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I press my lips together. Do not respond.
He watches me, then slowly leans forward until his face is inches from mine. My stomach flips. It’s a survival response from the years I spent in high school terrified of him. Fight or flight, you know?
His eyes are the same grey as they were when we were kids. Graphite with flecks of sapphire. It’s a reminder that he’s the same Lucas, that he isn’t someone else, an alien wearing his skin.
I can see the ring of black around his irises. He’s too close.
I jerk my head back and accidentally hit it against the headboard. Ow. “You’re paying,” I say, rubbing the back of my head.
His lashes flutter as he laughs. “You want me to take you out? Sure, I can do that.”
“Shut up.”
I wait for him to move because he’s still too close. When he doesn’t, I place a hand on his chest and push him back, and he lets me.
I get off the bed, grab my phone and keys from the bedside table, and head out the door. He follows me — I can hear the weight of his footsteps, a breathy chuckle escaping his lips.
*
The Thai restaurant is cramped with tiny wooden tables, and we have to wait outside in a line for twenty minutes before being allowed in. Just as we’re led by a waitress to a spot at the very back, nearby the bathrooms, I see a table by a window become vacated.
“Lucas,” I hiss. “Ask the waitress if we can move there,” I say, pointing to the window seat.
“Why?”
“Because I don’t like this table,” I say. We’re right by the bathroom, and having my back to everyone else makes me feel anxious. I prefer to sit somewhere where I can have a good view of everyone else.
“I mean, why me?” he says.
“Well, I can ask if you want, but we’re more likely to get our way if you do it.”
He looks at me.
I wonder if he’ll refuse — sometimes, Lucas refuses just to make my life difficult — but he raises a hand and a waitress comes rushing over. With a flash of his perfect smile and a “Sorry, but would we be able to…?” we’re moved to the other table.
“Much better,” I say, picking up the menu. I scan the list of curries, which have been helpfully labelled with chilli symbols. Zero chillis for not spicy at all, 5 chillis for burn-your-tongue-you-will-cry spicy level.
I choose a 5-chilli curry.
Lucas orders a level four, and then our menus are whisked away.
“I don’t think which person asks for a favour matters as much as you think it does,” Lucas says.
“Maybe,” I say. “Maybe not.”
Lucas bores his eyes into mine, and I avert my eyes.
“You probably don’t notice because you’re used to everyone giving you special treatment,” I say to the glass bottle of water.
“I do not receive special treatment.”
“Remember when you broke your surfboard on Year 8 camp and you didn’t even have to pay for it?” I ask. “Remember the summer before high school, when we watched that superhero movie at the cinema, and that random mum gave you a large box of popcorn for free?”
“That was my bad. I shouldn’t accept food from strangers.”
“Even last week,” I continue, ignoring him, “I watched you talk your way out of getting a fine from a Myki inspector for not tapping on. And those inspectors are ruthless.”
Lucas’s expression flickers, and he picks up a glass and takes a long sip of water. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. He’s got such a nice neck. I’ve thought that since I was thirteen. Since the night we stood in the dead silence of Misa Tanaka-Randall’s shed, the air tense, as if it was a held breath. He towered over me, tall even then. I had two fingers under his jaw, and his pulse —
