Page 1 of When We Were Young

CHAPTER ONE

Emma

Damn it.

It’s snowing again.

I grip the steering wheel tighter through my driving gloves—Mum got them for me, but I’ll never admit to anyone that I actually use them. Not since Jenna laughed when she saw them on my kitchen table.

Mildly warm air blasts through the air-vents. The windshield is starting to steam up, and I change the settings for the air, try to get it hotter, even though I know it’s no use. The heater’s been faulty for weeks, and I can’t afford to fix it. Didn’t even think I’d drive this car again. I haven’t done so in a while, been trying to save on costs, but of course when I found Oscar’s album in my boxes of university stuff, the journey was inevitable, even though for twenty-four hours I’d pretended it wasn’t.

I’d told myself I’d do nothing.

But here I am.

I glance at the satnav. Two minutes until I get there.

Two minutes until I see him again.

My heart pounds, and I get that giddy feeling in my stomach, one I haven’t properly felt in years. Because I only ever get it when I see him in person. At first, it was a good feeling. Then dread mixed into the concoction.

Last night, I looked at his photos—trawled through them, going back years, just like I’ve done countless times, from under my duvet, from the end of the bar, from the overcrowded train. So many times, I’ve seen him, seen him happy. With her. Blond-haired Celine who smiles in many of his social media photos from the last two years. Whose eyes sparkle. Who makes Oscar smile in the way only I used to be able to. A way that—

“Shit.” I see the patch of ice on the road just in time, ease onto the brakes, and carefully steer around it, all the while staring through the six-inch clear gap in the windshield.

Okay. I need to be more careful. Can’t get distracted.

But of course I’m distracted, because this is Oscar. My Oscar—until he wasn’t.

I glance across at the passenger seat, where his photo album sits, then back up at the road. Still barely any traffic. At just before noon on a late November day, most people are working. I was surprised when Oscar said he’d be home at this time. Thought he’d be in the office or something. Still, he’s the boss so he can probably take off any time he wants.

Or maybe this is a snow day.

I turn the wipers’ speed up. I used to love the snow.

The sky is a heavy gray blanket—a promise of more snow—slowly being obscured by heavier, faster flurries. Over breakfast this morning, I looked up the weather for Carrington, Oscar’s town—it’s not supposed to snow heavily until the evening, when a minor weather warning will be in place. But it’s snowing like this now.

We may not get much snow at Rose Haven, the seaside town I grew up in and returned to after university, but three years ago I spent a winter in Scotland, working for a farmer, and learned how to handle a vehicle in treacherous winter conditions.

I hum under my breath, flex my fingers inside the gloves. They’re starting to go numb. I didn’t put on a coat. I don’t know why. Maybe I’d assumed a miracle would happen and the heating would somehow work. Stupid. I shiver in my jumper.

“Your destination is on the right,” the satnav says a moment or so later.

I flick the indicator on and make the turn, slowly, careful of the gray slushy snow at the side of the road, and park at the edge. There are no cars here. All the houses have garages, big ones. A couple of the houses already have Christmas displays on their lawns. Inflatable reindeer and snowmen.

Last night, when I looked up Oscar’s place on Google Maps, I was going to look at Street View, get a good look at his house from the safety of my room, but I didn’t. I don’t know why. Maybe I didn’t want to see wheretheylive. Even though I knew I was visiting today. And it was my decision to come here. I could’ve thrown the album away, pretended I never found it. Or I could’ve mailed it to him.

But I didn’t do either.

Because what we had—even though it was years ago—I still feel it. Oscar was too important to me, and I know how much this album means to him, and I want to see his reaction when he gets it again. Shortly after we broke up, I saw his tweet about having lost the album. I was glad when I saw that, because I wanted him to feel pain. I wanted him to feel as alone as he’d made me feel.

But I don’t want him to feel alone anymore.

“Well, someone’s raking it in,” I mutter, and I’m surprised by how bitter I sound as I stare at his house.

It’s Victorian in style. Tall, three stories. It looks impressive, like a horror film could be set there, but that’s about all I can say. I’m not Jenna, I don’t know about architecture. It just looks expensive. If I didn’t already know that he has a good job, I’d know it just by looking at his house. But I do know. For someone who hasn’t seen him in seven years, or been his girlfriend in eight years, I know a surprising amount about his life.

Of course, I’d been following his LinkedIn and Facebook anyway, and regularly checked his Instagram, so I knew the basic stuff—or at least what he shared or was tagged in—but after I found the album and sent him that message, I looked for Oscar on every other social media platform I could think of. I combed through every post of his for the few years, looking at all his photos of cars, nights out, landscapes, cats, and Celine. I just felt like I was justified in looking for him because I’d messaged him. And it was like an addiction, discovering everything that he was right now. It didn’t feel right, trespassing through his photos, his happiness, but I couldn’t help it.

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