10. Seventeen years old
Seventeen years old
Kath
My head’s pounding. Why am I so hot?
I groan, shifting under the covers. My mouth is dry, my throat feels like sandpaper and my eyes are crusty as I crack them open. Cream walls. A shelf covered in medals. Old swimming posters that feel oddly soothing. I let my gaze drift over them, my foggy brain latching onto the familiarity.
I groan again, pressing my face into the pillow. The party filters back in flashes. The music, the drinks, Bobbie—ugh, Bobbie. Did Sam carry me home? I think so. Maybe.
Slowly, I push myself up, wincing as a dull ache pulses through my skull.
My hair’s tangled around my face, but when I glance at the mirror by the door I see that there aren’t black streaks of mascara smudged under my eyes.
Did I clean my make-up off before bed? That seems suspiciously responsible.
Or maybe Sam made me. Probably the latter.
I glance around. My gaze shifts to the bedside table, where a glass of water and a pack of paracetamol sit next to a note in Sam’s messy scrawl:
Thought you might need these.
God, he’s annoying. And such a good friend. Dammit. I scrabble for my phone and see that the battery’s dead. Probably for the best—I assume there will be a long string of angry texts from Bobbie.
I reach for my bag, rummaging for a pair of shorts before carefully standing. Every movement feels precarious. How much did I drink? I haven’t felt like this before.
This isn’t me. When did I start caving to peer pressure? When did I become this person? Why do I let Bobbie pull this bullshit?
But he likes me. I know he does.
I make my way downstairs, one hand bracing against the banister. Crunchie’s waiting at the bottom, tail thumping against the floor, and even though crouching down makes my stomach lurch, I can’t resist him.
Sam’s sitting at the table, shirtless, wearing only a pair of tracksuit bottoms. It’s unfair that he looks this good after a night out. And that he’s topless.
His mum is sitting across from him, mug in hand, watching him with an expression I can’t quite place. She looks tired.
I shift awkwardly in the doorway, clearing my throat.
“Morning, Kath.” Angie’s expression smooths back into her usual smile. “Would you like a cup of tea?”
I blink at her as she bustles around the kitchen, moving far too quickly for my pounding head to handle.
“Umm, I’m OK.” I ease myself into a chair. “I think I’ll just have some water.”
Sam smirks. “Head feeling OK there, KitKat?”
I level him with a glare. “Fine, thank you very much.”
“Really?” He leans back in his chair. “You look a bit worse for wear.”
I scowl.
“Samuel,” his mum scolds, shooting him a look. “That’s no way to greet a girl in the morning.”
“I don’t know if she is a real girl—I think she’s half bear,” he muses, taking a slow sip of his orange juice. “She was snoring all night. I’m honestly surprised it didn’t wake you and Dad up.”
“You’ll pay for that,” I warn, pointing an accusatory finger at him, cheeks burning but a smile tugging at my lips. “I don’t believe you. I don’t snore.”
“Sam, that’s not nice,” Angie says, though it’s completely undermined by the giggle she tries, and fails, to suppress. Within seconds, all three of us are laughing.
I grimace as my head throbs in protest, setting my glass down gingerly. Crunchie curls up around my feet, as if sensing my need for moral support.
“Now, what do you two want for breakfast?” Angie reaches for her apron.
My stomach roils but Sam doesn’t miss a beat. “Can I have eggs? Your spicy scrambled eggs are the best.”
“My secret recipe.” She grins and he smiles back at her.
His dimple actually makes an appearance. It’s not fair. How does he get to sit there with perfect abs, a dimple and freshly washed hair, while I feel like I’ve been crawling through the desert for days?
“I’m good, thanks,” I say weakly. “I might have some cereal later.”
As she reaches for a cupboard, I catch the slightest wince.
“Are you OK?” I frown.
“Yes, sorry, Kath. Banged my hip earlier.”
I slouch further into my chair, willing my headache to disappear. The moment I smell the eggs hitting the frying pan my stomach lurches.
“You know what? I think I’ll go for that shower now.” I quickly push back from the table. Sam’s laughter follows me all the way upstairs.
After a long, hot shower I start to feel human again. The scent of Sam’s body wash soothes away the last of my headache. By the time I’ve pulled on clean clothes, Sam’s footsteps thud back up the stairs.
“Oi, I’m changing!” I yelp.
He rolls his eyes. “You’re fully dressed,” he points out, already rummaging through his chest of drawers. “I need to grab a shirt before we go out. I showered before you got up.”
As if I need another reminder that he’s been walking around shirtless all morning.
“You’re annoyingly productive,” I grumble as he pulls out a T-shirt and a jumper.
“That’s coming from you?” He raises an eyebrow. “Probably the most productive person I know. And I’m not even being that productive—I just wasn’t the one drinking last night.”
“Yeah, but you look unfairly good this morning for someone who was up so late.”
“I look good?”
I freeze. Shit.
“As if you don’t already know that,” I scoff, trying very hard not to blush. “Don’t fish. And thanks for bringing me home.”
I think I see his hand flex on the drawer for a second before he turns round, jumper in hand. “Hey, I promised I would. I always will.”
We walk the familiar streets to the park near his house, waving at other dog walkers and trying to keep Crunchie from eating every piece of discarded food he finds.
The second we let him off the lead, he explodes into motion, sprinting laps around us and barking like a lunatic.
He looks more like a puppy than a ten-year-old Labrador.
I wish I had half his energy this morning.
Or that I could be as excited about anything as he is about the abandoned tennis ball he’s just unearthed under a tree.
“Did I do anything stupid last night?” I ask abruptly. My memories are hazy, and now that we’re out of the warm cocoon of Sam’s kitchen, the gnawing anxiety from this morning is creeping back in.
Sam glances at me as we turn left at the park’s edge, Crunchie bounds past with both a stick and a tennis ball in his mouth. “What do you mean?”
I hesitate, watching the flowers just beginning to push through the damp soil.
“I mean… did I say anything stupid? Make a fool of myself?” I keep my eyes on the path.
“I can’t actually remember much. I remember talking to Ben about his trip to see his brother, dancing with Claire, and sort of talking to Bobbie.
And then… nothing. Next thing I know, you’re handing me a glass of water in the kitchen. ”
Frustration bubbles up.
“It’s so stupid of me. I never drink that much. I don’t know why I did. I’m such an idiot.”
I hate feeling out of control. And right now, not knowing exactly what I did last night is the ultimate out-of-control feeling.
But part of me knows exactly why I did it.
Because I wanted to be ‘fun’ for Bobbie.
I never used to care about what other people thought, or that nobody had ever asked me out.
I can’t work out when that changed. Maybe when all my friends started getting boyfriends and girlfriends and I felt like I was left out. Unwanted.
But then Bobbie came along, and he chose me. And being singled out felt amazing.
Sam grabs my hand, giving it a firm squeeze.
“You’re not an idiot. You’re allowed to drink too much sometimes. It’s part of growing up. We do stupid things, and then we learn not to do them again.”
His voice is so even, so calm, that it makes my own thoughts slow down.
“And in terms of what you did last night?” He shrugs. “I can’t really tell you that much—I wasn’t with you the whole night. But no one came running to me saying you were doing anything stupid. You were with Bobbie a lot, though. He wanted you to stay over, but I took you home.”
My stomach clenches.
Sam takes the tennis ball from the dog and throws it across the park. He seems oddly tense.
“Promise you won’t hate me for this?” he says, still not looking at me.
I frown at how serious he sounds. “I could never hate you, Sam. You’re my best friend.”
He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t really like Bobbie that much.”
I pause. That’s not what I expected him to say. “Why not?” I ask carefully.
Bobbie’s mentioned before that Sam doesn’t like him, but Sam’s always been perfectly civil. No outright hostility, no arguments. Just… neutral. I always assumed Bobbie was exaggerating.
“I don’t think he’s good enough for you. And at parties, I always feel like he’s giving you a lot to drink.”
He still won’t look at me. Just keeps throwing the ball for Crunchie, eyes locked on the dog as if this conversation isn’t happening.
A weird, bitter feeling creeps into my stomach. I don’t know why, but I feel the need to defend Bobbie. And Sam’s had ages to tell me this, I don’t get why he’s chosen now. “I think I find my own drinks.” I force a laugh. “You’re just being protective.”
Sam hums in response, clearly not convinced.
I feign nonchalance. “Anyway, it’s probably not a big deal. He still hasn’t even asked me to be his girlfriend, so I don’t think it really matters. I don’t think he wants to make it too serious.”
The words feel rehearsed, like something I’ve been telling myself on repeat. I don’t know if I’m trying to justify it to him or to myself.
Sam exhales through his nose, gripping the tennis ball a little tighter before throwing it again. “If you want serious, you deserve serious.”
We both watch as Crunchie tears across the park like it’s the most important mission of his life.
I swallow. “I don’t really know what I want.”
It’s a lie. I do know. And it’s not this. But it’s so nice to feel wanted. Intoxicating. Even if it’s only sometimes.
Sam nudges my arm gently. “Well, don’t undervalue yourself. You’re way too amazing to settle for anything less than what you want.”
My heart picks up, and I open my mouth to say something, but he cuts me off.
“Anyway we should probably get back. I have to leave for training soon and my mum wanted to chat about something before I left.”
I glance at him. He still won’t meet my eyes.