Page 44 of Vying Girls (Girls of Hazelhurst #2)

I bet they all grew up here, over on Hazel Point. Coddled, their place in life secured by nepotism. Just like mine, I guess, only I got a little more character development.

‘Are we gonna do that?’ Tilda asks.

I frown. ‘Dance?’

She nods, not looking at me. ‘Be a shame not to in this dress. I’m sure you didn’t buy it just for it to be sat in.’

I eye her coldly. ‘I think that scotch has gone to your head.’

‘Oh. For sure.’ She peeks at me. ‘So. Dance?’

I push off the wall I’m leaning on, levelling her with a look that makes her cower back. I hold out a casual hand. She takes one more sip of her whiskey, a big one, dumps her glass, then takes my hand.

‘Jesus. Your fingers are freezing.’

‘Always.’ She squeezes my hand. ‘Unlike yours.’

I lead her to the middle of the floor, hoping to lose us in the other dancers.

There aren’t many. Margot’s here now. She executes a quick dance move that makes Fina groan aloud.

Zaccaro’s got Aurelie clutched to him, speaking to her in low tones.

Her eyes are still vacant, like she can’t hear him at all.

Dancing with him is clearly the last thing she wants to be doing.

Can’t blame her. My skin crawls at the thought of being that close to the smarmy bastard.

I sway with Tilda half-heartedly. She’s too close for me not to look at.

Smiling shyly, she closes her eyes. ‘This is so weird.’

‘Your idea.’

‘I know. It’s not you. It’s everyone else.’ She opens her eyes again. ‘Maybe it’s you a bit. I’m still getting over it.’

I nod, not needing to ask what it is.

It does feel surreal tonight. This whole room, cut from some fantasy novel, seems suspended from the real world. We keep finding ourselves in these dreamlike pockets, like reality’s struggling to piece us together. Like us meeting again goes against some unknown laws.

I flex the hand that’s in Tilda’s, worried it’s sweating.

Tilda smiles, her hips skimming mine, her other hand laid unmoving on my shoulder.

Her back’s warm under the velvet, despite her constant insistence to the contrary.

My fingers twitch. All of me is twitchy.

Not sure if it’s with the urge to pull Tilda closer or to run away.

‘Did you like my present then?’ she asks quietly.

‘Did I like the reminder of one of the most formative rejections of my life?’

Her face falls in an instant, my heart involuntarily clenching at the sight.

‘I didn’t even think.’ She rolls her eyes at herself. ‘I’m sorry. Ugh. Why am I such a fucking fuck up?’

I frown at her tone, stamping down on the urge to correct her. But I can’t, can I? When Tilda fucks up, she does it colossally.

‘I promise I didn’t mean anything like that.’

‘Then what did you mean?’

Her lips fall closed, eyes turning wary. ‘I just wanted you to know…’

‘What?’

‘Just—you know.’ She looks away, hand flexing agitatedly on my shoulder.

‘When I said it wasn’t a bad thing if…I guess I just wanted you to know I feel, you know, the same.

’ She blows out a breath. ‘It was just a good idea in my head at the time. Poetic, maybe. I feel bad about…now that I’m, you know.

I obviously didn’t know you liked girls back then.

I thought you were just messing around.’

‘My first lesbian heartbreak,’ I murmur, perversely enjoying her discomfort. ‘I might have come out years earlier if not for that early rejection. Talk about core fucking memory.’

She closes her eyes, self-disgust seeping from her pores. She fucking reeks of it. The force takes me back.

‘Relax.’ I squeeze her hand, finally relenting. ‘I’m kidding. I didn’t know I liked girls back then. I was fucking ten.’ I fall into her glittery eyes, feeling her tiny puffs of breath. ‘I just knew I liked you.’

‘And now?’

‘Now? Now I fucking hate you.’

Tilda doesn’t even blink. ‘Right. Always dance this close to your enemies, do you?’

‘You know what they say. Keep your enemies close and all that.’

‘You can hate someone and still… you know.’

I hum, ignoring the warmth suffusing my body. ‘Have you ever hate-fucked before, Matilda?’

She shakes her head, eyes wide and guileless like she hasn’t spent the day fucking two people.

‘It wouldn’t start like this. Too obvious. Too opportune. It would be unexpected, enough to knock your lungs out with the shock of it. Something that leaves you reeling for days, drowning in regret and that relentless, nagging urge to do it over…and over…again.’

Tilda swallows. ‘Sounds like you have experience.’ Her thumb moves on my shoulder, licking up the edge of my neck.

‘In my imagination, maybe.’

‘It doesn’t have to stay in our imaginations.’

Our. Like she’s been thinking about it too.

‘Like I said. It wouldn’t start like this.’

She tightens her grip on me when I start to pull away. ‘Then how would it start? I want to know.’

I pull away from her, levelling her with a glare. ‘Don’t play games with me, Tilda. I can’t promise I’ll play nice.’

‘I’m not playing,’ she says, quietly and firmly. She follows me to the door, skipping to catch up with my longer steps. ‘Please don’t get mad. We were having a good time tonight.’

‘We were. So leave it.’

I can tell she hasn’t though, even as we move silently through the forest. I hear the cogs moving, her thoughts so loud she might as well be shouting.

‘What if,’ she begins, breathless from chasing me, ‘what if this whole time—’

‘Tilda—’

‘Well, what if it’s all been leading us here. What if—’

‘Don’t.’ I whirl round, forcing her to stop. ‘There’s nothing going on here. No serendipity. No magic. It’s all just a coincidence. Nothing more, nothing less. Don’t disappoint yourself.’

Tilda searches my eyes. ‘I don’t think you believe that. You’re just…’

‘What?’

‘I don’t know! Clearly angry. In a misdirected way. Everything that’s happened…Nic, we were both just fucking kids. We were victims. Both of us. And I think we still are. I still feel like I’m to blame for everything, you still haven’t come to terms with what your dad did.’

‘Don’t fucking talk about him.’

‘See, this is what I mean. It’s not healthy, believing this story you’re telling yourself. It’s not the truth. He did do what I said he did. He did.’

‘How do you know? Like you said, we were kids.’

‘My mum—’

‘She lied to you once. Haz told me, that your mum said Dad went to prison.’

‘Well—maybe she thought he did. Maybe she didn’t know—’

‘She knew, Tilda. Fuck’s sake. She might have been a useless mother, but I was there that day too. I know the police were involved. Of course she knew how Dad ended up. So maybe it’s you who doesn’t know the true story.’

Tilda sighs, looking off. ‘We’re just going around in circles.’

‘Then let’s fucking stop.’ I close my eyes and take a breath, thinking past my hammering heart, the anger threatening to erupt. ‘Just today…let’s stop.’

Tilda’s watching me when I open my eyes. She gives a slow nod and then whispers, ‘Can we pretend we’re eight again?’

I smile thinly. ‘What, when you hated me being around? When you screamed every time I touched your stuff? When you’d hold your breath until you almost passed out whenever you didn’t get your way?’

She rolls her eyes. ‘Fine. Nine, then. I was used to you by then.’

I give a small nod. ‘Nine it is.’

Tilda yawns beside me, kicking up mulch with her boots, heedless of the dirt dusting the hem of her dress. ‘What are we doing?’

‘Shut up. I’m thinking.’ I arc my phone around, frowning through the foggy trees. Swear this place becomes something else at night. Where the fuck is it?

‘Lost your tent?’

‘No. I’m not that dumb.’ I spot a light through the trees, a satisfied smile tugging at my lips. ‘Come on.’

Tilda follows, shivering silently now. ‘What’s that?’ she asks, eyeing the large plastic container, the bright light inside it.

I flick my head to it. ‘Come look. You like moths, right?’

Tilda approaches cautiously, watching as I sift through the eggboxes, triggering the manic flutter of tiny wings.

Her breath catches. ‘Woah. What is this?’

‘Moth trap. For the eco students, I guess.’

Tilda gets to her knees, tucking hair behind her ears as she peers into the trap.

I hand her the first egg box. ‘Don’t ask me what they’re called.’

‘This is a mottled grey.’ She turns the cardboard over. ‘Same as this one.’ She points to a dusty grey looking moth. ‘They’re common. Clearly.’

She puts it down, an excited smile flickering on her lips as she picks up another. ‘Oh, look! A red chestnut. Wouldn’t have thought you’d find them in a forest like this.’

I shake my head, eyeing the rust-coloured insect. ‘Wouldn’t have a clue.’

‘Mine’s a Death’s-head Hawk.’ She pulls back the strap of her dress, exposing her moth tattoo. ‘They’re not in the UK until later in the year. Apparently, anyway. I’ve never seen one. It’s on my list of things to see before I die.’

I can’t help but smile at her enthusiasm. ‘Area of interest, huh?’

‘Yeah. Moths are cool.’

‘Well,’ I murmur, ‘consider this my birthday gift to you.’

Tilda flicks her eyes my way. ‘Right. Because the dress wasn’t enough.’

‘Nah. Just didn’t want you making me look bad.’

She smiles, holding my eyes like a snare. As I fight to look away, hers suddenly flood with tears.

‘What?’ I snap, more discomforted than angry. ‘Why the fuck are you crying?’

‘I don’t know, I don’t know.’ She grabs hold of my hand and squeezes. ‘I just…being here with you.’ She blows out a breath, wiping her eyes. ‘I know you don’t think it’s any more than a coincidence, but…’ She trails off, shaking her head, still clutching my hand.

I remove it carefully. ‘Maybe it is something more,’ I allow.

She nods resolutely, carefully inspecting each eggbox and calling out the names of the moths she knows.

As if her tears never happened.

‘Bet Tommy’s been out here. He likes moths too, you know.’

‘Does he now?’

‘Mm-hm. He made an app for identification and everything. It was ace.’

‘Not crushing on my cuz, are you?’