Chapter Twenty

Ashleigh

Most Likely to Kill Each Other

Stalking through empty halls and past closed classroom doors gives me the weirdest feeling of being late for class. The fact that it s dark, with motion sensors making lights flicker to life one by one as I storm ahead, gives the whole place the creepy aura of a nightmare.

Not that I still get nightmares about showing up to an exam I haven t revised for, or being shouted at in class for not knowing something basic. Obviously I don t. I m almost thirty. I m in my Charlotte Lucas era. I m totally over it.

I escape down the corridors, past the maths classrooms, and Ryan is still chasing after me. I don t know why he didn t just leave me alone after I left him in the library, or why he hasn t gone back to the party now.

No, that s a lie. I do know - it s because his overinflated ego can t bear to concede defeat and let me win this fight. But to think he has the audacity to try to sound like my reaction to his cutting words has truly, genuinely, bothered him I m not falling for it.

I finally reach the science block - an extended wing of the school built decades after the original building, which has apparently had a complete revamp since we all left. The ceilings are smooth and white, free from damp spots and flaky paint. The laminate floors are still shiny with only a few dark shoe-scuffs worn in, and the nameplates on the doors declaring which teacher s classroom it is, are embossed metal ones rather than worn-out sticky labels defaced with Sharpies.

The musty, papery smell that lurks in the other corridors is replaced by plastic and disinfectant here. It s enough to make me gag.

Also enough to make me gag: Ryan calling out, Ashleigh, please , can you slow down? I can t Can t keep up , because he can t bloody run with that knee injury, and now I feel like the arsehole. Again. Can we talk about this?

I grit my teeth and pick up the pace.

He doesn t want to talk; this isn t about being nice or civil or mending bridges we burnt long, long ago. I don t want him to be the bigger person here, to have grown up or changed or any of that bollocks. It s too little, too late.

As if he s got any right to act like I was the one in the wrong, when all I did was stick up for myself and retaliate when he started it. God knows everybody else, our teachers included, spent enough time glorifying Ryan, making him out to be some godlike figure among us mere mortals. I was the only person who ever called him out. As if he cared what I thought enough to let it bother him - never mind still let it bother him. And he s got no right to stand there pretending he didn t dish it out, too. Like he didn t go out of his way to belittle me and humiliate me at every turn.

I shouldn t be so shocked that he acts so untouchable, so above it all, after all this time. I bet it works wonders for him in the world of politics. Butter wouldn t melt.

Except he s not special. He s not godlike or glorious or anything else. He s flawed and human like the rest of us, even if I m the only one who sees it.

He calls out, and I spin around to face him. The heavy door behind him slides shut, the whisper of it across the floor timid and gentle. A green light blinks to life on a little keypad beside it.

Ryan stops in his tracks, mouth agape, and for once

For once, he looks like he doesn t know what to say or do. Good.

But I can t take any pleasure in seeing him floundering and unsure like this, not when it s taking all my willpower not to cry. My mouth stays firmly shut and I blink again, but a couple of tears spill over. I brush them away quickly with the back of my hand, although I know it s futile; there s no way he didn t notice.

I can t let him see me cry. I won t.

I hate that I m letting him get to me this much. That I was stupid enough to participate in our old rivalry just to learn that he still labours under the delusion that I was the bitch and he was the victim who never put a foot wrong. I hate that it feels like maybe he has changed, but suddenly I m stuck as the same person I was ten years ago.

I hate all of this, and I can t bear to stay here and look at him for another second.

I ve spent the last ten years perpetually trying to put distance between me and any mention of Ryan Lawal. I don t need to start from point zero again tonight. I don t need to put myself through this.

Ryan s standing in front of the only door out of the science block, apart from the staircase at the other end of the corridor, leading upstairs. I rack my brain for where the other fire exit was, or if there was another way back to the main building upstairs, but the memories have turned fuzzy under the stress of the moment. There are keypads next to all the classroom doors like the one next to the main door. Most of them are lit up in red, and I realise it s a snazzy security system. Some school governor must have been really invested in how good this was going to make them look. I wonder if they ve put as much funding into the actual school equipment and resources for the students, but, at the same time, know I would ve loved having a science block that looked like this when I was here.

So I head to the nearest room with a green light, leaving him in the hallway. As I step through the door, I realise it s my old A-level chemistry classroom. There are five shiny new computers on the bench that runs alongside the windows and the wood-topped stools we used to sit on have been replaced by tall chairs in dark grey plastic. The sturdy, chipped wooden benches with sinks and gas taps have been upgraded, too, although they re in exactly the same arrangement as the old ones I remember. There s a pile of textbooks at the back of the room just like there used to be when I was a student, and the chemicals cabinet is a fancy new one with a more sophisticated lock on it. It s so achingly familiar and foreign all at once.

I gravitate to my usual seat near the front. I just need a few minutes to clear my head and then I ll head back to the party. I ll scroll TikTok for a bit or check in on the group chat or something, and then I ll go back in there, if only to prove to Ryan - and Bryony and Freddie, too - that they can t spoil my entire night.

Except then, the door opens. I should have thought to lock it. I haven t even made it to my seat yet, but stop where I am, eyes closing with a sigh. Why can t he take a hint already? Ryan s footsteps are solid on the laminate flooring, so heavy they echo off the walls. He comes to a stop behind me and my skin prickles, goosebumps rising along my bare shoulders and making me itch to turn around and face him. He s so close I m sure if I took half a step back, I d bump into him.

The hand he lifts to place on my arm makes me flinch, the heat of his skin searing mine even through the fabric of my sleeve.

I know that fighting is like, our thing-

We don t have a thing , I protest, but it s a whisper, and he pretends not to hear.

-but you think we could try something new? Like, maybe, have a fucking conversation for a change?

I don t think there s anything for us to talk about. We ve never had things to talk about, not really. It was always - peripheral. Stuff about school, or to do with being Head Girl and Boy, or about other people. The only time we talked to each other was to brag about ourselves or make digs at each other. Unless you re going to apologise, in which case, don t bother. I m not interested.

What have I got to- Ryan cuts himself off abruptly with a weary sigh, the sound so raw and vulnerable that I do almost turn around, if only to make sure it s actually him and not some imposter. Somehow, that idea seems more likely than Ryan having feelings . He reaches for my arm again and this time his touch is lighter, tentative, a brush of his fingertips against my elbow, inviting me to face him. Pleading, even.

When I don t, he moves so close that I can feel the warmth of him at my back; it tugs on the same primal, unreasonable part of me that revelled in the scent of his cologne earlier and responded to the way he looked at my smudged lipstick. I stand stock still, hardly even able to breathe, as Ryan s exhale fans over the sensitive skin where my neck and shoulder connect, and his fingers slide more firmly around my arm to anchor me in place, as if I d even be capable of moving away right now.

Whatever hold he has on me, whatever this shift in our usual dynamic is tonight

It s not because this is another game he s trying to one-up me in, I realise. It s because he must feel this insatiable pull, this magnetism between us, and I decide I hate him for giving in to it. For making me want to, too.

It s because of you, he says, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. It might sound seductive, if not for the trace of anger that curls the edges of his words. You wanted to know why I went into politics, but I didn t explain it right. It s because of you.

My head tilts slightly, lips parting even though the question never makes it out of my mouth. Ryan must notice, because he carries on.

You always used to say I d never amount to anything. Peak in high school, that kind of thing. That I d leave and my glory days would be behind me, and I d find out that here, I was a big fish in a small pond, but out in the real world I d just be another has-been.

Well, yeah , I want to say. Because that was the exact stereotype he fitted. Because he was such an arrogant little shit that in what world would that not be the case?

And I always knew you were wrong about me, but I don t know, I guess it gave - gives - me an extra push, when I need it. Your voice would be there in the back of my mind and I d remember there was always gonna be someone out there - not necessarily you, I guess, just someone - who I d need to prove wrong about me. People who d think I couldn t do it or wasn t good enough. And I- He cuts off with a short chuckle; his breath on the back of my neck sends a shiver down my spine. I imagine him scrubbing his hand over his face, running it back through his hair. You know me. I always liked proving people wrong.

I know you liked proving you were the best. But again, the words don t quite make it out of my mouth. I still don t turn around, almost afraid that if I do, it ll shatter whatever this is, and I don t know that I m ready for that to happen.

Ryan shifts slightly behind me, not exactly coming closer, but making me horribly, acutely aware of how he s almost flush at my back, and the fact he still hasn t let go of my arm.

But he doesn t say anything else. The breath I take trembles and his fingers tighten slightly at my elbow, making me sure he heard it.

So it s all just to prove me wrong? I manage. You built your entire career off a petty teenage grudge?

He doesn t deny it, but the hand finally slips away from my arm and it feels like confirmation enough. Instead of some kind of righteous sense of triumph because I could mock him mercilessly over this, there s only a pang in my heart, something sad and heavy and achingly familiar.

I never thought you weren t good enough, I murmur, and turn my head slightly until I can make out the very edge of him in my peripheral vision. I feel his eyes burning into me, the way he s hanging off my every word. I just You were Icarus. Someone had to tell you that one day you d fly too close to the sun. I only tore you down because you did it to me constantly. You were the popular one; the guy everyone wanted to be like, or be with, or be around , and you never had a problem reminding me that I - wasn t like that. That I wasn t pretty or fuckable or fun.

I almost expect him to object, but he doesn t.

And even when it wasn t you saying that stuff, you made sure to laugh loud enough when someone else said it. Made sure everybody heard and laughed as well. And as I recall, you told me plenty of times that I had an over-inflated sense of self and would crash and burn and not amount to anything, too.

But you just He trails off and has to clear his throat. You never cared . You always acted like you were better than - everyone. Couldn t wait to get out of here, like Like school was just holding you back from the rest of your life.

A laugh trips off my tongue and now, finally, I turn to face him. The confused frown on Ryan s face is set so deep that I wonder the lines in his forehead aren t permanently etched there. There s not a trace of his usual grin in the downward slant of his mouth, and his eyes search my face almost desperately.

Why do you think I couldn t wait to get out of here? Because you and your friends and half our fucking year group did nothing but let me know how boring and uncool I was. You think I didn t learn that not responding and giving you all the satisfaction of knowing you d upset me was the best way to make it through that? You think I was mean to you, I hurt your ego? I only gave as good as I got, Ryan.

Impossibly, his frown deepens. His gaze lowers to our feet, but it doesn t feel like a win; it just tightens in my throat, makes fresh tears blur my eyes until I blink them away.

He doesn t apologise; neither do I. It s been ten years and I don t think it would matter at this stage anyway, neither to clear our own consciences nor soothe old wounds.

His eyes are still downcast, but one of his hands moves, as if of its own accord. It skims up the backs of my fingers, to my wrist, winding its way back down like he thought better of it, finally settling by wrapping around my hand, squeezing it softly. I don t know if it s supposed to be an apology or some sign of solidarity because maybe we were both bull-headed pricks back then, but I decide I don t care. I m already squeezing it back, and trying to ignore the way his head is tilted towards me and the calluses on his palm and the way my pulse has suddenly started to skitter wildly.

Ashleigh, he murmurs, and he s so close that his chest brushes against mine and I don t know how we got this near to each other, and I can t do anything except breathe in and stare at him and lose count of my racing heartbeats. You re-

I m plunged into darkness, right along with Ryan, as the lights cut and the power goes out.