Page 72 of Sincerely Yours, Anna Sherwood

But then he doesn’t say anything else.

‘That sounds like the start of a bad joke, Fletcher.’

A smirk flits across his face. It’s quickly replaced by his more serious frown, and a heaviness settles on my chest, pressing down on my lungs.

‘How was lunch the other day?’ he asks instead, as the kettle finishes boiling.

‘Oh. Fine. Thanks.’

He pauses pouring the tea for a moment, but it’s so brief I wonder if I imagined it.

And suddenly I want to tell him everything. I want to spill it all: how horrible lunch was and that I felt press-ganged into it, that I told her what Ireallythought and still feel a bit sick about it, how she spoke down to me and that she’s apparently been collecting my life’s story off my dad when she couldn’t get it from me, but I don’t want to confront Dad and end upin a fight with him, too. I want to tell Lloyd all the gory, grimy truth in the way we’ve done with each other before.

But there’s something off between us tonight, a distanceIcreated by saying I couldn’t date him, and I swallow the words back down.

Lloyd pushes my mug towards me. He takes a step back, like whatever is between us right now requires physical space, too. If anything, it just makes my chest feel a little tighter again.

He lifts his cup of tea to his lips to blow the steam off it, and eyes me over the top of it, almost wary.

‘You’re not here to tell me off for calling you a hypocrite, then?’

He’s right. This is where I push back with a sharp, haughty retort because I think I have the moral high ground and he, with his generous humour, teases me for it.

What I should do, is say sorry. Regardless of whatever my mum’s career is – all those comments I’ve made about Lloyd throughout summer have probably been needling at him this entire time. He’s just been too nice and too easy-going to call me out or tell me it bothers him.

But instead all I can do is mumble, ‘I’m not a hypocrite.’

Before, I was scared that people at Arrowmile would judge me for being too closely associated with Lloyd. That’s how I feel now: terrified, that my mum will tarnish whatever Lloyd thinks of me.

‘I never lied to you about my mum,’ I tell him. ‘I told you we don’t have a relationship. She’s never doneanythingfor me, not even paid for a school trip. She’s practically a stranger. Most of what I know about her is stuff anybody could read about her online. Do you have any idea how sad that is? That I only know what my mum’s up to if someone reports it in theSunday Timesor updates her Wikipedia page?’

He doesn’t answer, and I don’t really know what I’m expecting him to say anyway.

Then I make the mistake of saying, ‘At least your dad wants you around, and wants you to be involved.’

Lloyd scowls, cutting me a glare – knowing I’ve said the wrong thing should make me feel sympathetic towards him, but this isn’t like all the other nights we’ve spent together. This is twisted, tense and agitated, a crumbling precipice that threatens to send us spiralling the second one of us puts a foot wrong.

Which, it seems, I just did.

‘Oh, right, because that’s such a fucking gift,’ he snaps, with a venom that I wasn’t expecting. ‘Always living in his shadow. Always being expected to be morelike him, andneverliving up to expectations, never doing anythingright. You act like I’ve got it made because of him, but it’s a poisoned chalice. You havenoidea …’

He’s never been this upfront about his dad or being at Arrowmile, and I take a stab in the dark. ‘Is it about your uni course? How you stepped up to follow in your dad’s footsteps so that Will didn’t have to?’

Lloyd flinches. ‘How’d you –? Fuck.Will. He had no right to tell you about that.’

‘I didn’t ask him to.’

‘It’snoneof your business. And whatever you think you know …’ He shakes his head. ‘You don’t understand anything about it. Alright?’

‘So tell me!Makeme understand.’

But Lloyd refuses, gritting his teeth. He sets his tea down and leans against the counter, shoulders hunched, hands balled so tightly into fists that I can see his arms taut with the strain. I want to reach out and stroke them, hold him until he relaxes. But I forfeited any right to do that when we broke things off, so instead, all I can do is try to reach for whatever parts of himself he’s trying to bury, that are making him feel like this now.

‘You can’t be mad at me for not telling you something, then do the same thing to me and be mad I don’t know what you’re hiding,’ I tell him. ‘I’mtryingto understand. I’m not the only one putting up wallsand keeping people at arm’s length, you know. I mean, you won’t even tell me what you actuallydohere – or what’s so important that you stay so late on a Friday night. You act like everything’s always so great but never actually feel anythingreal– just like you said your dad does.’

I must hit a nerve, because the scowl is back, as quick as his smile usually is.

‘Would youstop, already?’ he says, and this time, his voice isn’t angry, or upset. It’s steady and even, and … cold, in a way that Lloyd isn’t. He straightens up, running a hand through his hair. His eyes burn like a forest fire when they catch mine again.

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