Page 28 of The Reunion

‘Happy with where you’re at?’

It’s not accusatory, like most people have sounded tonight, or even sceptical. It’s – just a question, simple as that. (And I owe Ashleigh an apology for even thinking this, but Ryan might be one of the most decent conversations I’ve had all evening.)

Maybe that’s why I give him a more honest reply than I’ve offered anybody so far tonight.

‘It’s not what I saw for myself. Being a stay-at-home dad, I mean.’ But I smile a little, saying, ‘I wouldn’t change that. I just – I guess I started thinking that maybe there are other things in my life I should be changing. To be who I was supposed to be.’

‘Most likely to succeed.’

I nod, and Ryan nods, and I think this must be the longest, oddest interaction we’ve ever had. I had to work with him in chemistry in Year Ten because we sat next to each other, but even then, we never had anything resembling an actual conversation. We stand quietly for a moment, observing the room. Or rather, I look at the crinkle in my paper cup and pick at the worn, soggy rim, and Ryan looks out at his crowd of adoring fans and friends. I wonder if he’s also looking for an excuse to leave this chat without looking rude.

But then, he claps me on the shoulder – a bit too roughly, and if not for the firm clasp of his hand on my shirt, I’d stumble forward, and he says, ‘Success is bullshit anyway. Make it what you want. Nobody can tell you you’re not enough unless you let them, got that?’

‘Uh …’

Is Ryan Lawal giving me a pep talk? Is this some comment he plucked from a cheesy #motivationalmonday post from a personal trainer or something, recycled in his public speeches? Something his rugby coaches told him once?

I expect him to drop that pearl of wisdom, down his drink and jump back into the fray, only he doesn’t. Instead, he looks at me, almost insistent – staring me down. His eyes fix on mine, or would if I weren’t busy looking anywhere else all of a sudden, and I squirm under the intensity of it. I’ve never liked being the centre of attention, and guys like Ryan are popular if only for their ability to make you feel like you’ve been gifted their full and complete attention.

With Margot and Skye, I am the centre of their whole world. With my friends, eye contact is easy; I am at ease.

This is so far out of my comfort zone that I’m sixteen years old, waiting to be picked last as usual for cricket in a PE lesson while everybody watches, and wishing the ground would open up to swallow me whole.

‘Got that?’ he presses, and I can’t work out why it matters so much to him either way.

But I say, ‘Y-yes. I think so,’ in the hopes it will get me out of this hellscape.

Ryan’s hand gives my shoulder a friendly rattle before he lets me go. ‘Nobody, Hayden. Nobody.’

‘Learn that the hard way?’ I ask.

His eyes track across the hall, distant, and that intense, overconfident demeanour slips for a moment. For just a fraction of a second, I’d say he looks as insecure as I feel, harangued by ghosts of his past and what-ifs.

It’s gone in the blink of an eye, because then he’s grinning at me again and accents it with a wink. ‘Nah, mate. But you hang out with so-called success stories enough and you start to see the try-hard amateur behind the curtain. Try not to go haywire too hard, huh? Enjoy the party. Maybe avoid the punch.’

I nod, lifting my drink slightly in farewell as he walks away – and leaves me thinking that it’s easy for someone like him to say that success is bullshit; however positively I want to look at my career and my ambitions and passions, I have nothing to show for it. Ten years of squandered opportunities and forgotten dreams, brushed so far aside they may as well no longer exist.

I abandon the cup of Fanta, and down a glass of punch instead.

Chapter Fifteen

Ashleigh

‘Most Likely to Kill Each Other’

I am the centre of attention in the very best of ways, for once. I’m in the middle of the little dance floor near the stage, hips swaying and arms waving in sync with the music, enjoying when a few other people like Elise look my way and copy what I’m doing. I am the trendsetter here, I am the queen bee.

It’s new, and novel, and glorious.

I’m enjoying this weird blend of night-out vibes and the school hall setting, surrounded by strangers I used to know and have been dying to show off to. I’m enjoying Freddie’s arrhythmic thrusting and air-punches a whole lot less; he almost takes my eye out with one overly enthusiastic gesture during ‘Dancing Queen’.

He’s the reason the dance floor begins to lose its appeal, because he keeps putting his clammy hands on my hips rather than just letting me dance, and his hot, beery breath on the back of my neck feels anything but sexy. So much attention from one of the most popular guys in school is undeniably flattering, but when Freddie tries to slide his hand underneath my shirt for the fourth time, I peel away and excuse myself from the rest of the group and take up refuge against the wall, tucked neatly in the corner near the stage where I can survey the rest of the party.

I’m on the lookout for Hayden or Bryony when Freddie lurches into sight in front of me. I think that walk he’s doing is meant to be a swagger.

And I think that leery expression is meant to be charming and flirty, because then he winks and says, ‘Who knew you were such a good time? Where were you hiding that all this time, Ash?’

I don’t bother pretending to smile or laugh at his ‘joke’, but Freddie, it turns out, doesn’t need my encouragement to continue his attempts at flirting.

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