Page 38

He gives me a long look, pinches his eyes back at me. “I didn’t say that.”

“Well, listen—” I sit up straighter and flip my hair over my shoulders. “I don’t know whether you know this, but I’ve never been the biggest fan of Minty—”

He rolls his eyes. “You don’t say?”

“She was so indifferent towards you in school. She was only interested in kissing you once you’d signed with United as a trainee.”

“—I know.” He groans.

I shrug, light as a feather. “—Me? I’ve been trying to kiss you since I was thirteen.”

He squashes a smile. “You have been kissing me since you were thirteen.”

“Yes.” I bat my eyes at him. “I suppose I have.”

“So why stop now?” he says, just with this playful, little quarter-smile. Nods his head his own way, signalling for me to come to him, and I do.

I crawl across the floor and into his lap, press my nose against this.

He holds my face in his hands and stares at me, eyes all big and gentle.

“We should probably stop doing this.”

“Okay,” I say, swallowing heavy. “Now?”

That quarter-smile goes to a full half.

“No.” He laughs, and then he kisses me.

God, and you know what, kissing Fletch is like a blanket being thrown around your shoulders on a cool night. Immediate warmth; immediately, I’m comfortable; immediately, I’m okay.

Was I not okay before? I hadn’t realised. I thought I was. Maybe I was—? Maybe I was more than okay, and it’s only now that it’s over and we’re done for that I’m not okay.

Am I okay?

I think I’m okay.

I’m with Freddie, so I’m fine—even if I’m not fine.

Even if every morsel of my brain feels how your skin does when you touch a hot element and your hand’s burning—like how even if you can’t see the burn, you can still feel it—?

In your skin, under your skin, and there’s an ache in me that I’m here doing this with someone who isn’t Joah, which is stupid—because I’m twenty ! Did I think we’d last?

I’m such a fucking twat—nothing lasts. Ever.

And Joah’s an artist (don’t tell him I said that, his head’s already too big).

But artists, they’re good with their words and they’re good at making you think you’re special and making you feel special, but I’m not special.

What Joah and I had— evidently —was not special, so.

Here I am, again. Literally again because I’ve done this a trillion times with Freddie, but also metaphorically again because I do…

do… this . I get tricked. I fall in love too quickly, and it doesn’t just burn out—it burns through me.

I don’t like how that feels—that gaping hole in the centre of me—And do you know what?

Between us, this might be the worst one yet.

I think probably every time up until now I’ve thought okay, I think that boy is the one , but this time, with Joah, I don’t know—I suppose a tiny bit of me believed it in a different way. I think we just felt different.

But this just proves my sad little point…feelings are shit and liars.

Feelings are for the weak, and though it pains me to admit—I am the weakest of the weak.

Can’t be alone for even a minute without a boy by her side to make her feel better , I read that about myself in a magazine once. It stung a lot, only because I realise it was completely, utterly true.

And do you know what’s worse? It’s really only better for a second, isn’t it?

It’s just pressure on the wound. The wound’s still there underneath the hand that’s covering it, that’s making the bleeding stop—and the hand can’t stay there forever.

Hands never do. But I suppose better for a second is still somehow better than just worse all the time.

Besides—nothing’s ever worse with Fletch. At best, it’s fantastic, at not-best, it’s neutral.

With him, it’s just autopilot, you know? We’ve been on cruise control with this kind of thing for what feels like half my life.

It was Freddie, by the way.

Freddie is who I actually lost my virginity to. I was fifteen—maybe even not quite that—we were by ourselves, there was a snowstorm—we were at his house. Tom Petty had just released Full Moon Fever , and Fletch had it on cassette.

It wasn’t planned. He did have condoms, though—so it must have been on his mind a little bit.

We were on top of his bed—not under the sheets—we laugh about this all the time now.

Because neither of us had had sex before, we didn’t know what would happen—and certainly neither of us knew how to wash sheets, so we didn’t want to have sex in the bed in case— you know …

So we did it on top of the bed. Which was a really bad idea because duvets are significantly harder to wash than sheets. I think we flipped it over in the end.

Do you know, I think afterwards, after we did it, that’s one of my favourite nights of my entire life.

Still now even (and I’ve had some pretty good nights since), but he and I tangled in his duvet, sitting on his floor, wrapped up in each other…

? Pretty hard to beat. We stayed like that until morning when his parents and sister were finally able to make it home.

“Free Fallin’” still makes my stomach do backflips.

And he’s so good at it, that’s worth noting. So good at knowing me and preempting me and what I want and need—definitely more than I’m able to for myself.

I’ve asked him about it before, why and how he’s so good. He just smiled and said that he just pays attention.

There’s something so sexy about that, isn’t there?

So unbelievably different to what it’s like with Joah.

Jo is all passion, all-consuming, everything-all-at-once intense, his hands are busy-busy everywhere. I’m usually quite tossed about—and don’t get me wrong, I actually love it—it’s very fun. The funnest sex I have ever had in my life I have had with Joah.

But I wonder—how many other people is he having fun sex with?

***

Afterwards, I lie on my back, staring at his ceiling.

“You alright?” Fletch asks, rolling in to face me.

I glance at him. “Yes, fine.” I force a smile. “Brilliant.”

He squints at me, assessing. “You’re in your head.”

Our eyes hold. No point lying to him. “Just a bit.”

He watches me close before he asks his next question. “Are you sad?”

I suspect he already knows the answer.

I swallow, my eyes drop from his. “More than I wish I were.”

“Should we not have done—” He nods his head back in time. “…that?”

“No—” I smack his arm. “Of course we should have.” Then I give him a stern look. “And we’ll be doing that again.”

His head rolls back and he stares up at the ceiling again. “Ysolde—”

“Fletcher…”

He looks at me again, an eyebrow up. “Sol.”

I mirror his face. “Fletch.”

He laughs, then shakes his head. “I don’t like to hurt you.”

“You didn’t hurt me.” I give him a look. “ Someone else hurt me. You’re making me feel better.”

“This”—he waves a finger between us—“is very dysfunctional.”

I nod appreciatively. “Correct.”

Then he gives me a right, so…? look. “So maybe we shouldn’t?”

I glance at him like he’s being silly. “We already have”

His face stays serious. “But maybe we shouldn’t again .”

I roll my eyes at him. “Take your clothes off.”

“Sol—”

“Fletch—” I copy his tone. “Take your clothes off.”

And do you know what? That boy shakes his head at me. Half because he’s a good guy, half because he’s on a power trip. The nerve of him, either way!

I give him a look as I sit up now—remind him I am in fact a supermodel.

“This is going to be so embarrassing for you…” I tell him, brushing my hair over my bare shoulders. All of me is bare though, I suppose.

“For me ?” he quips as he props himself up on his elbows, watching me—properly watching me. My plan’s already working—how could it not? I’m literally a naked supermodel and that boy is staring at me like he’s a cartoon coyote and I’m a rib eye with legs.

“Yes.” I nod. “For you.”

“Yeah?” He smirks, staring at not-my-eyes. “How’s that?”

“Well, in ten seconds when you’re positively begging for me to have sex with you, you’ll just feel silly.”

“Really?” He licks his bottom lip, amused. “Go on, how’s that happening, then?”

I stand there in his living room in nothing but knickers I put on for Joah. “Close your eyes.”

He rolls them first, but then he does what he’s told.

I pluck a CD from his stack and pop it into the player.

“She’s a good girl, loves her mama—” blares over the speakers. “Loves Jesus and America too—”

His eyes spring open before they go to slits. “Brat.”

“Yes.” I nod in agreement, smiling triumphantly.

He breathes in through his nose, looking annoyed. “Ysolde…”

I blink sweetly at him. “Yes, Fletch?”

He stands to his feet. “Take your clothes off.”