Page 21 of Tricky Girls

She rolls her eyes but doesn’t push. She knows me enough to know she’ll get nothing if she does.

We spend an interminable amount of time beneath the tree in silence, watching Tilda through the smoggy glass. She doesn’t move much. Probably watching a film or something. She gets up a couple of times, returning to her desk with snacks or a drink. Each time she glances out the window my heart speeds up.

‘Come on,’ Skylar finally says. At some point her hand found its way to the back of my thigh, letting me know exactly what she was gunning for by following me here. ‘I might not be your Adeline, but I can pretend for an hour.’ Tilting her head, she twirls a strand of hair dyed a shade darker than Tilda’s. ‘Or two.’

I consider her. Now here’s a girl who can make me forget a while. Something about it feels weird though. Last time I bedded her, I’d been at my worst, uncaring about myself let alone whoever I was with. I remember her crying out at some point, and not in a good way. I think I apologised the next morning only to be cut off with a vicious bite to my lips. Because this girllikes pain, probably why she’s fucked Haz more times than Elly and I put together.

Clearly tonight, I like pain too.

‘Alright.’ Pushing off the trunk, I put my arm around her shoulders and draw her into the light. ‘My tent’s up so we can go there.’

‘Shame. Was hoping you and your housemates would be up for sharing.’

I press a kiss to the top of her head. ‘I don’t share, cutie.’

As we cross over the swampish courtyard, I don’t once look back at Tilda’s window.

CHAPTER 8

Tilda

Weekends at Portia House are entirely unpredictable. Either it’s a mad house with flat parties going on on all floors, sometimes spilling out into the courtyard and mingling with other houses, or it’s dead with everyone visiting home.

This weekend appears to be the latter. Though the TV’s running, there’s no one in the kitchen when I enter to scrounge up a Pot Noodle. Even at three in the morning there’s usually someone in.

So used to being around people at this point, I’m filled with a strange loneliness every time I find myself alone. Must be weird living up in the lodges, especially those posh ones next to the lake. They’re smack-bang in the middle of the forest, no visible neighbours in sight.

Me and Natasha went to a house party at one once. Wasn’t really our scene. Even without the long-ass walk, the house had been full to the brim with drugs, and none of them hidden. Suppose you can get up to whatever you like when you’re the richest bitches on campus and so far from the prying eyes of faculty that you’re practically forgotten about. Sometimes I forget how shady some of the students here can be.

Out of everyone who’s not here this weekend, I still know Ryan’s in, spotting the tell-tale sliver of light beneath his door.

Almost a week since I found him kissing Natasha and I’m coming to dread seeing him any time I leave my room. It’s making me a recluse, emerging only for food and lectures. It’s not him I don’t want to see specifically, it’sthem.My treacherous mind supplies me with enough images. Natasha’s room is dark, so of course she’s in his, printing her grubby hands all over my man. A week ago he was saying I was his one and only and now he’s shagging my best friend? This feeling in my chest isawful.Rejection always fucks me up, whatever its form.

I need to speak to him at some point. He’s still got my shit in his room. My DVD drive, my hairdryer… Getting a bit sick of air drying my hair each time I wash it. It’s just too cold for that here.

I watch the kitchen door as I stir my Pot Noodle. Maybe tonight might be a good shout, with it being quieter here. Less witnesses if it turns bad. I snort thinking of the broken cup fiasco at Fright Night. Maybe I should have slicedhisface instead.

I’ll attempt it after food. I’m still wimping.

I turn the TV onto a radio channel, not really in the mood to concentrate on anything.

I should probably speak to Natasha too, but my mind shuts down as soon as the thought even enters my brain. That betrayal’s worse. She was my best fucking friend. Who even does that? I wouldn’t dream of chatting up her guys, even thatbeautiful one who sent my heart pitter-pattering every time I saw him. It’s just not done. The unspoken rule.

Guess I’m exempt from that, worthless piece of nothing I am.

Mum would agree.

I push around the limp noodles, my appetite in shreds. It’s always her I end up circling back to when I’m sad. My genesis of misery. Although, she’d say that was me, of course. I ruined it all.

Over by the kettle where I left it, my phone buzzes. Sliding my Pot Noodle onto the table, I take the excuse to check it. Could be Mum, I suppose. Sometimes she’ll text on the weekends, asking when I’m coming home but ensuring it’s too late to visit onthatparticular weekend. Staving me off for as long as possible.

It’s not her, though. It’s a text from an unknown number and it simply reads,What are you wearing?

Me: Who is this?

My thoughts drift to Ryan. Could it be them fucking with me? Would they be that cruel or is that just my innate paranoia?

My phone buzzes again.

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