Chapter 11
Henry
She’s hardcore. She’s even tougher than Mr. Cormack, and I’d never have thought that was possible.
Running an extra four times a week—that’s right, on top of the morning run.
An hour at medium intensity at five thirty on Tuesday and Friday mornings with the morning run as our cooldown.
Seriously. An actual cooldown. I want to cry.
And throw up. And lie down and never get up again. Not necessarily in that order.
Wednesdays and Saturdays are for technique and coordination, followed by tempo runs on the track. Oh, yeah, and stretching exercises every day, using this foam roller thing that’s definitely the work of the devil.
But I guess this is a good thing. I’m really having to work at it. I remember Maeve’s cheery messages to our WhatsApp group when I mentioned that I’d got onto the team on probation. See! I knew you could do it! And Theo’s Don’t embarrass me now.
“If it’s not too much for you, we could add in strength training, once or twice a week,” says Emma. “It’s important to work on your core and explosive strength. But that’s up to you to decide.”
How can she talk so much while she’s running beside me?
OK, so they say that you should keep your training at a level where you can still chat as you run, but that never seems to work out for me.
We’re only jogging slowly, but I still feel like my heart’s going to burst out of my chest after three minutes tops.
“Yeah, sounds good,” I pant. She’s really trying hard to hide it, but I know perfectly well that she’s grinning at me being out of breath yet again.
It’s only your second week of training, Henry.
You have to give your body time to get used to this new workload.
It’ll take at least a month, if not two, for you to notice any improvement in your stamina.
That’s perfectly normal. I don’t really believe that, but nobody asks me.
So I just try to keep up. I’ll never comprehend how Emma can be so fast. Or how she can actually enjoy this. Never, never, never.
“Watch your posture,” she says, and I force myself to tense my stomach again. I have to stay straight and not arch my back or I’ll hurt myself. God, I always thought running was simple—I mean, it’s as natural as walking—but nobody ever told me how wrongly you can do it.
“I went into the gym for the first time on Saturday,” she continues. “The facilities here are amazing! We need to do loads with resistance bands and the roller. No more shin splints, Henry.”
“Could we train on the running machines sometimes?” I suggest.
Emma just laughs, so I wave goodbye to that idea.
“In impact terms, it just doesn’t compare to outdoors. And you’re training for the rugby pitch. Wet, muddy grass. We’ll be much better off out on the grounds.”
I’d sigh, but I don’t have the breath for it.
“We might use the machines sometimes in bad weather,” Emma concedes later.
“It’s meant to rain next week.”
She laughs. Damn. “Rain’s no reason not to run. I meant more like hail and snow. Do you get much snow here?”
“Sometimes . . .” Not very often. Oh, man, I’m so screwed.
“You’ll soon make progress, honestly.”
I doubt that, but what choice do I have? I need to get fitter, and even this shitty endurance training must be basically the same as anything else. If you keep working and persevering, eventually you’ll succeed. But I’d way rather spend hours cramming in the library than doing this much running.
I want to stop. I think it with every step.
I could stop.
Next step.
Got to stop.
Next step.
Just for a moment.
“Anyway, it’s all in your head,” says Emma, at that exact second. Almost like she’s in mine. “Anytime you think you can’t go on, you can actually go on at least that long again.”
“Doubtful,” I wheeze.
“Seriously, no doubt about it. You just have to take your mind off it. Do you like listening to podcasts? Or audiobooks?”
“Kind of.”
“Or I’ll make you a playlist that’s all charts songs. D’you think that would help?”
“I think stopping would help.”
“No, Henry.” She smiles, and now, after kilometer four, her cheeks are gradually flushing a pale pink. This is still no fun, but if I have to run four kilometers every morning to see that, it might just be worth it.
Emma
“So what’s going on?” Tori begins casually, but there’s something in her voice that gives me a clue about where she’s heading. “Are you and Bennington running together every day now?”
OK, fine. It was a predictable question, but did Tori really have to ask it almost as soon as we’ve left the school’s thick walls behind this afternoon?
Maybe the whole point of this trip to Ebrington was actually more to do with interrogating me than showing me around the village and cheering me up after the shitty English test that Mr. Ward dumped on us with no warning.
“I don’t think he’s ever done the whole morning run of his own free will before,” Olive remarks as she twists her still-damp hair up into a bun.
“I’m helping him train so he can get onto the rugby team.”
“Why isn’t Grace training with him?” Olive eyes me.
“Presumably because she doesn’t feel like getting here two hours before school starts every morning, and then having to go home again to shower?” Tori suggests.
“She could use Henry’s bathroom,” Olive says curtly. Her words are like tiny daggers in my chest. “And anyway, why don’t they train in the evening?”
“She hasn’t got time,” I say. It feels like a lie, yet it’s exactly what Henry told me.
“Or maybe Henry just prefers running with Emma.” Tori’s eyes bore through me. “Do you like running with Henry?”
“I, uh . . .” Olive is now staring at me too, and I know that, whatever I say, there are only wrong answers here. “It’s nice?”
“Nice?” Tori laughs. “Yeah, well, Henry in his PE kit is definitely a nice sight. He’s got such a cute arse. So it’s actually mean of him not to be interested in sport.”
“Apparently he is now,” Olive replies.
“Yeah, but you know what I mean.”
“Well, he’s no Sinclair . . .”
“Emma’s not into Sinclair.”
I open my mouth, but Olive doesn’t give me time to speak. “No, but you are. And clearly Emma’s not into Henry either, because he’s with Grace.”
Ouch. Breathe. I don’t dare look in Olive’s direction.
“I love him like a brother, Livy,” says Tori, in that deliberately casual voice. “Like a brother.”
“Course you do,” murmurs Olive. “Except when Sinclair wears those superskinny jodhpurs, huh?”
I’d probably have been grinning if Olive’s words weren’t still echoing in my head. Why did she even come when she clearly can’t stand me? This would have been way more fun with just Tori.
I stare intently at the dark stone walls and wonky gabled roofs of the houses lining the street.
“Whatever. We’re here to show Emma around, anyway,” says Tori, pointing to a shop window on our left. “That’s the Blue Room Café. Their cake is the best, and the scones are to die for. Which is hardly surprising because they get them fresh from Sinclair’s every day.”
“You mean Sinclair’s dad’s bakery?” I ask.
“Exactly. It’s down there,” says Tori, pointing along the cobbled street. “Everything’s half price after three o’clock. Sometimes Sinclair brings the leftovers into school too.”
“Is that where the bread for breakfast comes from?” I ask.
Tori nods. “Handy, isn’t it? This is the Second Chance, by the way.
Sometimes they have amazing vintage stuff.
Further along, there’s a pub, a florist, a tiny cinema, and then there’s the most important shop around here: Ebrington Tales bookshop!
They don’t have the hugest selection, but last year they finally added an LGBTQIA+ shelf.
I only had to ask four times and show them the pictures of Waterstones in Edinburgh for them to get it. ”
“Shall we head over there on Friday?” Olive asks.
She’s looking at Tori, but Tori immediately glances at me. “To Edinburgh? Want to come, Emma?”
I avoid Olive’s gaze. “Yeah, I’d love to, but my mum’s coming for a visit.”
“Oh, that’s nice,” Tori replies. “Well, the weekend after then? We’re flexible, aren’t we, Livy?”
Olive just nods.
“We forgot Irvine’s,” says Tori, pointing across the road. “It’s everything rolled into one: supermarket, deli, chemist, and post office.”
“And they sell booze too,” adds Olive. “At least when Kit’s on the till.”
“Speak of the devil,” murmurs Tori, tugging me back by my jacket sleeve. It’s not until I peek down a narrow alleyway between the buildings that I realize who she means. It takes me a moment to recognize Tori’s brother, William, and Kit.
“No way . . .” whispers Olive, in disbelief, while Tori presses a finger to her lips. Will has his back to the wall while Kit’s arm is raised above his head, leaning on it too—and then Will pulls Kit to him and kisses him.
“William Belhaven-Wynford,” Tori breathes. “What on earth are you up to?”
Olive laughs. “How come they’ve got it together but you and Sinclair haven’t?”
“Shut up,” Tori mumbles as we walk on. “I’m not interested in Sinclair.”
“Yeah, right.”
“So how’s it going with Val?” I ask. Fortunately, Tori turns to me.
“Pretty good, I think. He’s superbusy with study and training, so we haven’t actually spoken yet.” Tori smiles, and perhaps I’m just imagining it, but I think she sounds a little disappointed.
“He’s sure to have time soon,” I say.
She nods. “I hope so.”
“Can we pop into Irvine’s?” asks Olive. “I need some toothpaste.”
I follow the pair of them into the shop, which really does seem to stock anything you can imagine.
Tori piles a mountain of snacks into her basket, while Olive limits herself to a few toiletries.
As we thread our way to the front of the shop, down the narrow aisles, we see a man at the counter.
My pulse quickens as I spot the stick he’s leaning on.
Mr. Ward . . . The bad feeling I had after that test today floods back into my mind.
Has he started marking it already? He turns his head in our direction as the man behind the counter reaches into one of the pharmacy cabinets.
Mr. Ward whips the little white packet off the counter and stashes it away in the inside pocket of his coat.
I keep quiet as Tori and Olive say hello to him.
“Shouldn’t you be in class?” Mr. Ward asks as he pays. I hold my breath as his eyes rake over me. “Or out for a run?” The disdainful way he says the word makes me shiver. Has he seen me and Henry running together? What if he has? What’s it to him anyway?
I can’t answer him, but fortunately, Tori speaks for all of us.
“No, sir, we’ve got a free afternoon,” she replies sugar-sweetly.
Mr. Ward’s expression darkens. “Well, make sure you’re all back in time for study hour.” He nods curtly to the pharmacist and turns away.
“We’ve got almost two hours until then,” murmurs Olive as he walks away.
The bell jingles as the shop door closes behind him.
Olive and Tori pay, and as I stand beside them, I can still feel Mr. Ward’s eyes on me.
This morning in English, just now . . . Every time I see him, I remember the evasive way Mum answered me on the phone.
Maybe I should have another go at asking her when she comes for the weekend.
Mr. Ward is out of sight by the time we get back onto the street.
Tori wants to drag me off to the café, and Olive heads back toward the school.
I can’t say I’m upset about that. I feel much better when it’s just me and Tori.
And there’s something I’ve had on my mind for ages that I’d really like to talk to her about.
So once I’m sitting opposite her in the tearoom a little later on, sipping my tea, I pluck up all my courage.
“Er, Tori . . .” she looks expectantly at me, “. . . I don’t know how to say this, without sounding totally dumb, but—”
“Whatever it is, I’m sure it won’t sound dumb,” she interrupts, smiling at me.
“It’s just . . . Do you know if I’ve done something wrong to make Olive kind of . . . pissed off with me?”
Tori’s silence lasts a moment too long. “Don’t let it bother you if she’s a bit off sometimes.
Olive doesn’t mean anything by it. It’s the Scorpio in her that comes out now and then.
” She pauses before she continues. “Things have been kind of complicated between her and me for a while,” she says.
“We were this really close group for ages, and Olive . . . well, she doesn’t deal so well with change. ”
Change . . . So with me crashing in between them.
“Oh, right,” I mumble, stirring my tea.
“I’m so glad you’re here, Emma,” says Tori impetuously, smiling at me. “And God, I don’t think I’m the only one who is.”