Working in the officehas become my own little circle of hell. But showing my face every now and then is a necessary evil, so a couple of times a month, I drive to the nearest overground station and make the trek into the city with my laptop in one bag and my lunch in another.
Blessedly, the day is quiet, and by three in the afternoon, after a virtual meeting with my team in New York, I’m very much ready to call it quits and go home. That is, until Peter Winkle stops by my desk.
Winkle is a chauvinist, among other red-flag attributes, and his annoyingly pretty eyes dance with smug mirth as he leans against the furniture. The man is the very definition ofnice face, shame about the personality. In other words: he’s a massive dick, with none of the usefulness.
“Saw your friend Katy in town last week,” he says casually. I’d almost forgotten I’d set Katy up on a date with him. That was before we found out what a terrible human being he is. I’m not sure I’ll ever live that one down. I’m certainly never going to be called on for my matchmaking skills again. “She looked good. Happy. Holding hands and laughing with a man who looks suspiciously like that guy.”
His tone takes on a smarmy edge as he cocks his head, gesturing towards the two framed photographs on my desk. One of the pictures is of me with Amie, Katy, and Paloma, so I can only assume he’sreferring to the other one—a selfie of me and Jay, a photo I took just before his last deployment. His hair and beard are both a little longer, a little grayer now, but his face hasn’t changed.
Just like that, the pieces fall into place, slamming into my chest. Stealing my breath, and all but taking me out at the knees.
His evasiveness. Her quietness. The way he’s smiled so much more lately. The way she seems to know him so well—much better than casual friends might know one another. The way she’s suddenly studying counselling, the investment in something that might help him.
The fact that they’ve been keeping this from me. Lying to my face for weeks. Months, even. The two people I hold closest have been lying to me, and probably laughing about it in their own secret language. The language they’ll share without me now. The kind my brother shared with someone once before, only to have his heart torn out and stomped on.
He was utterlybrokenafter Bailey Cannon dumped him—via email, while he was deployed in Afghanistan—and seeing him so withdrawn on his return, even quieter and more guarded than he had been before, terser and more monosyllabic than his texts and emails from Afghanistan… it broke my heart, too.
“Oh. Uh, yeah.” I don’t know what else to say. My brain feels like porridge between my ears right now, every sound echoing like I’m listening through a tube. I fight to keep my expression neutral, and after a minute, Peter Winkle pushes away from the door jamb and leaves me alone to shove everything into bags and drawers before locking up my desk and power-walking out the door.
I drive like a bat out of hell—well, as much as you can through the outskirts of London—until I reach her house. I yank the handbrake before the wheels stop turning, barely switching off the engine before I leap out and slam the door. My heels make a satisfying clompingsound as I stomp up to Katy’s front door. It’s not until I return to my car and fling myself into the driver’s seat, several minutes later, that I finally let my own tears fall.
Chapter twenty-six
Ruth
November 2012
I slam my open palm against the glass with a whine. My Doritos got caught on their way out of the vending machine, and I have no more spare change. I’m starving, I’ve just come out of a history quiz—which I’m fairly certain I’ve bombed spectacularly—and I just need some junk food to help me wallow in my misery.
And to make matters worse, the girlish giggling is getting closer and closer… and then the door flies open and two of the prettiest girls in the entire sixth form stumble in, arm in arm. I slam my palm against the glass one more time before an embarrassing whimper falls from my lips.
“Having trouble?” The dark-haired beauty untangles her arm from her blonde friend’s and crosses the common room towards me.
“I just wanted Doritos,” I whine. For fucks sake, Ruth. Could I possibly embarrass myself any further? The pretty, popular girls are acknowledging boring, good-girl Ruth for the first time in her life, and what does Ruth do? She whines like a little baby bitch. Good job, moron.
“I got you, gal. Step back.”
The blonde girl giggles with a hand over her mouth and a little shrug when I look over, like she knows exactly what’s coming. Likeit’s happened before. I step to the side, eyes fixed on the brunette as she measures a specific spot on the glass with narrowed eyes, before slamming her forearm against it. At the same time, she shoves her biker boot against the lower half of the machine. As if by magic, two bags of my coveted Doritos fall into the drawer, along with a KitKat. Brunette Girl squats to retrieve them and hands over the haul with a triumphant grin.
“Here you go,” she says kindly. “Bonus extra snacks.”
“Keep one if you want,” I offer, clutching one of the bags to my chest. “Payment. I only need one.”
“Okay,” she says with a little shrug. The blonde girl crosses the room to join us then, plopping into a plush upholstered chair and crossing one knee over the other as she leans back. Brunette Girl takes the chair opposite her friend, leaving one more around a small table. I sit in it gingerly, perching on the edge of the seat.
“I’m Amie, by the way. This is Katy.” The brunette introduces herself and her friend.
“Oh. I’m Ruth. Hi. Thanks for helping with the Doritos.”
“No problem,” Amie grins. She tears into the other bag of chips and pushes the open pile of snacks into the middle of the table. “What are you studying? I don’t think we’re in any of the same classes.”
“I’m doing history, law, English language, and psychology. What about you?”
“Oh, I’m in language and psychology too!” The blonde—Katy—exclaims. Who have you got for them?”
“Jude Harvey for English. Russell Richards for psychology.”
“Oh, I like Jude. I’ve got Janine Forbes, and Howard Brent for psych. Amie’s in Russell’s psychology class though.”
