We were from different worlds.
That’s how these stories always start, isn’t it?
This isn’t that kind of story.
We were though.
Ben was glitter, I was dust. Ben was golden, I was grey. Ben ruled the school, I ruled the scruffy patch of weeds behind the astroturf. Ben scored goals, I scored weed. Ben wore the latest football boots, I coloured in the worn patches of my biker boots with permanent marker. Ben was one of Them, I was never truly one of anything. Ben smiled, I scowled. Ben ruled, I rebelled.
We never spoke during the day.
But he would always meet me at 4.45 p.m., on the wall. “You all right, Mercedes?” He appeared out of the darkness, spinning a football on his finger, and sat down next to me. “How was noise practice?”
I flicked the ball. It bounced and he caught it expertly. “Band practice was fine, thank you. How was the-pointless-kicking-of-a-ball-around-a-square?”
He laughed, a snort of it, and spun the ball again. “It was great, thank you. We won.”
“Won what?”
“The game, durr.”
“Didn’t anyone tell you it’s not the winning, but the taking part that counts?”
Another snort of laughter and he grinned. Ben’s grin could melt most people. But I wasn’t most people. Well, I didn’t want him to think I was. That would ruin everything.
“That’s what losers say,” Ben said.
“You splitting the world into winners and losers, now?”
The smile stretched wider, my insides melted further. I gulped it down.
“Around you, Miss Angry?” he said. “I wouldn’t dare.”
*
We walked the back way into town, like always – taking the shortcut through the scrubby woods, getting mud on our shoes. A hanging bit of branch got stuck in my hair and pulled me back with a snap. I twisted to try and get it off, but my scalp complained as it pulled harder.
“Ouch.” I glowed, mortified.
Ben stopped, laughed, and turned to help me untangle it.
“Stop struggling, you’re making it worse,” he said.
I held still dumbly, not sure how to act with his face so close to mine. He smelled amazing – of expensive aftershave and clean after the shower. “Wow. It’s proper stuck. This tree really likes you.”
I wiggled, my scalp twinging in pain as my hair tangled further. “Can you get it out?” I had nightmare visions of him having to leave me here to go get scissors.
“Yes, hold still though. You’re making it worse. God, your hair is SO long.”
I closed my eyes for a moment to block the view of him so close, to block how it made me feel. Could he see the caking of my cheap foundation around my nose? Would he notice the beige bumps on my chin where concealer was covering the cluster of spots that took up camp there a year ago and wouldn’t leave? Was he comparing my grey, flaky face to the perfect pore-free skin of the girls he normally hangs out with? Girls like Jenny Carrington, whose pricey foundation floats flawlessly on to her glowing kale-eating skin. I heard he made out with her at Danny’s party last month… The sort of gossip that trickles down to even the social dredges like me.
I opened my eyes and found his. They were hazel, big, as he stared at my face with intense concentration. His fingers fumbled clumsily with my hair – probably making it worse. I remembered one evening last year, before my big brother, Alfie, left us. He’d said he didn’t think plaiting hair was hard, so I’d tried to teach him. It was like a gorilla trying to figure out how to play violin or something.
“Got it!” Ben announced triumphantly. “You’re free.”
“Thanks.” I felt the distance between us the moment he stepped away.
*
We went to McDonald’s. We ordered what we always order. Ben paid like he always paid. He provides the fast food, I provide the dazzling entertainment… Ha. And the vodka. Or gin. Or whisky. Or cider. Whatever I occasionally steal without my stepdad noticing. We sat in our corner booth and ate. He had two double cheeseburgers, fries and a strawberry shake. I had a Happy Meal, still compensating for all the Happy Meals I never got as a kid.
“You get a good toy?” He pointed to my bright cardboard box and I could see the meat in his mouth as he talked.
I tipped the box over and a neon pink pony fell out. “Just a heavily gendered plastic horse,” I replied.
Ben rolled his eyes. “Always a conspiracy with you, isn’t there?”
I nodded and took a slurp of my chocolate milkshake. “Always.” But when he wasn’t looking, I tucked the pony into my coat pocket for Natalia. She would love it. I could maybe even save it for Christmas, give it to her as a present. Just in case Mum and my stepdad forgot.
I pointed to Ben’s milkshake. “Strawberry?”
He sighed. “And what’s wrong with strawberry?”
“It’s just pink, that’s all.”
He grinned his grin, bit the straw. “And you were just about to go off on a gender rant… Hypocrite.”
I smiled back, despite myself. “But would you order strawberry if your football mates were here?”
“As a matter of fact, I would.”
“Well, that’s told me, hasn’t it?”
He took another slurp, reached for a cluster of fries and folded them between his white teeth. “Tell me, Mercedes, is there any part of the universe you don’t want to start a fight with?”
I used my milkshake cup to toast him. “Is there any part of the universe you don’t want to charm?”
“There’s nothing wrong with being friendly.”
“There’s nothing wrong with calling an arse an arse.”
“Isn’t it supposed to be a spade?”
“I prefer arse.”
He raised his eyebrows at that, and smirked. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, you’re such a LAD!” And I chucked a chip at him. It landed right on his forehead and ricocheted on to the floor.
“I deserved that,” he agreed. Still holding eye contact, still smirking.
And I thought, Are you thinking of me like that? In a nice way? Do I ever cross your mind when I’m not there? Do you ever wonder what I’m doing when we ignore each other at school? Like I do with you.
Ben looked away, a tiny bit of red rising up from underneath his polo shirt. He pointed out the steamy window to our nondescript high street. “It’s snowing.”
My eyes followed his finger. “Bollocks.”
“I know.”
It was only a flurry, the odd flake tumbling out of the sky and melting on the chewing-gum-laden pavement. I shivered in anticipation, even though we were right under the heating unit. It wasn’t time for us to go to the park yet. We didn’t go until at least eight.
Ben stood up, stretched. “I’ll get more chips.”
I watched people’s eyes following him as he walked to the counter. A diamond in the rough-side-of-town. A nugget of gold in the silt.
Their eyes went from him to me. I looked into the cup, taking off the top so I could stir the shake with my straw. I knew what they were thinking. Why is a guy like that with a girl like her? I put my finger over the top of my straw, lifted it out of the shake, then released my finger so the liquid dropped back down. I looked out of the window at the people bracing themselves against the cold, leaning into the wind.
We were going to freeze later.
A bag of fries skidded to a halt in front of me. “Your chips, madam.” Ben bowed.
I smiled and saluted. “Why, thank you, kind sir.”
“You’re supposed to curtsey to a bow, not salute,” he complained, sliding back into the booth and reaching for a handful of fries.
“Um, Ben? Look at me.” I pointed at myself. “My name is Mercedes, for fuck’s sake – let’s not pretend I’ll ever be someone who curtseys.”
It came out harsher than I meant it to, inflating the air with awkward. It was like that a lot with us. Loaded silences more frequent than trains at rush hour. Always weighing up the other’s comments. Can I trust you to keep our secret? About what we do together?
It was him who diffused the tension. It always was.
“You’ve got such a chip on your shoulder.” He reached over and put an actual French fry on my shoulder.
I smiled, getting a whiff of his smell. “Naffest. Joke. Ever.”
“Says the person who just used the word ‘naff’?”
“Naff is a naff word?”
“Naff is the naffest of all the words. Only naff people use the word naff.”
I plucked the chip off and ate it, the salt burning my tongue.
“I can’t believe you just ate the chip on your shoulder. Does that mean you’ll stop teasing me about my trainers?”
I looked pointedly down at his trainers peeking out beneath the table. The latest Nikes, still mostly fresh and white from the box. The sort of trainers that would feed Mum, me and Natalia for a month. Not that you can eat trainers…
“I’ll stop teasing you about your trainers, the day you stop wearing trainers that define everything that is wrong with this world.”
He rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. Maybe that’s what you need to be golden, to glow like Ben glowed – effortless good humour.
“Everything that’s wrong with this world?”
I nodded.
“What about famine? Or disease? Or global warming? Or antibiotic resistance?”
I pulled a face. “How do you know about antibiotic resistance?”
“Biology homework… Actually, that reminds me. I’ve got to do some.”
“Swot.”
“Stoner.” He rummaged in his bag and got out his books, opening a textbook to a page about panda breeding cycles.
Stoner? I’ll show him. I got out my music coursework and spread all my stuff out, deliberately taking up more than my half of the table. He rolled his eyes again. Smiling again.
We worked and ate chips, dipping them into both our milkshakes. Sometimes I looked up and watched him work. He did this thing with his tongue when he concentrated that I found kind of mesmerizing, rolling it into his cheek.
Once, when I glanced at him, I caught him doing the same. We both turned red and looked back down at our papers. His expression hadn’t been admiring though … more puzzled, like I was an equation he was trying to solve.
I finished my music essay and moved on to my maths homework. Ben was good for my GCSEs, that was for sure. I never used to do work – never used to see the point. But since we’d been coming to McDonald’s, I did it because he was doing it and it would be weird if I just … I dunno … stared at him.
But soon the chips ran out. The place had got busy. People stood with laden trays, eyeing our empty ones with furrowed brows. It was time to go.
“Ready, camper?” Ben asked, packing his stuff away.
I pointed out of the window to the snowflakes swirling under the orange glow of the streetlights. “It’s still snowing,” I said, stating the obvious.
“Shit.” He so rarely swore and I jumped. “It’s going to be freezing. You brought … you know?”
“Yep. I’ve been saving this bottle, to celebrate the almost-end of term.”
“Well, that will help, I suppose.”
*
It was knock-the-breath-out-of-you cold as we emerged, pulling our coats around us, Ben shoving on his famous bobble hat. We didn’t mention the cold, we didn’t complain. We were dedicated to what this was. We walked, wordlessly, to the park. I glanced at my phone, it was half eight. We’d managed to eke out our McDonald’s section of the evening for half an hour longer than usual. I had a few messages from the band.
Today was sic —Mandy
I’ve got a boner just thinking about how good we sounded —Pete
I smiled and tried to type back, but my hands were too cold and I gave up after misspelling the first word four times.
At least Ben had a proper coat, I thought bitterly. It was a Barbour. Ben was the only boy I knew who could pull off a Barbour. It was one of those quilted ones and it looked so warm. When he’d come in with it after half-term, he’d been mocked for ten whole minutes and called a farmer. The next week, half the school were wearing cheap rip-offs. As if he could sense my anger, Ben turned to me just as we got to the park entrance.
“You want to switch coats? You look freezing.”
I shook my head, even though it killed me to do it. “I’m good. You can’t pull off leather anyway, Posh Boy.” My body screamed as I said it, yelling, Noooooooo, take the coat, take the coat.
“At least take my hat.” He pulled off his bobble hat and yanked it down over my head without asking. It pushed my fringe down into my eyes.
“And now I look stupid,” I said. When all I really wanted to say was thank you.
“I don’t care. Your lips are blue. You’re wearing it.”
The park was pitch black, even the post-commute dog walkers in for the night. We walked using the light from our phones to guide the way, though we knew it by heart.
I dawdled after him, blinking hard, feeling … wrong, like I always do whenever anyone shows me just a hint of caring, even if it’s just Golden Ben saying I look cold.
I don’t know how to handle people caring about me.
So I reached into my pocket and I got out the poached vodka.
I unscrewed the cap, noticing only a third of it had gone already and hoping my stepdad hadn’t been too sober when he hid it in the tiny cupboard under the stairs. I wouldn’t want him to notice it missing… I’d stolen it a few days ago though and he hadn’t mentioned anything. And I would KNOW if he had. I threw back my head, tipped some down my neck, swallowed, winced. “Want any?” I held out the bottle in the darkness between us.
“I’ll wait until after I’ve vaulted the railing, thanks.”
“You have to vault the railings on the way out anyway.”
“Yes, well, I only want a fifty per cent chance of spearing myself through the heart rather than a hundred per cent.”
When we got to the railings, Ben squatted, with both hands cradled on his thigh.
“Cheers.” I put my hands on his shoulder and stepped my boot into his cupped hands. I swung myself up, grabbing the railings.
This part of the night always made my heart thud. The closeness of us touching. Our skin brushing as I shimmied up and over the railings.
Ben didn’t need a leg-up – the sports god that he was. He used the railings to do a chin-up, his arms bulging as he raised himself up and threw his body over.
We landed together on the bouncy red tarmac with a light thud.
“We’re in.” He held out his hand for the vodka bottle.
“We’re in.” I handed it over.
And we made our way to the playhouse.
*
The playhouse was under a concrete tunnel thing, adding extra layers against the cold. It was where we’d first met. Well, ‘met’ as in actually acknowledging the other’s existence for the first time, without school and all the bullshit barriers school creates between two people who may have otherwise got along. He’d found me crying and drunk two months ago. I remember, even through my intoxication, being surprised that he knew who I was. I’d never been here in daylight. Natalia had been taken away before she was old enough to come. I’d never seen it with children inside, playing cooking or mums and dads or whatever kids play, not realizing just how lucky they are not to be grown-up yet. Not that I was even grown-up yet.
My teeth chattered as we sat inside, our knees hunched up, passing the vodka bottle back and forth. They clacked in my mouth, my jaw juddering uncontrollably.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Mercedes.”
“Huh?”
I turned and Ben was up, shrugging off his coat, holding it out to me.
“I’m fine,” I insisted, though it came out. “I’m f-ii-ii-ii-nn-ee.”
He tilted his head and let out a breath of exasperation. “Can you not be too proud for, like, one evening?”
My face jerked back. Too proud? I wasn’t too proud … was I? Then why wasn’t I taking his coat? He pushed it at me again.
“Honestly, I’ve got my football hoodie in my bag. I’ll be OK. You, on the other hand, look almost purple.”
I relented and took his coat. Nobody had ever given me their coat before. The cold rushed all over my body as I shrugged out of my battered leather jacket. But as I wrapped Ben’s around me, I warmed instantly. It still had his body heat inside it, like he was hugging me. Like I was being wrapped in a radiator. Ben pulled on a big jumper. His T-shirt rode up as he pushed his head through the neck and I made myself look away.
I held out my dishevelled jacket. “You want?”
“I’ll look ridiculous.”
“I won’t tell anyone.”
He smiled, took it, and tried to squeeze his big sporty arms into it. He did look ridiculous. It hardly fitted him, stretching across his back and making him look like Quasimodo – his arms hanging uselessly at his sides. I started laughing and then, because the vodka was starting to hit, I laughed harder. I took a photo of him on my phone while he posed. When I showed it to him he said, “Dear God,” but kept the jacket on. Then he stayed looking at my phone, his face so close our breath mingled, and I knew what he wanted. So I deleted the photo and felt him relax.
No evidence.
We leaned back against the wood panelling, getting drunk and watching the snow.
*
I was no longer cold. I was vodka.
I dug in my bag for cigarettes, shoved one into my mouth and lit it. I offered the pack to Ben, he declined.
“I love that word, ‘settling’, and how they use it for snow,” he mused. “Like the snow aspired to much better things than just landing here.”
I took a drag, smiling, and put on a silly squeaky voice. “I used to dream about falling in Iceland, you know? But then I hit thirty and all my other snowflake friends settled here and I just … I dunno what happened… Life happened. So I settled here.”
We both giggled in the darkness.
“You think we’ll get a snow day tomorrow?” he asked, staring out at the primary-coloured tarmac speckled with white.
Just the thought of it made my stomach tighten. A day … a whole day to fill. And the holidays were almost here, too. So many days to fill… I shook my head, like the force of my will could change the weather. My laughter died inside of me and was replaced by dread.
“God, let’s hope not.”
I took another drag, exhaled, and watched my smoke drift out into the night. I could feel Ben watching me.
“Why do you smoke?” he asked, all of a sudden.
I shrugged. “I dunno. I just do.”
“And weed. You smoke a lot of weed, too, don’t you?”
Another shrug. “I guess.”
“Why?”
My lip curled. “I told you. I don’t know. I just do…” It’s what all my friends did, I never thought to question it. I bumped my shoulder with his. “Come on, Mr Judgemental, it’s not like you’re so perfect. I hear what you and your lot get up to at your rich-people parties.”
There were stories of skinny-dipping in swimming pools, stories of trashed golfing buggies, stories of orgy-like states, nobody sure who was in whose mouth. Shots and blazers and ruddy-ruddy-rah-rahs and bending each other over and slapping each other’s arses and drinking until they vomited and then frying their vomit into an omelette and being dared to eat it.
“I told you eight million times,” he sighed. “I’m not rich … not any more.” Which is why he started at our school, he’d once told me. Because his parents could no longer afford the fees. He could still afford new trainers and McDonald’s and to escape this town eventually though. “Anyway,” he continued, “what we do isn’t illegal, but drugs are.” His voice was groaning under the weight of his judgement.
My stomach twisted in on itself. “Nothing people from your world do is ever illegal,” I replied. “That’s the difference between rich and poor. Your trouble is oops-sorry-slap-on-the-wrist, we-won’t-do-it-again-sir, and our trouble is shove-you-in-an-overcrowded-prison.” I was sucking too hard on my cigarette to curb my anger, waving it in the air as I ranted.
“Whoa, OK. Calm down…” He eyed me warily and I levelled him with my best glare. I looked at his smooth skin and his perfectly cut hair, I looked at his expensive bag, his clean trainers, his easier life. People think I’m thick – I know that. They see me slumping through lessons, high in the afternoons. They see my long hair and my bad friends and our silly band and the cheap uniform you have to get in a special charity sale and they make assumptions. But I’m not stupid. I read. I know what’s going on in the world. I know that it’s the actions of people like Ben and his lot that led to Mum’s benefit getting cut and my stepdad losing his job at the pub. Cause and effect. The butterfly effect. And, yeah, oh, poor fucking Ben, he can’t go to Arlington Grammar any more, but I got my SISTER taken away. And yet, they judge us. Ben judges me.
I stood up.
“Where you going?”
“Away.” My voice slurred, with drink and almost-tears.
“It’s freezing out there.”
I stormed off anyway, into the playground. I felt so … so… The snow scrunched under my boots as I stomped over to the swings, sweeping the snow off one. I sat down, leaned my head against the chain and let myself cry. It wasn’t fair, none of it.
I heard the crunch of his footsteps, the clank of the chain on the swing next to me as he sat down. He said, “I’m sorry.”
I sniffed. “You think you’re better than me.”
“Whoa, I don’t! Where the hell is this coming from?”
The snow melted on my hair, freezing my brain, but I hardly noticed. I looked over at him. He was still wearing my leather jacket. “You don’t even want people to know about me,” I said, watching his reaction, looking for tells that he was lying.
“No, I don’t. I don’t want people to know that I come here,” he admitted. He didn’t look back, just straight out into the darkness, where the slide was.
“See!” I acted triumphant, but my heart plunged to the tips of my frozen toes.
“Hang on, but that doesn’t mean I think I’m better than you!” He did look at me then, eyes wide with protest. “It’s not about you, Mercedes. Being here with you. I’m not ashamed of you…”
“But…” I waited for the backpedal, the silly excuse. My face was burning red, even in this cold. Whatever this was, I was breaking it. Which is stupid, because I needed it. We both needed it. It’s why we kept coming. We had no other choice.
He sighed and threw his arms up, pushed himself back with his legs and let himself swing. “It’s really not about you,” he said. “I just don’t want people knowing about any of it. About why I need to come here. Asking questions. Wanting answers. I don’t like to think about what’s going on and how messed up it is, let alone talk about it. Try and explain it away, like my mother does.” He skidded himself to a halt, his feet scuffing in the small pile of snow. He looked at me; smiled. “To be fair, you’re probably the only good thing about all this.”
He pushed his legs to the right, so his swing moved toward mine – his body looming closer. I could feel the warmth from him.
Was he playing me? Lying to me? Soothing me so I’d shut up?
I raised an eyebrow at him. “Yeah, right…”
“Seriously.”
If he was playing me, he was good at this game. Every inch of his body bled sincerity. I found my own swing creeping in his direction, my body pushing itself to his, because it’s never known what’s good for me.
“Even though I’m a down-and-out mess?”
He shook his head ever so slightly. “That’s the thing. That’s why I asked about your smoking. You’re not,” he replied. “How you behave … from what I’ve learned about you … you’re not that at all. It doesn’t make sense.”
“Well, you don’t make a lot of sense either.”
Because he didn’t. Ben didn’t lend coats, Ben didn’t untangle hair, Ben didn’t pay for a random girl’s McDonald’s, night after night. Ben beat his chest and everyone cheered. Ben said the word ‘banter’. Ben winked at Jenny Carrington as she sauntered down the hallway. Ben, sometimes, walked past my friends and sniggered.
Our heads were almost touching, our bodies twisted in chains and we leaned in to each other. It would only take one movement and we would be kissing. I looked up at him through my lashes, wanting … thinking… I could tell he wanted it. I could see it in his eyes, feel it in his energy. The way he looked nervous, the way he licked his lip without realizing, the way his hand shook on the chain, and not just because it was cold. I wanted it, too. Of course I did. Every girl in school wanted Ben. But I didn’t want the Ben everyone at school got. I wanted the Ben only I knew. The Ben who gave me leg-ups over railings, the Ben who, last month, stayed out all night with me without even asking why. The Ben who, last week, turned up at our meeting spot with a giant bag of pick ’n’ mix and told me his favourites were jazzies. I wanted the taste of Ben in my mouth, the feel of his hands at the back of my neck.
Ben looked at me, I looked at Ben. I blinked away snowflakes. We leant closer … closer…
…
…We both pulled back at exactly the same moment.
Then we kicked ourselves into our swings, like it had never happened at all.
Freezing air sailed past me as I pumped my legs through snow and blackness. That feeling of freedom and flying as I swung through the air, Ben at my side.
“You ever think of getting out of here?” he called over. He was swinging back as I swung forward, meeting in the middle each time.
I laughed to diffuse the tension we were currently swinging through. “How?”
“Go to university. Get a loan or something.”
I laughed again. “Not going to happen.”
I would finish school the moment I was legally allowed to, so I could earn money and escape. I would get one of the shit jobs they give people who leave school the moment they are legally allowed to. I would harden before my time, always struggle to make rent, always have a chip right there on my shoulder. It was my path and I felt powerless to stop it. The thought of doing anything else was too exhausting. My only real hope was that they might let me have Natalia, if I could earn enough. If I could prove I’d give her a better home.
“What about your singing?” he asked. “I heard you at the talent show last year, you’re really good.”
I almost skidded to a stop. He’d heard me?
I did dream about singing. The only time I felt free was with my band, a mic in my hand, an audience clapping.
“Your band are terrible though,” he continued. “You should take off on your own. Write your own stuff maybe…”
I was too stunned to reply for a moment, until I just lobbed, “Shut up, Yoko,” at him. He laughed, surprising me by getting the joke. I had thought about it. I’d even been tempted to enter that bloody singing show on TV, but my friends would kill me. Laugh at me. Tell me I’d sold out.
“It’s OK for you,” I say. “What have you got? Two and a bit more years? Then off to university with you. Your escape tunnel has already been dug.” …And paid for.
But when I looked over, he wasn’t smiling.
“Hardly an escape tunnel,” he replied. “Going to the university my parents choose, doing the course they want me to do.”
“Aww, diddums.” At least it was university. Options. Choice. Not this town…
“You don’t get it,” he said.
“Well, you don’t get it either.”
He skidded his swing to a halt, the chain screeching in protest. “Let’s stop trying to get it and finish the vodka.”
*
It’s hard, vaulting iron railings after a bottle of vodka. But we giggled and we tried and we managed. We stumbled back through the park, deliberately walking wider and narrower again, leaving as many footprints in the snow as we could.
I exist. I was here. I walked here. Here is a piece of me. A piece of me to prove I’m alive.
I walked him to his house – it was always that way around.
“So what’s your excuse for tonight?” I asked.
Ben made himself skid on some ice. “I’m chairperson of this year’s Rag Ball, don’t you know? We have lots of meetings. An infinite amount of meetings.” He smiled sadly. “What’s yours?”
“I never need one. We’re both equally glad when I’m not there.”
There was space between each house in this neighbourhood. And it was so quiet. Just us and the snow. There was no tinny music, no noise from other people’s televisions, no barking dogs in tiny gardens, or shouting and crashing the whole road would wince at, then pretend they hadn’t heard. Not like that didn’t happen in this road, too – you just didn’t hear it, I suppose.
We never usually talked on the walk back. Tension would build inside of us as we worried if we’d stayed out late enough, stayed out long enough. For our houses to find sleep, so we could slip in and pretend they were homes.
I skidded as we stopped outside Ben’s house. We both looked up at it blearily. It was dark, all lights off, and I felt his relief. He sank into his bones, let go of the breath he’d been holding. Whatever he’d wanted to avoid so much he’d freeze to death in my leather jacket, he’d successfully delayed.
“Looks all clear,” I whispered – just in case my voice could travel through their double glazing and undo the spell.
“Seems that way.”
“I guess I’ll see you, then.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow. Last day of term…”
We swapped back coats, it breaking my heart and my body temperature to part with his.
“Thank you, for lending it.”
“Any time.”
He turned and crunched through the snow – on a slight tiptoe to minimise noise. He stopped for a second, turned back.
“You going to be OK?” His voice was filled with concern.
I looked at the time on my phone. We’d made it till 11.30. “I should be fine.”
“You’ve got my number if it isn’t fine?”
I bit my lip. “I’ve got it.”
“Well, night, then.”
“Mercedes?” he called after me in a loud whisper as I was almost past his house. He blinked hard, his fists clenched. “Honestly,” he stumbled. “If you need to call me tonight, do. My phone’s always on.”
“Ditto for you.” And I saluted.
The snow had almost stopped, but enough of it swirled around us as we stood and smiled at each other. Distance between us, but not the sort that counted. Different worlds, but the same sad reality. And I wish I could freeze-frame on that moment, with the snowflakes and Ben’s dimples and my body still warm from his coat. The two of us not knowing yet that I hadn’t stayed out late enough, that I would need to call him later, screaming for help down the line. But that moment wasn’t now. That reality was yet to exist.
So, if we end here, we can say this is a happy ending. Can’t we?