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“Oh.” He’s silent for a moment, and I realise we’ve reached the sixth form girls’ building. We stand at the foot of the stairs and watch each other. He lifts an eyebrow. “And?”
“And nothing.” I smile. “The future is just the future. Is there really a point in worrying about something that cannot be changed and hasn’t yet occurred?”
He frowns. “I’m not sure I agree with that.”
“This isn’t debate club, Zachary,” I say. “It’s just what I think. You don’t get to argue with me.”
He takes my hand in his and stares down at me with theatrical melancholy. “Too bad. I dearly love to argue with you.”
“You dearly love the sound of your own voice,” I correct him.
“I dearly love the sound of yours, too.”
He kisses my knuckles, and warmth melts through me like molten sugar, sweet and comforting. I let out a small laugh and take my hand back. “You’re shameless. You need to go.”
But I reach up and kiss his cheek. His skin is smooth against my lips, the smell of him fills my senses, and I have to resist the urge to draw closer, to wrap myself in his presence, his arms, his warmth.
“Thank you for the food, Zach.”
“Anytime.” The amusement fades from his face, replaced with that solemn intensity of his. “I mean it. Anytime.”
“I know. Goodnight.”
“Night, Theo.”
We part ways, but his warmth and perfume cling to my skin for the rest of the evening, chasing away the creeping numbness.
Thefollowingday,Isit down at my desk and methodically list out my reasons for accepting and declining Mr Ambrose’s invitation to the Apostles programme.
Reasons I should decline:
The programme will be demanding, and I’m already struggling to maintain academic excellence in my subjects as well as balance my frankly precarious mental health and social responsibilities.
I also have my head girl duties to worry about.
If I join the programme and win—which I would do everything in my power to do—I would be taking the prize from someone who could actually use it, like Zachary.
Because if I win—which I would, I’d have no choice—I would be unable to collect the prize, no matter how badly I want it. I would have to admit to Mr Ambrose that I’m not going to university.
Reasons I should accept the invitation:
Win and have concrete evidence of my intellectual superiority over Zachary.
Winning against Zachary is something I’ve always wanted, a prize I’ve long coveted.
But is it enough?
I wish it was—I desperately want it to be. I desperately want a future where I finally prove to Zachary that I’m academically superior to him, sweep the prize from under him and then lord it over him when we both end up in Oxford.
This is the future I long for—but it’s not my future.
Not anymore.
Even though the answer to my dilemma is clear, it takes me the rest of the week to accept it. I review the list every night, hoping I’ll somehow figure out a solution, a way to get what I want.
I think about Zachary’s words about his parents being unable to force him to follow the fate they’ve chosen for him. I think of my father, the impassive stone of his face, the crushing flood of fear it sends through me even though he’s not here.
It’s a fear I can’t escape—a fear I don’t think I’ll ever escape. It lives inside me like a disease, keeping me forever its host and hostage.
