Page 20 of Still Falling for You

‘That you weren’t that interested in me.’ He looks sheepish. ‘You looked so uncaring when I found you at the party. Then I got a phone call from my mum. She was drunk on the phone asking me whether I knew where her car keys were, and I got worried because why would you want to hang out with somebody like me.’ He pauses for a breath. I’ve never seen this vulnerable side of Alex, and I think I’m in love with him. He carries on, ‘You haven’t been very easy to read.’ At that, I laugh. Hurt crosses his features.

I nudge my knee against his. ‘I feel the same way about you. I can’t think of anything but you. You’re impossible to read. And I wasn’t uncaring, I was upset. Over you.’ A crease of confusion forms between his eyebrows. ‘I get really nervous and tongue-tied around you and you’ve seemed very cold since France.’

‘I was convinced you got bored of me after the trip. How should I have known you were nervous? You weren’t in thecoach,’ he says, and I can hear the doubts in his voice.

‘I took like six motion-sickness tablets on an empty stomach. I was out of it. I was surprised I strung two sentences together.’

He laughs at that.

‘So, to make it clear,’ he starts as he grabs my hand resting between us. I squeeze it. He tilts his head and looks at me through the strands of golden hair. ‘You like me? Because I like you. Like a lot.’

‘I went to a party because of you, and I hate parties. Doesn’t that say it all?’

He leans forward, almost closing the distance between us. ‘Say it,’ he dares me.

‘I like you. Like a lot.’ I echo his words and warmth spreads through my belly.

*

Vicky eyes me sorrowfully. ‘He has always been a dick, but you just didn’t know that until the very end.’ She grabs my hand resting on the bar, only releasing me when I nod. ‘Don’t waste your time on him. Don’t talk to him. Just do your bit.’

I know she’s right but for the first time in years, I feel I need closure. Whatever that means.

‘Look, Holly,’ she starts again, ‘I know you have this guilt over what happened ten years ago, but you shouldn’t. He’s the one to be blamed.’ She dredges up feelings that have been buried for the last ten years. I’d rather they stayed that way, but of course, they can’t.

‘I did some things that I’m not proud of.’ I shift uncomfortably in my seat.

‘Yes, but only because he made you do them,’ she speaks louder this time.

I nod again because there’s nothing she could say that would make me feel better about my part in what happened tenyears ago. Shame is a messy and complicated thing; it doesn’t take excuses or justifications. Unable to fight it, I chase it away with my drink, tipping it in like it’s water.

9

The conversation with Vicky plays on my mind for the next couple of weeks. On Tuesday, I wake up on the wrong side of the bed, everything out of sync. It starts with my dreams being tormented by nightmares where a seventeen-year-old Alex hovers in the shadows like a ghost from an eighties movie and tells me in a ghoulish voice that I will forever stay alone. Halfway through the dream, he transforms into Aaron chewing on a mint leaf right in my face and laughing.

The dark thoughts continue following me around the cramped flat as I rush to get my lunch ready for school. They trail my awakened consciousness when I sluggishly dodge through the early Tuesday traffic and when I park at the empty school car park, save for one car, a fancy Mercedes.

I wonder how other teachers ever meet deadlines without putting the hours in. I always feel I’m the first one in, right after the caretaker opens the gates, and the last one out, right before the caretaker kicks me out and locks the gates. The caretaker and I are on a first-name basis by now. On a few occasions, I’ve tried to bribe him with a Twix so he’ll close the school later, but he’s a tough cookie and has so far resisted my offer.

When I lock the car, the sky is rumbling ominously above my head, making me hurry. I ignore the Mercedes parked in the corner because it’s the same Mercedes I’ve seen almost every morning and evening. I haven’t figured out whose car it is yet,but whoever is doing long shifts alongside me likes their car immaculate.

Despite the early autumnal showers, it’s always spotless both on the inside and outside. It’s the level of neatness that makes your hand holding the car keys itch.Not that I would ever do anything. There’s only one person I’ve ever considered keying their car, but it’s not worth the offence. Plus, scratchingdickonto Aaron’s bonnet would take too much time, and I can’t think of any other words that would contain less than four letters and describe Aaron’s character so succinctly.

I yawn as I put the code in. The door clicks hollowly, allowing me in without resistance. The inside of the school is cold, and I huddle in the butterscotch-yellow wrap cardigan I put on this morning. I thought it was a bold fashion choice when I bought it. I categorically disagreed with Lydia when she said I looked like a cute bumblebee in it.

I’m a circus juggler, balancing haphazardly stacked pupils’ independent writing books, a lunchbox and coffee in a bamboo cup in my arms. I push through the main set of doors with my elbow, but I come into contact with something solid that makes me lose half the items I’m carrying.

My lunchbox splits open and the contents, an unappetising combination of grains and seeds with some green and red leaves, scatter across the carpeted floor. A solitary boiled potato rolls pathetically between my feet and lands next to a laptop bag that belongs to the person I so brashly ran into. Even I have to admit that my lunch, now laid out like a post-modern art installation, isn’t fit for human consumption and rather looks like it was intended for rabbits.

I’m about to apologise, but a set of incredibly green eyes staring back at me stop me in my tracks.

When I unfreeze, Alex says, ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t see you,’ as I mumble, ‘Sorry. I’m never this clumsy.’

We both stop at the same time, gazes falling to his grey tieand white shirt, now decorated with Rorschach-shaped coffee stains. At first glance, it looks like somebody defecated on his shirt and the ridiculousness of the situation makes me burst out laughing before I can stop myself. This can’t get any worse. I clamp a hand over my lips. I wait for him to shout at me like any reasonable adult would do in this situation, but he’s only gaping at the growing stain in horror.

I remark embarrassedly, ‘I’ve made a dog’s dinner of your shirt.’ To my surprise, his lips twitch before his expression reverts to the usual iciness.

I pull out a tissue from my pocket to wipe the worst of the mess off his tie, but the tissue has a pea stuck to it. I stare at it with alarm, unsure whether to cry or scream. A hoarse bark comes out of him and eradicates all my thoughts. He tries to hide it with a cough, but it’s too late.

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