Chapter 8
Little Bit of Truth - You Me At Six
I
f the (printed and laminated) itinerary Abby had been presented with the previous evening was to be believed, she would be afforded very little time to work on her thesis in the coming week. It would have been wise to spend an hour before bed going down a research spiral or attempting to put her thoughts on page. Instead, she lay in the spot Erik had sprawled earlier and opened the draft of her novel.
Abby typed furiously, determined to channel her anger and…frustration over Erik’s behaviour at the bar into something productive. She’d last left off in the midst of a flirty, banter-filled scene between her main characters. Thanks to her sour mood, the tone was quickly shifting. Fun jests grew barbs; gazes filled with fire; light voices turned terse.
Writing had always been therapeutic for her. Weaving her troubles into fiction made them feel smaller. More manageable.
How ironic that Erik had been the one to help her figure that out.
Tell me a story.
It was something they’d been saying for over a decade. Whenever life was too difficult to talk about—whenever one of them would try to open up or ask advice and instead find themselves tongue-tied—the other would ask for a story. There wasn’t much they kept from each other. Wasn’t much they weren’t comfortable sharing. But sometimes the words were hard to come by, and it made it easier to pretend it wasn’t real. An outpouring of emotions in a safe space they had made for each other. And once the seal was broken, the story would often morph halfway, changing from third to first person as they came to terms with the truths they were revealing.
It was a good system.
It was how Abby had realised she wanted to be a writer.
She’d always loved reading. Loved the way books could transport her, transform her. Shape her thoughts and her outlook on life. But it wasn’t until she had begun twisting her own feelings into stories that she had realised how helpful it could be to create . The beauty and comfort she found in books—she could conjure that for other people, all while working through the mess in her own head.
But even with that realisation, writing a whole novel had always felt like a pipedream. One she could barely admit to herself, never mind anyone else. So academia, with its endless papers and journals and explorations of themes and ideas had seemed like a viable substitute. She could write based on the words and worlds of others, with fairly minimal risk of rejection. There was little objectively right or wrong when dissecting literature, only how well you could justify your arguments. As long as she could find supporting evidence, she had the power to make just about anything true. It was a superpower she often wished for in the real world.
Over the years she had daydreamed about the story she might tell, once she was brave enough. And when even her beloved university books had begun to feel like a gilded cage, that document filled with snippets of dialogue and vaguely outlined scenes—the one that was just for fun—had begun to call her name.
Every spare moment of the last six months had been spent working on it. It wasn’t good. It wasn’t anywhere near finished. But it was hers . And she loved it.
When her vision started blurring and her body grew heavy, she shut her laptop, dimmed the lights, and crashed into her pillows with a huff, visions of Erik’s intense stares still dancing behind her eyes.
Abby’s alarm clock mingled with the sound of three gentle taps on the door separating her room from Erik’s. She opened her eyes with a groan, wondering if she had imagined it. The knock sounded again, slightly louder. Abby slid out of bed and shuffled towards her door.
Erik was expected when she yanked it open. The cinnamon twist he held out to her was not.
Her heart swelled slightly at the sight. He’d woken early enough to shower, ready himself for the day, and head down to the dining room to collect her favourite treat before she got out of bed. It was kind. Thoughtful. Erik . And most of her annoyance from the night before evaporated.
She looked up from the pastry in his hand and found his eyes taking her in. An amused smile curved his lips as he glanced at her ridiculous top-knot, curly tendrils escaping from the large bundle. The smile tightened as his eyes dipped lower, taking in her shirt.
His shirt, actually.
He’d given her the old athletics team shirt to sleep in one Saturday night, before he padded down the stairs to spend the night on the sofa. It had been almost routine for him to hand her a large shirt and shorts when she spent the night at his family’s house. But the routine had been disrupted the following morning, when the large grey shirt she now wore had found its way to the bottom of her bag instead of his laundry basket. For whatever reason, that soft, heady mix of Erik had clung particularly strongly to that shirt, and she hadn’t been able to bring herself to part with it. Erik had never mentioned it. She’d hoped he’d never noticed.
Judging from the surprise in his voice when he spoke next, she’d been right. ‘Did you bring any of your own clothes?’ he croaked.
Abby shrugged, and the motion sent the shirt swishing around her thighs. The brush of fabric against her skin reminded her that, unlike when they were teenagers, her legs were bare where the hem hit her thighs. Erik’s gaze drifted further, stopping on the spot where soft grey cotton met pale skin. ‘It’s comfy,’ she said simply.
When she spoke, Erik snapped his eyes quickly back to meet hers. Something suspiciously like guilt crept onto his face, and he held out the sugar-dusted peace offering. Abby eyed it with just enough scepticism to pretend she wasn’t drooling inwardly.
‘What’s this?’
‘An olive branch. I’m sorry.’
Abby’s face softened slightly. ‘You should be.’
Erik gestured at the pastry again. She tore off the edge and popped it into her mouth with a pleased sigh. In a fight between cinnamon twists and sex, she wasn’t sure sex would come out on top.
‘You can have some if you tell me why you were being a dick,’ she said.
Erik shrugged, extending the pastry towards her again. Abby finally took it and enjoyed another large bite. ‘Fine. No treat for you. I still want an explanation.’
‘You were right last night. I was jealous.’
Something twisted in Abby’s chest. He couldn’t mean—
‘Not like that,’ Erik rushed out. ‘It’s just…I haven’t been able to spend any real time with you in years, Abby. Despite what I will have my parents believe as long as they’re paying for this very nice room, I’m not here for them. I’m here because I wanted to see you.’ He ran a hand through his already destroyed hair. The sight made her heart ache a little, knowing how much he must have been anxiously tugging on it before knocking on her door to get it into that state. She was still going to give him hell, but maybe she could go a little easier on him than she’d planned.
‘You didn’t even know I was coming when you agreed,’ Abby observed, narrowing her eyes. ‘I wasn’t coming.’
Erik flashed a grin that somehow managed to be simultaneously cheeky and bashful. It was annoying how adorable it was.
‘It’s true that I would have joined them anyway. But I was counting on my powers of persuasion to convince you.’
‘Prick,’ Abby muttered. But he’d made her smile as she said it, and she knew he’d know the game was up.
Eyebrows raised, Erik looked at her imploringly. ‘I realise it’s dumb and childish, and I definitely overreacted, but you’re my best friend and I’ve missed you, and I saw that guy and the thought of you spending this trip hanging out with someone else just— I’m sorry, okay? I guess I’ve always been a little selfish when it comes to sharing you,’ he finished with a crooked smile.
Abby wasn’t sure what she’d expected him to say after their spat in the hallway. Perhaps that was why her stomach was tied into confused knots that felt a lot like disappointment.
‘It won’t happen again?’ She eyed him shrewdly.
Erik faltered, before saying he would try.
She found herself wondering how much was left in the gaps between his words, but she nodded, prepared to take him at what he said. Not prepared to let herself hope for more. The cinnamon twist long since demolished, Abby threw her sugar-dusted hands around Erik’s neck, pressing a sticky kiss to his cheek.
‘You know after all these years, you’re still my favourite person?’ she whispered in his ear.
Erik nodded, bringing himself even closer with the motion. Abby tried to ignore how perfectly her body curved into his. How she was just the right height to rest her cheek over his heart, feeling the steady flutter against her skin. How his arm fit snugly in the hollow of her back.
‘I think you always will be, too. You’re forgiven, you big oaf.’ Abby stepped back before she melted into him entirely. She paused, weighing her next words carefully. ‘I love you, even when you’re being an idiot.’
Not an unreasonable concept, best friends loving each other. One that was expected, some might think. They’d said the words frequently growing up. Still signed cards, letters, and emails ‘all my love’. But somewhere around adolescence, when the teasing about them being in love with each other came less from elderly relatives and more from their peers, those three words, said so directly, began to feel loaded.
‘I love you too, Sunshine.’ Erik’s voice was rougher than it had been a moment before, his eyes clouded with the same unreadable expression he’d worn the previous night. It unnerved her, not knowing exactly what he was thinking. ‘You should get ready. Your parents will kill me if we’re late.’