“Sorry.”
Lucas stilled, not sure he’d heard right. Only then Ryan said, “You know. For what happened.”
“For trying to drown me in the sea?”
“Don’t be such a fucking drama queen. You fell.”
“Because you punched me.” Lucas rubbed his jaw where the memory of Ryan’s fist promised a bruise.
“And you went down faster than Neymar.”
“Not used to apologising, are you?” Lucas was grinning though. An apology from someone who never gave them was worth treasuring, even if that someone was a complete and utter dickhead. Maybe especially because of that. After a second, Ryan twitched back what might have been a grin.
There was a lull then, before Ryan said, “You know you were supposed to hit me back, right?”
“I’m not doing that any more. Not after last night.”
Ryan’s eyes darted up to Lucas for a second. “Call it even?”
And he held out a fist for Lucas to tap.
RYAN
Ryan’s hand returned to the sticker on the bench that he’d been worrying at with his thumbnail, nipping again at a corner where he’d already peeled some away. What was left of the print suggested it was one of those freebies you get at the dentist for not biting their fingers off.
“This has got me thinking,” Lucas started up.
“Bit dangerous.” Because all this had got Ryan thinking – about Freya, mostly.
Lucas ignored him. “I know I started out mates with Kellan, but … if you ever wanted to hang out—”
Ryan’s “Fuck off” was reflexive.
“I’m serious.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s what Freya said, in my letter. Thinks I need someone around who won’t put up with Kellan’s bullshit.”
The progress Ryan had made on the sticker slowed a little. That last line of his letter wasn’t so different. About him needing friends… Anger came and went, but missing her was a hunger that wasn’t going anywhere and the only way to feed it was with her words. Hating himself for it, he said, “She say anything else about me?”
“That you’d never demand too much from me.”
Hearing that was a pain Ryan couldn’t bear. One that squeezed his heart and wound its way from his chest to his throat, wrapping itself around each burning breath.
“Of course she fucking did.”
December – 27 days before Freya left
Outside the light had dimmed from day to dusk to dark, the glow of the streetlight falling unevenly over the arm of the chair and the wall behind.
Ryan had thought about getting up to turn the main light on, but Freya had slumped slowly against him during whatever reality re-run they were watching so that now her head had fallen to rest on his shoulder.
“Plastic surgery looks painful,” Freya said. Half at the TV, half to Ryan.
“Great observation, Captain Obvious.”
“I just mean that I’m not sure I could do it. Go through the pain.”
“Then don’t.”
There were kinder things he could have said. Like the fact that she’d never need to because she was the most gorgeous person he’d ever seen. But you don’t say shit like that to the girl who’d been boning your cousin since August.
“Maybe there are some things that bring you a different kind of pain,” Freya carried on, “so that an operation doesn’t seem so bad?”
Ryan thought about all the names he’d been called as a kid and wondered what that pain was worth.
“Still costs a tonne of money though – I’d rather keep the cash and not have people know I cared that much about how I looked.”
He felt her shift against him, her attention no longer on the TV, but on him, head still on his shoulder, but tipped back a little.
“What if it was free? And it didn’t hurt too much. Like an injection. And no one would remember what you were like before. Would you do it? Change how you look?”
“No,” Ryan lied.
There were times, on the rare occasions he actually washed his face and looked in the mirror – when his reflection was collarbones and shoulders and neck, his body small beneath his head – that he would lift his fingers up to push his ears closer to his skull. He’d imagine them small and neat and completely unnoticeable.
He turned his head just enough to meet Freya’s gaze. “What about you?”
Freya reached across, traced her finger down the edge of his left ear, her thumb nipping gently at the soft skin of his lobe. He expected her to stop there, to make a joke, but her touch followed the line of his scar from his ear and along his jaw.
“No, Ryan,” she said. “I wouldn’t change how you look.”
“Stop that.” Ryan pushed her hand away and stood up from the sofa. They shouldn’t be sitting like this, but it had been happening more these last couple of times she’d been over, the two of them getting far too comfortable with being so close. “Do you want a drink?”
He didn’t wait for her to answer, just went through to the kitchen and opened the fridge, pulling the door open so hard that the jars rattled and the up-ended ketchup toppled out. Ryan darted out a hand to catch it, feeling smug when he succeeded and disappointed that Freya hadn’t seen him.
No. That was a stupid thing for him to feel. Dangerous. Ryan wasn’t supposed to want Freya Newmarch to find him impressive.
Forgetting why he’d opened it, Ryan shut the fridge to find that Freya had followed him in and was resting against the doorframe.
“Why’d you run off just then?”
“Needed a drink.”
They both looked at his empty hands.
“I think you might be the person I like best in the world right now,” Freya said, looking up from his hands to meet his eyes.
“You have shit taste, then.”
“Shut up.” She shifted off the frame and stepped so close she could put her hand over his mouth, her fingers moulding to his lips. When he half raised his hand to push hers away, she shook her head. “Just. You don’t have to fight everyone all the time.”
And instead of pushing her away, Ryan’s hand came to rest lightly on her forearm where the sleeve of her shirt had been rolled back far enough to read the homework she’d written along her arm. His thumb grazed the hairs on her skin and he felt his own rise up in response.
“Do you know why I like you?”
Ryan shook his head, her hand moving with it.
“I like you because you never try to say something just because I want to hear it. It means that when you do tell me something I want to hear, I can trust that it’s not because you’re trying to make me feel better.”
Ryan frowned and gently pulled her hand away. “Have I ever said something you want to hear?”
She laughed, falling forward to bump her head lightly on his chest. “Like maybe once or twice.”
When she straightened up, she’d slid her hand into his, holding him so he couldn’t get away.
“You might be brutal, Ry, but you’re honest.” Everything about her softened a moment. “I wish I could be as straight with myself as you are.”
Ryan knew he should stop staring at her. All those times he’d taken the piss, pushed her away with insults and filthy jokes – all safe, safe, safe. She couldn’t like him back because he’d made himself unlikeable.