“I don’t. I’ve spent my life not saying the things I should have.” She didn’t know what he meant by this, but before she could ask, he said, “Why did you change everything?” His voice was soft now, the moonlight catching the laughter lines around his eyes, the small scar on his forehead.
“What do you mean?” she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.
“Your hair, your style, you look totally different.”
“You don’t like it?” she asked, surprised he would notice.
“I like how you always look,” he said plainly, holding her gaze, like he saw straight through this evening’s curated façade. There was something else in his eyes too now, a friction, the same edge that had been there on the bus. She felt very aware of how close they were sitting, of where her arm was touching his. She quickly hugged her arms around herself, turning her face forward.
“Well, it’s nice to get dressed up sometimes,” she said, shifting the tone, trying to be flippant. “Remind people I’m more than big hair and big dreams.” She said it with a grin. “You look different too.”
“Because I used to dress like I was interviewing for a job in Churchill’s war cabinet.” He pushed a palm against his face, and she laughed.
“It was a whole vibe. ‘Hashtag war cabinet chic’ is all over Instagram now.” They smiled at each other, and she felt thatspark of a joke finding its audience. “Do you remember how much we used to argue about the best time in history to have been alive?”
“I remember,” he said, gently nudging her shoulder. “You said nineteen twenties Britain. I said Crete in the Minoan golden age.”
She nodded. “Right. I wanted jazz clubs and scandal. You wanted ritual sacrifices and ‘extensive trade routes.’ ”
“It was a golden age, the clue’s right there in the title,” he said, sighing through a smile. “I found this whole Reddit thread a few years ago, on the best and worst times to be alive. There were some outlandish suggestions. I nearly sent it to you.”
“Why didn’t you?” she asked, and felt the mood between them shift. He looked up to the sky, shook his head, just a fraction. There was something he wasn’t saying. “Why did you say that at the bus, about us not being friends?”
“I don’t know,” he said, looking suddenly tired. “It’s probably not an end-of-the-night, four-glasses-of-wine conversation, Chloe.”
“Come on, this is a no-small-talk zone, remember? Tell me.” She pushed, nudging him again.
“You want the big talk?” he asked, and it felt surprisingly loaded.
“Yes.”
“Fine. It felt like we were only friends when Sean was around.”
She blinked, caught off guard. “You don’t think all those hours we spent together made us friends?” He slowly shook his head. “What?”
He sat forward on the bench, elbows resting on his knees, hands in fists beneath his chin.
“I was your friend when it suited you. When you needed a musician.”
“That’s not true,” she said, but guilt stirred in her chest just the same.
“It was. I could never say no to you,” he said, quieter now.
“But youlovedbeing involved in the theater; we all did.” Her brow creased.
He shifted his weight forward, then pinched his forehead as though it was painful to remember. “I gave myself a stomach ulcer in third year, trying to hold on to my scholarship. Choir, organ practice, the band, all those play rehearsals stacked on top. I don’t think you ever really saw how much I was juggling.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know…You always made it look so effortless.”
“Well, it wasn’t,” he said sharply. “It isn’t. Nothing worth doing is effortless.”
“But you’re so good at it. We couldn’t have done the plays without you,” she said, her voice softening. “AMidsummer Night’s Dream, the band you pulled together, it was the best thing I’ve ever been a part of—”
“What aboutBack to Brideshead?” he said, cutting her off. The name landed between them. She felt her stomach twist.
“Well, that was a disaster, through no fault of yours,” she said, hugging her knees to her chest. “I was trying to prove I could do something on my own, without Sean. All it proved was that I couldn’t.” She laughed once, still cringing at the memory. “It was so humiliating, half the audience walking out on opening night. And those reviews—”
“So you bailed,” John said, voice tight. “Left everyone in the lurch.”
