Page 32 of The Reunion

I also can’t admit defeat, because that would mean admitting that something has shifted beyond our usual dynamic of deep, unadulterated loathing and contempt and competition, and … and God, I do not fancy him – that’s not what this is about.

It’s just. Just.

It’s all wilful deception on his part, I’m sure. The dynamic has only shifted because he’s made it so; this is his new way of getting under my skin and trying to one-up me. He’s decided to pretend to seduce me, so he can turn me down and walk away triumphant, that’s all this is. And that’s such a Ryan thing to do, the bastard.

So, I don’t fancy him, and I’m not thinking about the whiff of cologne I catch as I trail after him that makes my eyes practically roll back in my head, it’s so good, and I’m not admiring the tailored cut of his suit around his broad frame, or the way his butt looks …

Damn it.

My pace quickens and my strides lengthen so that I don’t just catch up, but take the lead. This way, at least, I can make sure we don’t steer off track from finding our old awards.

Like, I’m not setting foot in the common room. I can’t bear to find out if that crappy old leather sofa that sagged practically to the floor is still there. The way he’d sit on it like a fucking throne, holding court for his adoring subjects. The way it was a really crappy chair, so I organised to get it taken away, and everybody kicked up such a fuss that the school agreed to repair it instead, if we raised the money. Which, of course, Ryan made sure they did.

Heat flares across my face when I remember how he showed off about that damned sofa after it was fixed. Gloating at me, sprawled across it, arm flung across the back and legs wide, while I sat rigid in a plastic chair by one of the computers. Don’t you want to try it out? See what all the fuss is about?

He meant the sofa, but it was so obvious he didn’t, not really. The shrieks of laughter and jeers creep out of the depths of my memory, snarling around my mind like barbed wire. I can remember shutting them out, rolling my eyes, picking up my bag to leave like I was above it all, and one of the boys shoving me so I fell on Ryan’s lap, his joke about my bony arse, and then everybody laughing harder when I was beet-red and half running out of the room. And even now, I’m thinking about the crude, cutting remarks I should’ve made, the comebacks I was too humiliated in the moment to come up with.

I glance back at him now to glower, seething at the recollection. As my head whips around, his eyes dart upwards – from looking at my arse.

Does he still think it’s bony?

And, moreover, WHY DO I CARE?

‘We could check out the common room on the way,’ he says.

I tell him, ‘No.’

Ryan’s lips curve into a slight and scathing smirk, but it’s – off. Wrong. It doesn’t look the same without the eye roll or the tilt of his head. Feels too serious, hits a different kind of nerve, when his eyes stay fixed on mine, dark and strange and wondering.

I face away from him, and even though I know I should have just gained the upper hand, somehow the only thing I feel is lost.

Chapter Sixteen

Ryan

‘Most Likely to Kill Each Other’

She won’t look at me, and I ultimately decide that’s probably for the best. I know what to do with Ashleigh’s uppity glares and self-righteous hah, take that looks, but right now, I’m at a loss. A couple of times since I cornered her after she ducked out of the party, she’s looked out of her depth.

I’ve never seen her that way before.

It’s probably because Bryony told us not to go wandering around and she’s worried about getting into trouble.

Probably.

A sliver of doubt, a little crack in my rationale, has me wondering if it has more to do with me than I’d like. Or maybe I would like it, if that coil of excitement snaking through my abdomen is anything to go by.

Or, worse, if it’s nothing to do with me at all. If this is about Freddie, and how she lost her shot with him, and that she might actually be upset about that. That she was into him, and is genuinely stung by the rejection.

Impulse has me asking her, ‘So, you’re not seeing anybody right now,’ even though I’m pretty damn sure what the answer is.

Ashleigh doesn’t even turn around, but I just know she rolled her eyes. She pauses until we’re more in step with each other, then says, ‘I’m not.’

‘You’re not going to ask me? Tsk, manners, Easton; it’s only polite.’

‘I’m not,’ she repeats. ‘Spare us both the list of B-list celebrities and socialites you’ve dated recently, please.’

‘Who says I’ve been dating socialites?’

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