Page 57 of The Reunion

But I hear the lie in the second half of that statement even as the words leave my lips; I see the way Shaun’s expression becomes something fierce and how his eyes seem to burn as he looks at me in such earnestness, and I realise it does matter.

It is, maybe, the only thing that matters.

The noise from the school hall falls away – a cacophony of sound that makes a distant part of my brain wonder if that really is an amateur band playing our old Pixar medley, or if it’s only another memory dredged up along with those photos Shaun found in my bag, messing with my senses. I blink, realising how dark it’s gotten in the time we’ve been out here, especially with the light off in the stairwell behind us. The darkness becomes a blanket, a curtain that separates us from everything and everyone else, like the time we snuck backstage to steal a kiss during one of the school plays, before Mr Dougherty caught us and shooed us away so we didn’t get in the way of the next scene change.

There is no Mr Dougherty to come chivvy us along now, though. No old schoolmates or even new loves. There’s only us, and the only sound I can hear is the ragged inhale Shaun takes. I think it would match my own if I stopped holding my breath.

I look at his lovely brown eyes and the line of his nose, his widow’s peak and the softness of his hair, sure it would feel exactly like I remember if I were to run my fingers through it, and unsure how the line of his jaw, accented by adulthood, would feel beneath my palm if I were to cup his face in my hand.

I wonder how he would taste. Like fruit punch, maybe. If he would kiss differently, or if I do, or if, even if we do, we would still kiss each other exactly the same way as we used to.

Shaun’s eyes blaze a path along the outline of my mouth, as he considers it, too.

His hand on mine shifts, minutely, hardly at all, and I gasp. Something like anticipation sends a shiver down my spine, and I wonder if Shaun’s eyes have grown darker in the last few seconds or if it’s only a trick of the light.

The whole world falls apart around us and I’m left with only one very clear, inescapable thought: I am about to kiss Shaun Michaels.

And, I don’t think I am going to do anything to stop it from happening.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Hayden

‘Most Likely to Succeed’

Bryony is far from justified in the way she’s acted tonight, and part of me wants to recommend she see a therapist to work through some of these frustrations that are making her lash out like that but, admittedly, there is a part of me that understands exactly where she is coming from.

If nobody else believes in this other, better, more successful version of her life anymore, how is she supposed to believe in it?

Can I really blame her for being so angry?

I had forgotten what I used to want from my life. What it used to be like to want for myself, full stop. Everybody else tonight, as much as it’s annoyed me, has breathed life back into that. Their reminders of my old dreams make something spark in my brain like a flint against stone, a push to get wheels turning that have ground to a halt so gradually I never noticed they stopped moving at all.

The spark of want, the reminder of all my old ambitions, does nothing except ignite an anger I can’t seem to shake, though, and it’s for that reason I can’t blame Bryony for taking her own failure out on everybody else. Her fury and indignation, however misplaced at me and our old classmates, has become infectious. It burns my stomach like acid, makes my body feel tight and heavy and frantic; I understand why little kids throw themselves to the ground in a tantrum, and wish I could, too. I understand why Freddie Loughton punched a wall in English one time, his fist going right through the plaster, even when he looked a little bit like he was about to cry before he stormed out of the classroom.

I want to rage. Scream, throw things, howl at the sky and pound my fists against the ground until they bleed.

I’ve done this to myself. I have nobody to blame except myself.

I could’ve done so much – done everything – differently. Could’ve stayed at uni, or gone back, or even tried to do it part time when Margot was first born. Could’ve studied by my own volition and gained some other qualifications, figured out some kind of shared custody arrangement with Lucy instead of putting what we thought was best for her and the girls first. Until now I, naively, thought it was what I wanted, too – I thought I’d always be happy, choosing to be a stay-at-home dad and focusing on that first and foremost. But I could have set up a studio or computer lab in the box room and made the girls share a bedroom, or put it in the garage, so I could work on my own projects, delve back into the research I loved so much. Could’ve gotten childcare during the daytime, and gotten a job where I was on track to pursue the dreams that once meant so much to me.

I could’ve done so much more.

So I don’t call Bryony out any further as she flips through keys and reads their labels and eventually finds the one she needs for the caretaker’s office. I don’t push her about why she hasn’t done more, or interrogate her about what’s next, because her answers won’t help me to figure out what I should be doing differently. And I don’t judge her for hiding her actual job, even if it’s made her vindictive, because, in this moment, with ire searing through my bones and nerves, I want to snap and snarl at anybody who threatens the delicate balance of my warped, wrong life, too.

She finally opens the door, and, once again, automatically goes to flip the light switch, and huffs when they don’t come on.

I never had cause to go into the caretaker’s office when I was at school, so it doesn’t seem to hold that same forbidden nature the staffroom did. It’s a small, square room with a cupboard that’s open and stuffed with miscellaneous cleaning supplies. A spray bottle and rag are on a desk alongside some paperwork and a computer. An old floor buffer takes up the area next to the door, eating up most of the available space in the room.

Bryony promptly trips over it.

I catch her arm and haul her upright before she can face-plant onto the floor.

‘Thanks.’

‘No problem.’

She squints at me through the semi-darkness. ‘You used to have the worst reflexes. D’you remember that time Mr Carey was off sick for a while so they put the boys’ and girls’ PE classes together, and we ended up playing dodgeball for weeks? I swear you got worse each time.’

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