Chapter Twenty-Nine

Hayden

Most Likely to Succeed

Bryony is far from justified in the way she s acted tonight, and part of me wants to recommend she see a therapist to work through some of these frustrations that are making her lash out like that but, admittedly, there is a part of me that understands exactly where she is coming from.

If nobody else believes in this other, better, more successful version of her life anymore, how is she supposed to believe in it?

Can I really blame her for being so angry ?

I had forgotten what I used to want from my life. What it used to be like to want for myself, full stop. Everybody else tonight, as much as it s annoyed me, has breathed life back into that. Their reminders of my old dreams make something spark in my brain like a flint against stone, a push to get wheels turning that have ground to a halt so gradually I never noticed they stopped moving at all.

The spark of want, the reminder of all my old ambitions, does nothing except ignite an anger I can t seem to shake, though, and it s for that reason I can t blame Bryony for taking her own failure out on everybody else. Her fury and indignation, however misplaced at me and our old classmates, has become infectious. It burns my stomach like acid, makes my body feel tight and heavy and frantic; I understand why little kids throw themselves to the ground in a tantrum, and wish I could, too. I understand why Freddie Loughton punched a wall in English one time, his fist going right through the plaster, even when he looked a little bit like he was about to cry before he stormed out of the classroom.

I want to rage . Scream, throw things, howl at the sky and pound my fists against the ground until they bleed.

I ve done this to myself. I have nobody to blame except myself.

I could ve done so much - done everything - differently. Could ve stayed at uni, or gone back, or even tried to do it part time when Margot was first born. Could ve studied by my own volition and gained some other qualifications, figured out some kind of shared custody arrangement with Lucy instead of putting what we thought was best for her and the girls first. Until now I, naively, thought it was what I wanted, too - I thought I d always be happy, choosing to be a stay-at-home dad and focusing on that first and foremost. But I could have set up a studio or computer lab in the box room and made the girls share a bedroom, or put it in the garage, so I could work on my own projects, delve back into the research I loved so much. Could ve gotten childcare during the daytime, and gotten a job where I was on track to pursue the dreams that once meant so much to me.

I could ve done so much more .

So I don t call Bryony out any further as she flips through keys and reads their labels and eventually finds the one she needs for the caretaker s office. I don t push her about why she hasn t done more, or interrogate her about what s next, because her answers won t help me to figure out what I should be doing differently. And I don t judge her for hiding her actual job, even if it s made her vindictive, because, in this moment, with ire searing through my bones and nerves, I want to snap and snarl at anybody who threatens the delicate balance of my warped, wrong life, too.

She finally opens the door, and, once again, automatically goes to flip the light switch, and huffs when they don t come on.

I never had cause to go into the caretaker s office when I was at school, so it doesn t seem to hold that same forbidden nature the staffroom did. It s a small, square room with a cupboard that s open and stuffed with miscellaneous cleaning supplies. A spray bottle and rag are on a desk alongside some paperwork and a computer. An old floor buffer takes up the area next to the door, eating up most of the available space in the room.

Bryony promptly trips over it.

I catch her arm and haul her upright before she can face-plant onto the floor.

Thanks.

No problem.

She squints at me through the semi-darkness. You used to have the worst reflexes. D you remember that time Mr Carey was off sick for a while so they put the boys and girls PE classes together, and we ended up playing dodgeball for weeks? I swear you got worse each time.

I push my glasses up my nose, remembering the pair that broke clean in half when one dodgeball hit me square in the face. (Ryan, to his credit, had apologised profusely, and had honestly believed I would ve moved out of the way. Ashleigh tried to make me send him the bill for the replacement pair.)

Do you do a lot of sport now? Bryony asks, then smirks at her own joke as she teases me. Hone those shitty reflexes with some Wii Tennis, maybe?

No. Years of picking up Margot and Skye as they run around pell-mell, before they can fall over and scrape their knees, that s all.

Oh. Her smile turns awkward, then vanishes altogether. Sure, right, yeah. That too, I guess.

Bryony and I both turn our attention to flashing our phone torches around the room to search for the fuse box, rather than return to our previous conversation. I don t know if she can sense my newfound anger or if she s too wrapped up in her own world to notice it, but I decide that I don t care if she is.

I was used to flying under the radar at school. Preferred it, in fact, when I did.

I m mad because, if it weren t so much my comfort zone, maybe I would ve fucking done something with my life.

And I m mad because this feral, furious thing howling inside my ribcage is not me. Or, I think, I don t want to admit that it is , and the idea that it is me is so grotesque and uncomfortable I want to wish it away. Ignore it into nonexistence like so much of the rest of me. The me I know would try to gently prompt Bryony to say more about the things upsetting her so much, encourage her to apologise to the other people she s hurt tonight and maybe, also, if she seemed to need it, encourage her to pursue her acting dreams with a bit more vigour.

The fact that I have suddenly decided to not care is as frightening as this sudden anger.

Has this me always existed? Is it one that I can pack away and squash down and leave lurking in the shadows out of harm s way, or will it refuse to go now that it s been unleashed?

And - I don t know that I want it to go away.

It s the closest thing I ve felt to that old passion that used to drive me, in a long while. Fierce and full-on. Something to harness and put to work, to turn into something greater, pushing myself to some imagined goal in pure exhilaration.

I ve already lost that once, without realising.

Is it worse for it to slip quietly away over time, or to actively decide to dispel it?

Is that it, d you think? Bryony asks, pulling me out of my fury and fear for a moment. Her torch illuminates a box in the top corner of the room behind the desk. The front is clear, showing rows and rows of switches.

Do I think that thing that looks exactly like a fuse box, is a fuse box? I say, and it comes out in a cutting, sardonic drawl that I don t recognise. I don t know, Bryony, what do you think?

She pulls a face, nose scrunching up. Alright, Mr Moody-Pants, I m just saying .

I sigh, nudging my glasses out of the way so I can pinch the bridge of my nose. I try to concentrate on breathing. In, out, for five. It used to be a coping mechanism for the anxiety that flared up during term-time at school; more recently, it s been a habit when Margot or Skye do something naughty or break something, so I can centre myself rather than react immediately.

But now it s me who needs the telling-off and the time-out, and it s only when I hear the rattle of a wheely chair moving along the floor that I stop berating myself for being such a dick to Bryony so needlessly, and open my eyes to find her climbing up in those ridiculous heels onto the office chair so she can reach the fuse box. She sets her phone torch-up on the caretaker s desk so she has both hands free to climb with.

As soon as she lifts her other leg off the ground, of course, the chair begins to swing wildly beneath her, and her arms flail, bracing against the wall for purchase. I lunge around the desk, and she s laughing.

Whoo! Close one!

B, get down before you break your neck.

It s fine . Hold the chair still, will you?

This is not -

I never get the rest of the words out, though, because she makes a wild, wide lean for the fuse box and the chair lurches beneath her, so of course I throw my arms out to hold it. I end up with my legs braced around the chair and hands holding the back of it to keep it in place, with the back of Bryony s thigh pressed into my shoulder.

She nudges me with her leg, and I have to fight the chair from swinging around again while she just laughs. Normally I d make a guy buy me dinner before he ends up with his head between my legs.

I grit my teeth. Bryony, I swear to God-

Oh, relax, will you? She wobbles as she leans back to the fuse box. Which one d you think it is? Can you shine your torch up a bit? I can t read the labels properly.

No , Bryony, I can t shine my torch up there because if I let you go, you re liable to fall off this fucking chair.

I don t see you coming up with a better idea. I m fine . Look, just - this hand, here. She pats the top of my right arm. Move around a bit so if I do fall, I ll end up against your left shoulder. So your arm s kind of around me, you know? Then this one s free to hold your torch.

I grumble, but I suppose it s not a terrible plan, under the circumstances, so I rearrange myself as she suggested and check the chair is stable enough before I retract my right hand, and grab my phone from where I shoved it into my jeans pocket a moment ago.

As I make sure I m stood in the right place to catch Bryony if she falls and simultaneously angle my torch so she can read the fuse-box labels, I notice something out of the corner of my eye and a snort of disbelief snags in my throat.

B, get down. There s a bloody stepladder. I ll be tall enough to reach it on that, easy.

No, don t move! Keep the torch right there - I think I ve got it

There s a heavy click! as Bryony flips one of the switches.

And, for a moment, nothing happens.

Dammit, she mutters.

I m about to suggest she climb down (carefully) and let me get the ladder to try, and Bryony starts to say something else, too, but then we re both drowned out by a wailing siren as the fire alarm goes off.