Chapter 20
Emma
We catch the last train back to Edinburgh and don’t speak another word to each other.
We sit side by side but with a safe distance between us, and I feel dirty.
This whole stupid evening, my pathetic father, cold smoke, stale air.
And Henry so close to me that I couldn’t help myself and just leaned in at the exact moment he did too.
We didn’t kiss because he stopped us. Just as well, because I wouldn’t have stopped. I don’t think I would. No, I know I wouldn’t. There’s no way I’d have stopped him because I’m weak, a failure. God, what was I thinking?
Henry pulled back at the last second, and it was a slap in the face. Because for a tiny moment, I thought he actually wanted it.
He should never have come. It’s ridiculous. Just friends . . . He said that and I nodded. And I’d have let him kiss me. Because I’m a stupid arsehole.
There are too many thoughts, and they’re all driving me mad.
That crappy pub, my dad, that horrible conversation with him: All of it seems a lifetime ago by the time we reach Edinburgh.
We’re the only passengers on the bus to Ebrington, and I want to cry.
If Henry weren’t here, I would. But he is here.
He’s sitting next to me, and I can’t look him in the eye.
Not even when we get off the bus, walk down the lane, and slip through the gate. Almost all the windows are dark now.
“You can go through here. Nobody will see you this way,” says Henry, pointing to our left.
I nod. He doesn’t say, “I’ll walk you to your wing,” like he normally does. Of course he doesn’t.
And I don’t say anything. I don’t thank him for coming with me. I don’t say sorry for almost kissing him. Which I should. I have to: We can’t part like this, for God’s sake!
Henry stops as I turn back.
“Henry, I’m sor—”
“No,” he says quietly. “Emma, please . . .”
He looks at me, I see the pleading in his eyes, and I understand. We’ll never speak of it again. Because it never happened.
I’m not sure if anything has ever hurt as much as it does when I turn away again. No, that’s not true. I’m pretty sure it hasn’t. This evening’s in a class of its own. Because I’ve lost hope twice.
I don’t cry until I’m lying in my bed. Nobody caught me, and if they had, I wouldn’t have cared. Because, let’s be honest, what’s the point of me being at this school now?
Henry
My head is empty when I ring the Whitmores’ doorbell the next day. I should have planned exactly what I’m going to say to Grace. She deserves that. A proper conversation. Not this. Not this absolute panic reaction. This feels like impulsive damage limitation, when actually, it’s way too late.
I’ve fallen in love with Emma. I’ve known that since she was standing in front of me in Glasgow and I couldn’t kiss her.
I’ve known that since I slept beside her, since I haven’t been able to forget the scent of her.
I’ve known it since she gave me that mildly skeptical Emma look and my heart skipped a beat.
I’ve fallen in love with Emma, and I have to split up with Grace, and there’s no way of doing that without hurting her. And Grace deserves better than to be hurt. She’s always done everything right. But she deserves better, and it’s breaking my heart that I can’t be the guy to give it to her.
I shiver as the door opens. Grace is wearing jeans and a yellow T-shirt.
I wait for her to say, “Oh, hi,” and kiss me, then step aside for me to walk in.
But she just looks at me, and I’m sure she understands what all this means.
She looks me in the face, and something flickers in her eyes.
A tiny emotion, a tiny spark of fear that tells me she’s been waiting for this.
That Grace knew that eventually, I’d be standing at her door looking at her like this.
We both knew it. We’ve spoken less to each other in the last few weeks than ever before.
The end was in sight. It was just a matter of time.
But neither of us expected it to happen. Not yet anyway.
“Can I come in?” I ask, and Grace wakes up from her trance.
“Yes, sure.” She steps aside. No hello kiss. “Is everything OK?”
I nod, even though nothing’s OK. Absolutely nothing, and it’s all my own fault.
I step through the doorway into this house, which has felt for ages like my second home. But it isn’t anymore. It’s Grace’s home, and I was merely allowed to be a guest here for a while.
“Aren’t your parents here?” I ask, when I notice how quiet it is.
“No. It’s just me.”
“Oh, right.” That’s probably a good thing. We can talk in peace, which means I’m really going to have to do this. No more excuses or apologies. Just the truth. Painful, unpleasant truth.
I raise my head as Grace shuts the door, and I shove my hands into my trouser pockets. Should I ask her if we can go to her room? Or sit on the sofa? Where’s the best place for this kind of conversation? I didn’t think this through at all.
And then I just start babbling. “I was in Glasgow with Emma yesterday,” I say, even before Grace has turned to face me. There’s confusion in her face. “She met her dad there. It didn’t go very well. I think he’s a bit of an arsehole and—”
“Henry,” she interrupts, “why are you telling me this?”
“Because then I almost kissed her.”
It’s a bomb in word form, and it goes off silently between us.
Grace looks stunned, but she gets herself back under control amazingly quickly.
At that moment, I see she knew everything.
She just never said. Not once. She was nice to Emma, didn’t utter a bad word about her or doubt me.
But she saw everything, of course she did, and I’m the shittiest human being in the entire world.
I want to say something, but I can’t. Not until she’s said something.
Grace nods slowly. “OK?” It sounds more like a question.
“Grace, I’m sorry, I—I didn’t mean to . . .”
“Stop it.” Her voice is quiet but clear. “Stop saying things you don’t mean.”
I open my mouth but she doesn’t let me speak.
“You’re not sorry. You wanted to kiss her. I’ve seen the way you look at her, Henry.”
I say nothing, and it’s cowardly. I know that. It’s my bloody job to have this conversation, and I can’t do it.
“This is the end, isn’t it?” Grace asks, and when she smiles uncertainly and looks at me with glittering eyes, the tears start to sting mine too.
“I think so.” My voice sounds croaky.
Grace shuts her eyes briefly. A tear runs down her cheek. She takes a deep breath, then looks at me again.
“It’s not true that I don’t mean what I just said,” I say. “I am sorry, Grace. I’m so sorry for hurting you. I didn’t want to. And you don’t deserve it. You deserve someone who’ll go to Oxford with you and want the same things you want. And that—that’s not me.”
It’s crazy how quiet we’re being. How silently Grace cries and how hollow my head feels. It’s like a crash in slow motion, one we’d seen coming. For weeks. We’ve been mentally preparing ourselves for this, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less.
“We’re not Henry and Grace from the first form anymore, and that’s OK,” says Grace. I hear the tremor in her voice and hear her trying to suppress it. “We’re older, we’ve both grown up.” She pauses. “But sadly, we’ve grown in different directions.”
I nod against my will. I see Grace with the plaits she had in the first form and remember how she used to cheer me up when Mum and Dad had to go back to the airport. I see her beaming with joy at good exam results and the two of us during never-ending summer nights, but now it is coming to an end.
“It feels like I cheated on you.” The tears choke off my voice, but I can’t stop them.
Because it really feels like that. Because Grace was loyal, always, and I wasn’t.
I’m leaving her. I’m splitting up with her.
For a girl I’ve known just a few weeks. Which is nothing compared to the time I’ve spent with Grace.
But it was enough to show me how much more could be possible.
That time with Grace is nice and time with Emma is indescribable.
Grace stands facing me in silence as I cry and doesn’t look at me. “Did you cheat on me?” she asks, and there’s no hint of accusation in her voice. I know that if I had, I’d admit it now. Because Grace deserves the truth. No matter how much it hurts.
“No,” I say.
“All right.” She nods without a second’s hesitation, because she trusts me.
“But I slept at hers,” I blurt out. “A while ago, she was upset, I just went round to hers to talk and then . . . I slept there. In her bed. We were both dressed, and nothing—”
“Henry, it’s fine,” she interrupts. Calmly.
We aren’t fighting, we aren’t hurting each other.
Not intentionally at any rate. We’re so fricking mature and grown-up, and there it is.
The proof that I like Grace, admire her, respect her, but I don’t love her.
Because if I did, we’d never be able to speak about all this so calmly.
“I hate hurting you like this,” I whisper.
“I know. I hate it too. But I want you to be happy. I want that because you mean so bloody much to me, Henry. And yes, it hurts, but sometimes change does hurt.”
“I want you to be happy too. And we don’t make each other happy anymore.”
“No, we don’t.”
“Can I give you a hug?” I ask her quietly but don’t move. I just wait for her to nod. But Grace doesn’t. The tears glisten in her eyes, and then she slowly shakes her head.
No . . . This is the moment when I realize what’s just happened. That it’s over. Irreversibly over. “OK.” My body trembles. It feels like all this is just a dream. “I’m sor—”
“Go . . . please,” says Grace, her voice breaking on the second word.
I turn away without touching her. I’ve hugged her a thousand times. I’ve done it lightheartedly. I’ve done it thinking that this will be forever. But the truth is that nothing is forever. And I’d have held her for longer if I’d known it would be the last time.
I don’t feel a thing.