Chapter Twenty-Four

Hayden

Most Likely to Succeed

MS ADAMS , the handwritten label on the door declares in a chunky, swishy script in a bright fuchsia Sharpie. The colour matches Bryony s nails, and I wonder if it s her signature. Having a signature colour feels like a very Bryony thing to do.

I pause in front of the door and she lets out a noisy, terse sigh to let me know just how much she hates this whole thing before slapping a flat palm against the door and pushing her way in, bumping me roughly with her elbow as she goes past. I almost laugh, because the huff reminds me so much of Margot when she s in a mood, but I don t think Bryony would appreciate that right now. In fact, I think she might shout at me.

I watch as she flips the light switch on - muscle memory - then grumbles to herself because, of course, the power is out. Her phone hangs at her side and she makes her way across the room to her desk with the ease of someone who has walked that exact path a thousand times or more, and roots around in her desk in the darkness with sure hands. Keys jangle as she yanks a lanyard out of a drawer, and I see her glower at me when she comes back to the door.

Come on, then, Bryony snaps, and pushes past me again. This grumpy, sullen creature is a far cry from the exuberant personality she was showing off earlier - the one we all remember from school. Is she really that angry I figured it out?

It s not anything to be ashamed about, you know, I tell her, following as she storms towards the staircase to go up to the staffroom on the second floor. A couple of stray sequins flutter to the floor in her wake. Being a teacher.

Shut up, Hayden.

It s not, though. I had to deal with Margot being home-schooled during lockdown, and that was a bit of a peek behind the curtain. It s a lot of hard work, and I imagine it can be a bit of a thankless job sometimes. You really don t-

I said, shut up. She whips around, ponytail almost smacking me in the face. If you tell anyone-

Bryony cuts herself off because, of course, it s an empty threat, but the fury emanates off her in waves and she is practically vibrating with it. Her hands bunch into trembling fists at her sides and I don t think it s just the glare of the phone torch making her look so pale beneath her makeup all of a sudden.

I didn t think it was possible to ever feel sorry for Bryony, but yet here I am.

When we were teenagers, she was always so melodramatic and shallow; I didn t really stop to consider that might have been a front, a bit like when Ashleigh used to hold her head high whenever people (mainly Ryan and his cronies) said something cutting. Bryony was all crocodile tears and dramatics, but this anger doesn t feel like any of that. It s not for show or attention, and I feel bad for her being so genuinely upset. My brain and body still feel a little sluggish, and now I fight through the haze to try to shake it off, sober up a bit in order to actually deal with whatever this is. It feels wrong to give up and walk away, and leave her like this.

I reach for her arm on instinct and she jerks away from me, continuing to stomp up the stairs.

You know what, Hayden? Bryony barks, her voice bouncing off the stairwell. You can t talk. You re a failure, too. You were meant to go off and do all those impressive things and make shedloads of money and be some successful genius, but you re not . All that potential, wasted . Now you re just a sad, stay-at-home dad, who threw his life away. So you don t get to talk to me like that, okay?

I

You think everyone here tonight doesn t see how resentful you are over how your life turned out? I ve seen you tonight, avoiding having to talk about your ex, your job, all the things everybody thought you were going to achieve - you look like someone pissed in your coffee, and it s so obvious that you re miserable. It s actually hilarious, how pathetic you re being. And it s not my fault, so don t take it out on me. I don t I don t need you projecting your sad, sorry little life onto me, alright? So just shut up .

That s not what I was doing. Was it? Is that how it sounded?

As a teenager, I was never very good at connecting with my peers. I felt like I could never quite say the right thing. But I don t think Bryony s saying the right thing now, either, and - and in all honesty, I m starting to get a little bit sick of being the butt of everybody s joke. Maybe they re the ones always saying the wrong thing, did they think about that?

And - and for fuck s sake , I m not sixteen anymore. I m a grown-up. I m twenty-eight years old, I have two daughters and I don t have to retreat into the shadows and put up with this bullshit from people I haven t even thought about in years .

Especially not from her.

My shoulders square and I stare at Bryony s sparkling back, her swishing purple ponytail, and resolve settles in my bones. I take a step after her and it feels like throwing off a helmet, discarding the shield and armour I ve been clinging to since I stepped through those front doors earlier tonight, trading them for a sword and spear instead.

Maybe it s time you shut up.

What? she snaps.

I said, maybe it s time that you shut up instead, I repeat. I chase her up a few stairs until I overtake her and stand in front of her, making her stop in her tracks. She scoffs, but I press on before she can interrupt me. I d put this outburst down to a little liquid courage, but I know it runs deeper than that. Did you ever stop to consider I don t want to talk about it because everyone else assumes they already know how I must feel? Of course you didn t. Because you don t stop to think about anybody else, B - you never have . You haven t changed a bit, have you? Still acting like the entire world revolves around you. I m sure this main character energy schtick you pull makes you feel better about yourself, but are you that much of a narcissist that you don t consider the rest of us have thoughts and feelings, too? I m not a fucking NPC.

A what?

A non-player character - you know what, it doesn t even matter. The point is, maybe you need to stop trying so hard to be the centre of attention and consider other people for once.

Who do you think you are, talking to me like this? How dare you-

I think I m someone who s sick and tired of being walked all over by people like you. I had enough of it when we were at school and I don t need a repeat of it now.

Please. Bryony snorts and tosses her hair, but I m almost sure that there s something defensive about this fa ade now. I never walked all over you ; don t be so salty just because you were such a shy little dork.

What aren t you getting here? Exasperated, I drag my hand through my hair and try again, deciding to break it down for her like I would if it were Margot or Skye. I speak slowly, enunciate. Your actions impact other people, and that has consequences. You always wanted to be the centre of attention and even if that meant you hurt people, you did it anyway. You gossiped, you teased people, you spread rumours, you laughed at your friends behind their backs. You hooked up with Josh when he was dating Thea - you pursued him , that whole time, Snapchatting him and stuff even though you knew he had a girlfriend. You were - are - self-centred, inconsiderate, and rude.

Bryony recoils, her face blank and eyes wide, mouth hanging slack and open. She stares right through me, and I wonder if she s replaying the highlights of her school years through this new lens I ve just offered. For once, she s speechless.

I don t feel so sorry for her now, but something swells in my chest in its place: a puffed-up feeling I only usually get when I crack a difficult piece of coding at work or help the girls learn something new. I m not used to feeling it in this context of confrontation. (Although I m not used to confrontation, period.)

You think you know me, I tell Bryony, running with this high of finally standing up for myself, but you don t. Whatever you found out online, or from seeing me out of my comfort zone here tonight, or whatever you ve assumed You don t know me. You said I m pathetic and resentful, but you re wrong. I m a stay-at-home dad, yes, but I didn t throw my life away, and I m not sad. I m quite happy, actually.

Bryony blinks, as if she wasn t expecting that, and for a moment I see it all sink in; then she averts her eyes and her scowl returns and she pushes around me again.

Yeah, well, you ever think maybe you could be happier ? That, maybe, if you d lived up to your potential, things would be better , huh? Then you d really have it all, and you wouldn t be - wouldn t be slumming it, and crying yourself to sleep, and never having moved on because you re a teacher at your own goddamn school?

I don t think this is about me anymore.

That sounds difficult.

She snorts, and it s a wet sound. I take a tissue out of my pocket and hand it to her. Bryony snatches it off me and we exit out onto the second-floor corridor, making our way along to the staffroom. Her keys jangle at her side.

I don t want your pity, alright? I want you to keep your mouth shut.

Did I say I was going to tell anybody?

Instead of answering, she shoves a key into the lock on the door. I hold my torch up to give her some more light, and catch sight of Bryony s face. Now it s not directed at me, her anger has dissipated into something far more fragile. I ve never seen her look like this unless it was on stage and the role she was performing called for such vulnerability. There s something so infinitely broken - so defeated - and I m surprised to realise that I recognise it, because it s the exact feeling I ve been carrying around for the last hour after being worn down by my old classmates.

The mourning for wasted potential, the grief of what if.

I understand that, far more than I ever expected to.

Is that why you ve been tearing people down all night? Picking holes in their stories, undermining them? Kicking their legs out from under them to bring them down to your level doesn t build you up any higher, you know.

I m still talking to her like she s a child - I don t mean for it to be patronising, and half expect Bryony to shout at me again, but her bunched-up shoulders relax a little and she hangs her head as my words sink in. I wait, try not to push her too hard, and instead we both step into the staffroom.

Well - Bryony steps in. Walks confidently through the room by the light of her phone, to a filing cabinet where she searches for the spare key to the caretaker s office. I stand against the door, not quite inside the room; even at this age, it feels like crossing a boundary I shouldn t, to go into the staffroom. Somewhere I should knock and stay respectfully on the other side of the door, only ever able to peer in from a safe distance.

Bryony collects the key, but doesn t push the drawer of the filing cabinet shut. Instead, she leans heavily against it, brow furrowed and eyes squeezed tightly shut. I m not sure whether to go put an arm around her, or if I should leave her with her thoughts for a moment. She s clearly going through well, a lot.

And honestly? I don t think I blame her for hiding the truth, for keeping up this pretence that she s living her dreams as an actress. I faced more pity and sympathy and second-hand regret tonight than I d care to think about; if I had the chance to do it all over again, maybe I d have put a spin on a few things, too.