Chapter 3
TORI
My phone is bursting with unread messages as I slip out of Sinclair’s room the next morning.
He doesn’t wake as I climb over him and pull on a pair of his joggers.
I avoid looking in his direction as I gather up my dress, Val’s jacket and my shoes.
Then I shut the door behind me as quietly as possible.
The whole school is silent as I walk barefoot down the corridors. I reach the west wing unnoticed, open my door and perch on my bed. Then I read the messages.
V: Have you got my jacket?
V: Where even are you?
V: Eleanor says you left. Seriously?
V: Fine. Goodnight then, sleep well . . .
V: You’re not with that loser, are you?
Valentine last texted just after three by which time I was fast asleep. Next to Sinclair. Maybe I should have let him know, instead of just disappearing. Not that it sounds like he was all that worried. He could have asked if everything was OK.
He kissed you, Tori. Yesterday. That part wasn’t a dream. It really happened.
I sink backwards onto my bed and lift my hand to my mouth. I touch my lips with my fingertips.
I’ve been kissed. Really, properly kissed.
No need to count that time with Sinclair when we were both still children.
After all, we never even talked about what that kiss meant.
We just ignored it and, the next day, we acted like it had never happened.
I can’t count how many nights I lay awake imagining us doing it again.
But we never did. I never kissed my best friend again. And he never kissed me either.
I stare up at the ceiling. And then there was last night.
Sinclair was jealous. I’ve suspected as much since the start of the school year when Val suddenly began to take an interest in me and we talked more to each other.
Only on Instagram at first, then now and again at break time, or when we were on gardening duty together.
Sinclair generally acted as if he didn’t mind, but yesterday evening it was clear that he doesn’t like Valentine Ward kissing me.
Course he didn’t say a word. Apart from his maunderings later on in bed.
That was weird. But he was drunk. He didn’t know what he was saying.
You’re too good for a guy like him.
What does he know? Val’s great. He has his quirks, but he gets me.
He can understand what it’s like to have a family with high expectations of you.
I think the Wards would be even more pleased than my parents if there really was something between Valentine and me.
And why not? I like him. He’s attentive and passionate.
Especially when it’s only the two of us – it’s just that he can’t show it in front of his friends.
He’d never touch me in front of them the way Sinclair does.
So natural and . . . loving. But Sinclair and I have known each other for yonks.
It’s not the same. He only does it because we both know it doesn’t mean a thing.
But I hardly had anything to do with Val until a couple of months ago.
Things are new and exciting with him. And the fact that a guy like Val Ward is interested in me doesn’t do my ego any harm.
I’ve recently turned eighteen. I’m ready to make my own experiences.
I’ve wasted enough time waiting for my friend to take the initiative.
I reach for my avocado cushion and hug it to my chest with both arms.
So, what’s it like being noticed by the person you want to kiss?
Why did Sinclair say a thing like that? He’s had a thousand opportunities to kiss me.
And he didn’t take a single one. Even that time in the second form, it was me who kissed him.
He didn’t exactly brush me off but he didn’t kiss me back either, and he never even mentioned what happened.
I’m not going to make a fool of myself by reminding him of it.
It was humiliating. And made it very clear that this thing between us is platonic. There’s no changing that.
We’re the best of friends and maybe Sinclair is the most important person in my life.
Maybe I do have more fun with him than I do with anyone else.
Maybe he does understand me: he’s my soul-mate.
And possibly he is outrageously good-looking.
But none of that necessarily means there has to be anything more between us.
It’s not like Emma and Henry, who fell head over heels for each other at first sight.
The kind of thing where everyone could feel how badly they wanted each other and it was only a matter of time till they finally got together.
It’s different with Sinclair and me. We’ve been joined at the hip since the juniors, everyone knows that.
Most of the time, if you find one of us, you’ve found us both.
Sinclair’s part of me, like the freckles on my nose, but does that mean I’m in undying love with him? Please . . . I’m not in love with him.
OK, well, not undyingly, only a tiny wee bit, perhaps, but it’s hopeless.
If he felt the same way, we’d have been an item for ages by now.
We’ve known each other for over six years, and Sinclair’s never made one single move in that direction.
If we can sleep side by side in bed, then clearly nothing’s going to happen.
OK, so I’m finding it harder and harder to relax when I’m all too aware of the weight of his warm body, but that’s just hormones.
If we’re together and he puts his arms round me because I’ve got bellyache from laughing, it does something to me.
But Sinclair is a very physical person. In his dad’s bakery at night, or at the midnight parties, he’s touching me the whole time.
Just casually. He strokes my arm, puts a hand on my knee or massages my shoulders if we’re taking a break from kneading and I could fall asleep. It doesn’t mean a thing to him.
Me either. After all, I’m in love with Valentine Ward. It’s true. He’s the first guy to give me unmissable signals that he finds me attractive. That’s what I wanted. Even if I feel a bit overwhelmed by it sometimes, but I’m not as experienced as Val.
Maybe my nerves when I’m with Val are partly to do with the feeling that Sinclair’s watching us.
That he doesn’t like how much time I’m spending with Val.
Sinclair doesn’t say so out loud, but he doesn’t have to.
The downside of this soul-mate thing is that you feel the other person’s emotions even when you’d rather ignore them.
But I can’t ignore anything that has to do with Sinclair.
Things are tense between us and that’s my fault.
Even though I can do what I like. Hey, I didn’t say a word back in the third form when Sinclair suddenly blushed to his ears every time Eleanor Attenborough walked down the corridor.
I just breathed a sigh of relief when she finally got together with Louis in her year and the danger was over.
Only for a bit, though – the two of them didn’t last long.
But luckily, even then, Eleanor didn’t go out with Sinclair.
Why would she? That would have involved him speaking to her, and obviously he’s legendary for his skills in that area.
I don’t think they’d have made a great couple anyway.
And I had these irrational possessive feelings for Sinclair back then, so he must be feeling the same way now.
Whatever happens with Val, I’ll always be Sinclair’s best friend, but who likes sharing their soul-mate?
I roll slightly onto my side. But what if Sinclair wanted to tell me something last night that he’d never have the guts to say sober?
And why does that idea make my belly tingle with excitement?
If I shut my eyes and imagine not Val but Sinclair kissing me with that unexpected determination, I go weak at the knees – even lying down.
The world would implode if our lips ever touched again.
So that’s probably why it’ll never happen. It would be too dangerous for everyone.
It’s early morning and it’s the weekend, which means I don’t have to do the morning-run shite, or get to class either, but I still can’t fall back to sleep.
My mixed-up thoughts are keeping me awake.
They’re whirling, not leaving me in peace, even when I reach for my brand-new book.
Hope MacKenzie is my absolute favourite author so I made a special trip to Edinburgh to pick up the signed copy of her latest novel that I pre-ordered from Waterstones months ago.
As always, her opening sentence is stunning, but after just a few lines, my mind wanders.
I should reply to Val, say sorry and take him back his jacket. I should ask my parents about this dinner with the Wards. I should confront my friend with what he said last night. And, if I’m honest, I don’t really want to do any of those things.
SINCLAIR
Man, was I drinking. No idea what it all was, but my pounding head and furry tongue indicate that it wasn’t just a wee bit. I spend the whole crappy Sunday in bed, trying not to whitey. It’s grim.
Henry brings me some food from the dining room, but just the idea of eating gives me the boak.
I guess the upside of the whole thing is that I can’t remember the details as I sit in full uniform for the Monday-morning assembly.
Mum’s standing at the lectern at the front, talking about the ball and what a success it was, and lecturing the third-formers who were stupid enough to get caught with booze. Just like every year.