Chapter Thirty-Six

Ryan

Most Likely to Kill Each Other

She s driving me fucking crazy - and not in a good way anymore. But she s still sucking all the air out of the room and I m still acutely attuned to her every breath and blink, and it s like I can feel the moment she crushes in on herself, when the truth hits her.

She s silent, and any other time, it d be the greatest triumph of my life, to debate against Ashleigh Easton and leave her utterly speechless.

But this whole thing stopped being a game a long while ago and frankly, we re both too old to keep pulling this same shit ten years on.

I sigh, the fight leaving me when she doesn t try to argue or tell me I don t know my own mind, and - maybe I don t, actually, given that I even considered for a moment that things might have well and truly shifted between us. I really thought

God, she s right. I am an idiot.

I sigh again, wipe some of the water off my face, only for more droplets to take its place. The sprinklers are relentless and I wish I hadn t bothered to waste that time holding her close and kissing her and just let her go figure out how to turn them off instead.

The fire alarm keeps blaring, but I barely hear it.

Maybe Ashleigh and I are like one of those doomed, tragic couples from the books the girls all used to gush over in the common room. Linked together in a way that can t be broken, destined to ruin each other.

And I m so fucking tired of it. Isn t she?

Ryan

I pretend I don t hear her.

When the water around our feet splashes as she takes a step towards me, I lean back against the bench so she s side-on and she gets the message, stopping in her tracks. Her sadness is palpable, and I hate that. Like she has any kind of right to stand there, so wounded, and make me want to comfort her, when she s the one who keeps lashing out?

Go to hell , I almost snap at her.

Except I don t, obviously, because I don t want to prove her right. That d be just like her - to turn this all around and win the fight without even having to say anything.

The silence that consumes us is so sudden, it feels like my brain short-circuited. There s a ringing in my ears like after a good night out, so it takes a second to realise that the fire alarm has finally stopped.

The lights suddenly flash back on, too.

Ashleigh winces as her eyes adjust. I blink a few times.

Power s back up, I say, and she doesn t even roll her eyes or say something like, You think, smartass ?

In the bright overhead lighting, I see what a mess the room is: a layer of water covers the floor, the pile of textbooks at the back of the room is drenched, and water sits in puddles on the tops of the desks.

Ashleigh and I haven t fared much better. I reckon I must look pretty shabby, soggy and half dressed with my dick hanging out like this, but - I choke down a laugh, because she s in such a state. Her makeup has partly washed off and only the faintest smudge of lipstick remains right in a line along the edge of her lower lip, right in the middle; her lips are swollen and the half of her hair that s still pinned up resembles a bird s nest more than anything else. A streak of mascara has run sideways across her right cheek, like she wiped her face and smeared it there. She sees me looking at her and briskly crosses her arms over her chest to cover herself, not looking in the least bit abashed at how the rest of her looks right now.

I turn away from Ashleigh and start the search for my clothes. I find my boxers bundled inside my trousers, in a sodden heap kicked to the front of the classroom. On my way back, I collect Ashleigh s trousers from where they dangle over a tap at one of the sinks, water dripping steadily off them, and I toss them her way. She catches them, and passes me the sock she finds. I hand her back her blouse.

Clothes bundled against her bare chest, she asks through gritted teeth, Can you see my bra anywhere?

I look with her for a couple of minutes, under desks and in sinks and on tabletops, but we both come up empty. Her jaw is still clenched and she mutters, It s fine, never mind, while sounding like she s screaming a string of curses in her head. Probably at me. Probably making it my fault for flinging it to some unseen place in my haste to get my hands and mouth on her.

Which, fine, it might be. This one time.

The two of us get dressed in silence.

For all of about two seconds, anyway. I start muttering curses, wrestling against the soaked fabric as I try to get my trousers on, and Ashleigh makes soft, agitated grunts as she fights to get back into her top. She gets stuck with both arms trapped upright, above her head, face half hidden and body wriggling uselessly.

I catch her eye, choking down a laugh.

She rolls her eyes, but more like it s a joke we re both in on.

Need some help? I offer, and her eyebrows draw together before she nods.

Yes, please. Her voice is muffled from where she s trapped within the fabric. I finish pulling on my boxers, grimacing at the sensation of cold, wet clothes, and then go help Ashleigh. I don t let my hands wander this time, and don t bother to enjoy the fact that she s stopped being so bloody-minded for the moment. I just concentrate on yanking her top into place and getting her unstuck, but my fingers graze her arms and sides and her skin is covered in goosebumps. She s trembling - shivering.

And damn it, damn her to the deepest, darkest circle of hell, because as mad as I am at her and as much as every word out of her mouth is a slap in the face - I rub my hand up and down her arm, and then I do her favourite fucking thing in the world and point out the obvious. You re freezing.

I m fine .

Oh, obviously she s fine, because her usual stubborn attitude has made a triumphant return.

I throw my hands up in defeat and storm away. Except, I don t exactly do that, because my feet carry me over to the chemical cabinet at the back of the room and I yank open the packet on the wall containing the fire blanket, then storm right back to her , to shove it into her hands.

She looks at me like I ve lost my mind.

Again, she may be correct on this occasion.

I push it at her and this time, she takes it. It s better than nothing. Keep the chill off, or something, anyway.

She swallows thickly. Thanks. Thank you.

I grunt, when what I really mean to say is you re welcome , but I guess I m not used to saying those words to Ashleigh Easton, and I guess they stick in my throat or something. She wraps the fire blanket awkwardly around her shoulders like a shawl and starts trying to put her trousers back on. I follow suit, which is easier said than done, and I wonder if it would really be such a bad thing if I just gave up and walked out of here with them slung over my shoulder.

Give em all a show, at least.

Make sure everybody would be talking about this party for years.

I sit down, but that doesn t seem to be working, then try rolling the leg up like I saw Ashleigh do, and bring it all the way up before unrolling it, but the fabric twists and get stuck halfway up my thighs and I lose my balance and stumble, and twist my leg again when I misstep, and fall hard back against the nearest bench.

Damn it!

Are you okay?

Fine, I tell her, even though we both know I sound anything but. It s mostly frustration, though, the twinge of pain passing quickly. She must be loving this - I can t even put my trousers on properly. She ll dine out on this for years at my expense.

I finally get them on and sort out my belt, then pick up my jacket from where it landed in a heap on the floor. I shake it out and check my phone (which seems fine, despite having been sat in my waterlogged jacket for several minutes, just low enough on battery that I turn it off to conserve the little power it has left), and then I notice Ashleigh staring at me.

Or, you know. Pretend to only just notice it.

I raise an eyebrow at her. She huddles inside the fire blanket, hands together and wrists propped on the edge of one of the benches as she watches me with a frown. She doesn t maintain eye contact very long, and I m about to find something else to distract myself with so I don t have to keep paying her so much attention, but then she glances up again and I m trapped, those blue eyes rendering me immobile.

And then she says, I m sorry, and I think I ve hit my head and started hallucinating.

What?

I m sorry. And I know it s - it s too little, too late, and you probably aren t interested in hearing it, just like I said I wasn t either, but, I thought, I still appreciated an apology, and And you deserve one. I m sorry, Ryan.

I don t really know what to say to that. I wasn t prepared for her to

Do I say thank you? Is that how this works?

Predictably, Ashleigh takes advantage of my silence to continue talking. I m sorry I was so mean to you at school and that I keep doing it now, even when you re not giving me reason to. You re right, I - I keep thinking the worst of you, and old habits die hard is a really pathetic excuse, but it s true. And I think it s a sort of self-defence mechanism? It s hard for me to believe you take me seriously even after all this time, and-

I interrupt her with a short bark of laughter.

She scowls at me.

You think I don t take you seriously ? I echo. Easton, you re the most serious person I know. You were fourteen going on forty, for Christ s sake. Do you even hear yourself right now?

That never stopped you!

Yeah, because we were kids! That s I shake my head. I already apologised. We were focusing on your apology here. But for the record, I have always taken you seriously.

She doesn t look entirely convinced, but doesn t argue either.

I think I m still trying to process the fact that you ever even tried to be nice to me, and weren t just consistently taking the piss out of me. That you re, um She clears her throat. Not doing that now, either.

I suck my teeth and pull a face. I probably was, to be fair. But like, only about half the time. Alright, maybe Maybe like, two thirds of the time.

Ashleigh gives me a flat look, but there s something indulgent in it, in the slight curve of her lips and the tilt of her head. She says, Anyway. I m sorry - and I mean that.

Okay. Er, thank you, then, I guess.

You re welcome. The words seem hard for her, too, and I crack a more sincere smile over that. Then Ashleigh takes a breath, stands upright, collects her shoes and bag, and makes for the door.

Which still has a little red light on the security pad next to it.

And which, just like earlier, doesn t budge when she tries to open it.

The grin stretches wide across my face when she gives me a put-upon look, and I like that she s a bit shorter than me now she s not wearing those heels. I like that she doesn t look too sorry to be stuck this time, too.

Looks like we re still not free.

What a shame , I think, but out loud I just say, Still got that flask, Easton?