Chapter Four

Hayden

Most Likely to Succeed

The school feels so plain . When did it get like that?

These halls used to hold so many memories - good and bad. This place was the epicentre of years of my life. The most ordinary things used to feel so important, like the fact that my locker was right in the middle of the bottom row and I d practically get trampled by everyone else in between classes just trying to swap out my books, or that one seat in the library that I favoured because it had good natural lighting and the librarian couldn t see if I was eating lunch there, and the supply cupboard down by the English rooms that I avoided for an entire year, taking the long way around to class, because I heard some of the rugby lads were shutting unsuspecting people inside it for a laugh.

I don t know what I expected to feel, coming back here, but I do know it wasn t this sense of complete underwhelm .

It s just a building. Just walls with too many layers of paint on, and scratchy carpets and creaking radiators and fluorescent strip lighting. It s so unextraordinary that I pinch myself, wondering if my sense of detachment is because this is all a weird dream.

Nope. Real.

I rub my arm and fall into step behind a couple I don t recognise, joining a small queue for the party. Bryony is ushering people in, greeting them like a hostess, which makes me scoff. I bet she s loving having the limelight, despite the fact she called this whole idea kitsch .

(I did wonder if she thought it meant cute rather than tacky , but I don t think Bryony s the kind of person to get that wrong. She strikes me as someone who is - who always has been - very deliberate in everything she does.)

Still, I manage a smile for her when it s my turn to enter the party, and I see the blank look on her face before she does a double take, her whole body physically reeling backwards as she blinks up at me in shock. Hayden?

I give a stilted chuckle. That s my name, don t wear it out. How s it going, B?

She just blinks at me for several seconds longer, her green eyes wide and her mouth hanging open. Finally, she gets a grip, and draws me down for a hug. Once upon a time, I probably would ve baulked at that sort of unnecessary affection. Once upon a time, I would ve assumed that the only reason Bryony Adams would have to hug me was to stick a kick me sign on my back - You know, to be ironic !

God, sorry, she s saying as she draws back. You re just - you don t look anything like I thought you would. Did you dye your hair? I swear, it used to be bright red. Like, properly Weasley , you know?

I scrub a hand through it. It s already a mess, so I can t make it much worse. Her own hair is bright purple in the harsh lighting. Nope. Just, uh, faded with age, I guess. Few premature greys.

She pouts. Well, now you re just an ordinary ginger. That s boring, isn t it? She laughs, and I don t get the joke but smile back anyway. Her gaze snags on my hands, and she pulls a face. You know you ve got pen all over you.

I look down at the colourful felt-tip streaks over my fingers and palms as if seeing it for the first time - which I sort of am. I m so used to getting in such a mess after a colouring session with Skye who, at four years old, enjoys turning her dear old dad into artwork as much as she does her colouring book, I hardly notice things like this anymore.

Er is all I manage, and stuff my hands into my pockets instead. There s a snotty tissue from Margot in there I forgot to put in the bin earlier. I panic for a moment that Bryony can sense that, too. Right. Occupational hazard.

She laughs, and does a much better job of pretending to get the joke than I just did. Then Bryony adds, mostly to herself, Jesus, and you got so tall , too, before telling me, Guest book s just inside on the right, help yourself to food and drink.

Thanks, B.

I can t escape the conversation quickly enough, but once inside, I m stunned.

I had pretty high expectations that Bryony would do something outlandish since she was organising this - I almost expected some cheesy theme and to walk into a scene from a prom in a high-school romcom - but she s really outdone herself.

The place looks fantastic. Sure, there are some of those awful plastic chairs dotted around (they re really still using those? They must be donkey s old by now) and the table of party food and cheap bottles of pop looks a bit sad, but she s got a red carpet , for crying out loud. Loose balloons scatter the floor and a massive banner declaring CLASS OF 2014 hangs across the stage. There s a balloon arch in the school colours, currently a focal point with about twenty people gathered around, rooting through a box of dress-up supplies to take photos with, and little box-lights in different colours set around the room, flashing pink and blue and green and white like a nightclub, which does a great job of distracting from the fact that, you know, it s a party in the school hall, like a crap Year Seven disco. The playlist - currently Arctic Monkeys - and the presentation scrolling automatically up on the projector add to the atmosphere. Even I m not immune to the sense of nostalgia this time.

For a minute, I stand in the middle of the hall and watch the slideshow play out. It s the same one that Steph shared with us a couple of months back, but, I quickly realise, Bryony must have updated it.

I watch as eighteen-year-old me, with his violently red hair cut short and school tie only slightly askew, all the rebellion I would allow myself back then, stands in front of a robot, looking a bit awkward but also a bit excited, showing off my creation for a national competition. I remember that robot. ADA - Automatic Dynamic Android, named for Ada Lovelace. She took home second place, but I still maintain that the winning robot only won because it had voice recognition. (ADA s morse-code operation was a selfish indulgence because I was really into World War II spy stories at the time. I was my own worst enemy.)

Most Likely to Succeed - Hayden Vaughn the slide declares, and I feel a pang in my stomach for that kid on the screen. He was busy tinkering with robots and reading up on neurological science breakthroughs or trawling Game of Thrones fan-theory forums, with no idea of what was waiting just around the corner. (And I don t mean the turn the writing and plot took in Season 8.)

Not that I think I would ve done anything differently. I would ve still been a shy, geeky kid.

I m still a shy, geeky person now, and I m twenty-eight years old. I guess not that much changes, really.

But even as I think it, the slide cartwheels with a corny animation into a new one. It still has the same title, but the picture is replaced by one I recognise from my Instagram, and how Bryony tracked down my Instagram, I have no idea. Either she s a master sleuth when it comes to social media, or Ashleigh, the traitor, provided it to her without asking me first.

Still, it s a nice photo. My favourite, actually. I have it printed and framed in the kitchen at home. It s of me crouched down with an arm around each of my girls on a snow day, Skye on one side and Margot on the other, all of us beaming at the camera and hugging close together, our cheeks pink with the cold.

Smiling, I turn away and scan the sea of not-so-familiar faces throughout the room. I know partners are welcome, but even people I went to school with suddenly seem to have changed beyond all recognition, and most of the ones I do recognise, I can t remember their names anyway.

Steph is easy to pick out, because she still looks like the ray of sunshine she always was. It helps that she also looks exactly like she does on social media, and that she s standing with the same group of girls she always used to hang out with at school. I almost expect to see Shaun with her, but the guy standing next to her, talking to some other men I don t know, is definitely not Shaun. Good-looking in that conventional, cookie-cutter way, taller than Steph (though that s not hard) and with a friendly face - but not Shaun.

No, Shaun is standing at the drinks tables, chatting to two of his best mates, Josh and Hassan. The tall, slim lady next to him is decidedly not Steph.

I don t know why it s hard to process seeing them both with other people, but they were always such a pair around school, it s hard to consider them as separate entities now. Hard to consider them as true individuals ever existing outside of one another at all, really.

There must be about a hundred people here already, and it s barely ten past seven. We must be getting old, I think, if almost everybody is here so on time for a party that started at seven. What happened to being fashionably late? Weren t they all supposed to be pre-drinking somewhere before getting a lift in an hour after they said they d show up?

I sort of wish I d had a beer before coming, but settle for getting myself some of the punch. I don t think the worst of the lads are here just yet, so it should be safe. I joked about Ryan spiking it and I know we re all adults now, but I still wouldn t put it past them.

Hey, Hayden! I thought that was you!

I finish pouring myself a glass and hold it out to one side as I return Shaun s one-armed embrace. He pats my back roughly, grinning when he pulls away.

How s it going, mate? It s been forever! You remember Josh and Hassan, right? And this is my girlfriend - fianc e, sorry - Aisha. He gives a cheeky wink that s classic Shaun Michaels, and says, Still getting used to saying that.

Aisha blushes, and I give her a friendly smile before shaking the boys hands. The guys - the men s . A processing error flashes up in my brain, not quite computing that we re no longer teenagers.

Didn t recognise you for a minute there, Hassan tells me, peering up at me in that same way Bryony did. Like his brain is struggling to reconcile these two images of me, too. Were you always this tall?

Josh grins and digs an elbow in Hassan s ribs. Nah, but you were always this short.

He s laughing as Hassan shoves him off, then Josh hooks an arm around his neck in a playful headlock, mussing his hair before Hassan wriggles free.

Yep. Some things just don t change.

Shaun catches my eye, like he knows exactly what I m thinking, and I relax a bit. I always liked Shaun. Everybody did. He and Steph were some of the most likeable people ever; the kind that you wanted to hate just for being so damn perfect, but they were so nice , you were incapable of doing anything but enjoying their company. I never heard anybody badmouth them, not once - not even Bryony.

Did you bring anybody with you? he asks, glancing around like someone might pop out from behind me.

Nah. Just me. The girls are with their mum tonight.

Oh, man, that s right! I straight up forgot you had kids. Josh claps me on the shoulder, brow furrowed. Was real sorry to hear what happened, mate. It must ve been rough.

The only semblance of answer I can form is, Uh.

Hassan is busy explaining to Aisha, Hayden was going to be it , you know? The next Steve Jobs. Honestly, when I heard about that guy who created Wordle, you remember that? When I first opened that article, I thought, hand on heart, that was gonna be Hayden. He was a total genius. Gutting, though - he had to drop out of uni after he got some girl pregnant.

I didn t have to, I say, bristling at how tawdry he makes it sound.

Aisha looks at me with a softer smile, head cocked slightly to one side. It s curious, and there s not the same sort of pity in it as in the guys faces. You ve got daughters, then?

Um. I clear my throat. Yeah. Margot - she s nine, now. And Skye, she s four.

I didn t realise you had two , Hassan says, aghast.

Josh gives a melodramatic shudder. And both girls.

Shaun rolls his eyes, but says to me, Are you still with Margot s mum, then? I didn t know that.

Oh, um, no. No, we just Uh, she-

Have you got any pictures of the girls, Hayden? Aisha asks. She must be able to sense I m out of my depth and I breathe a sigh of relief as I get my phone out, showing her the background. The girls are squished into a toy car that Margot s definitely too big for, so they re both half spilling out of it, the photo capturing them both mid-laugh - and moments before Skye fell on her bum and started crying, and then Margot had a tantrum.

Oh, my gosh, they re precious! They look like you.

Poor them, I joke, and everybody laughs now. As Aisha takes control of the conversation, asking me polite and non-invasive questions and teasing Shaun about how they re hoping to start trying soon, after the wedding is out of the way next year, I feel some of the tension ease out of my shoulders.

By the time I move on to chat to another group, and receive another round of sympathy and one audible Ouch! for the fact that I became a dad instead of a graduate, I m starting to wish the punch was spiked. When they exchange uncertain looks over the fact that I work from home part time as a software developer so I can look after the kids, because the girls mum is a nurse, and someone tells me they re sorry about it, I m starting to wish that I spiked it.

You were meant to be the next big thing, someone tells me.

I thought you said you were going to invent the next Facebook, Chris from my GCSE French class says.

You were always so bright. You could ve been buying up Twitter and building rockets, if you d wanted.

I always thought you were gonna, like, win a Nobel Prize or something.

I swear I still think I m going to see you on one of those thirty under thirty lists - LOL!

You used to win all those awards and stuff, didn t you? a girl called Elise says, face twisted in a sad frown. I think she was in my English class at some point. She used to wear non-regulation hoop earrings and blue eyeliner. That must be so hard, Hayden.

I don t know, I say, feeling everyone s eyes on me, and not quite sure when so many people clustered around to hear about the sorry state of my life and express their sympathies for the death of my would-be success. The girls got me a mug for Father s Day last weekend, and apparently I m the World s Best Dad.

They erupt into laughter, and hands clap my back affably and affectionately. I muster up a smile, and wonder if it s too early to call it a night.