dry my mouth is, and how hard my heart is beating.

The shower shuts off in the next room. He comes back, dropping a kiss onto my cheek before getting ready, the jeans and shirt laid out next to my dress waiting for him.

You look gorgeous.

It s not too much?

Never. That grin and those dimples make me swoon every dang time. Except, right now, it feels like an uneasy swoop of my stomach, tying it into knots.

Instead of trying to smile back, I double-check my bag, making sure to pop my lipstick and old lipliner in there, and a tissue to blot, and then slip into my dress and shoes.

He s ready to leave by the time I ask, Zip me up? - because of course he is. He knows me so well. Beat for beat. A synchronisation that s existed since the very first time we said hello in the hallway.

The fingers tracing up the bare skin of my back are sure and gentle. The hands that settle on my waist so he can hold me there for a moment while he brushes a kiss on the back of my neck are familiar and natural. The scent of his cologne teases my nostrils, and it smells like home.

I think about the photograph of me and Shaun in my handbag, and the fact that tonight I ll be seeing him in person for the first time since the break-up, then turn to Curtis to slip my hand in his, hoping he doesn t feel it shake. The cold metal of my engagement ring presses into my finger.

Come on. Time to go.