Chapter 10 #2
Why, for God’s sake? What’s the use of knowing who the man is?
Leave it—it won’t make anything unhappen.
On the contrary. The more I know about him, the more real everything gets.
There’s no answer to any of this. I’m caught between a rock and a hard place: Whatever I do, it’ll be wrong.
I can go to Dad and tell him, then pray that my parents don’t get divorced.
Or I can say nothing and risk Dad finding out anyway—that Mum had an affair and that I didn’t tell him.
My head aches and so does my heart. I’m sick of all this. I just want a bit of peace. I didn’t want anything to change, but apparently you don’t get to wish that because everything has changed.
I walk aimlessly around the village because I don’t want to go back to school, but my mind is whirling.
I head for the castle loch, because the way the sky reflects in its smooth surface has an almost meditative effect on me.
It’s a wee bit of peace amid all the chaos that’s my life now.
It always has been. Water is my element.
Liquid serenity, especially when I can swim lengths, dive, be weightless.
There’s nobody here but me, or so I think as I let my eyes roam across the loch. To the far bank.
And then I see him.
Colin
I put my shoulders back and try not to start running as I leave the office and step into the corridor. It’s never been so hard. I don’t go up to my room because I’m so not in the mood to set eyes on anybody else.
Ava Fantino and Mrs. Sinclair agreed that I’d be punished but not expelled. So everything’s lost. I won’t be able to stroll out of here in a few days and fly back to New York, like I promised Cleo and my friends. I have to stay here. In Scotland. All fucking year.
I’m surprised by how hard it hits me. I feel so dumb for believing I could get the better of my mother. She knows me. She’s more cunning than me. After all, I have to inherit it from somewhere. And she always gets what she wants.
My stupid heart just won’t stop racing. Not even after I’ve explored this godforsaken hole and bought a prepaid SIM card in the tiny supermarket.
Not even after I’ve messaged my friends and been ignored by them in return.
And not even after I’ve left the rows of houses and followed a well-trodden path to a little lake.
Luckily, I don’t see anyone by the water or on the narrow boardwalk.
I follow the path to the water’s edge, pass little bushes and curved weeping willows, whose spreading branches reach down to the water.
It’s peaceful here, little ducks swimming on the lake, which is fringed by tall grass that bends with the wind.
But that’s no use to me, so I walk on. Halfway around the lake, I look around me again, then sit down on a weathered bench.
For a moment, I let my head fall back and stare up into the clear sky.
Then I pull my lighter out of my pocket.
You were going to stop. You promised yourself.
But shit, what can I do? I’ve just discovered that my mom’s still calling the shots, same as ever. That I can’t get away from here, or at least not as fast as I thought. I feel naive and ignored. I’m angry, I’m scared. Fuck it. I don’t want to feel this way.
Why can’t you just suck it up?
Why, why, why?
But why am I supposed to suck up so much in my life?
Why is my mom so cold and emotionless toward me, and why did I even let them send me away?
Why do I still care? Why does the thought of New York and home make my throat tighten?
I’m seventeen, for God’s sake, and almost crying with homesickness.
And because I’m finding it harder and harder to suppress what happened in New York.
What I did. Someone died and it’s my fault . . .
I flip open my lighter and push up the sleeve of my hoodie. The spot on my wrist is always risky, but nobody knows me here. Nobody will get suspicious if I say I burned myself somehow—in that tiny wing kitchen, on the hob, whatever the hell.
I hold my breath as the flame hits my skin, then bite my bottom lip. The pain is sheer relief, and I deserve it. It twinges through my body, and for a moment, it drives out all my thoughts. Because I’m focused on breathing and holding it. Because I can feel it. Because I can feel myself.
I’ve just shut my eyes when I hear a crack. Fuck.
I pull back my hand, pull my sleeve over my wrist. I just have time to slip my lighter into the front pocket on my hoodie before I see someone walking down the path toward me, between the trees.
“Fantino.”
I jump. Great. Act normal. There’s no way she can find out what you were just doing.
“What’s up, Olive Garden?” I cross my right ankle over my left knee.
“Spare me your pointless wisecracks and tell me what the fuck your problem is.” She looms over me, and it’s irritating that I have to look up at her.
“What do you want?”
“Mrs. Sinclair,” she snaps, crossing her arms angrily over her chest. I forget the dumb remark I was about to make as I see her wince at the movement. Pain crosses her face. Then her expression is blank again. “She says you told her it was you.”
“Yuu-uup,” I say slowly. “You must be pleased.”
“What’s wrong with you? What makes you think you can just mess with people’s heads and then go and confess anyway?”
I have to grin. “So you really thought I’d snitch?”
“God, I don’t know. I don’t know you.”
She should count herself lucky. “I’m devastated that you had such a low opinion of me.”
“Your own fault.”
“True. And your dad sends his love back. He’s way nicer than you.”
Olive laughs. For a moment, the enmity fades from her face, giving way to an almost painful expression. But then she seems to decide not to follow up on that. “So, get yourself expelled, then?” The tinge of hope in her voice is a punch in the guts, which I deserve.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” I pluck an imaginary bit of fluff off my pants leg and wish she’d sit down next to me instead of standing over me like that. “But I’m sorry to disappoint you. She didn’t even give me a warning.”
“What?” She’s startled. “No warning?”
“No.” I shrug. “You just need the right surname.”
She gasps, then gives me a scornful look. Guess she didn’t pick up the sarcasm in that last line. Whatever. She probably thinks I’m genuinely proud to be Ava Fantino’s son.
“I wish you no harm, Colin Fantino,” she says coolly. I would reconsider that statement if I were her. “Just that one day someone will treat you the way you treat others.”
I give a tired smile. “Ouch. That hit home, Olive Garden.”
She turns away. I fight back the urge to ask her to stay.
What’s up with me? She clearly doesn’t like my company and I’m not exactly trying to change that, but something inside me enjoyed the battle of words with her.
It’s weird, but I feel more alive. Olive Garden standing in front of me, trying to test whether looks can kill, also helps me forget everything else, at least for a moment. All my miserable problems, for example.
Which all catch up with me as she stomps away.
I don’t follow her.