‘Then you do a good job pretending,’ he retorts.
‘And how have I done that?’ I don’t expect him to answer, because we both know there’s absolutely no proof. He can throw around baseless accusations all he wants, but when it comes to the meat of it, he has absolutely nothing to his name. We werebothin that school together– we both witnessed the way that he acted and there’s no way he can turn that around. He does notget to flip the narrative now and come out with the sympathy vote.
He picks up one of the printouts of our deck that are strewn across the table. ‘You throw around all your plans and your charts and your highlighters and look down on anyone who doesn’t have their own. You did it when we were younger and you’ve done it again these last two weeks– like it’s your way or total turmoil, but it’s not. I matched you mark for mark, award for award, and I managed to do that without a single diary.’
I sneer. ‘Because things come easy to you.’ I snatch the paper from him and crumple it into a ball.
He grabs the ball back. ‘Because I work hard. It got me where I am now and it will get me through the Summer Splash.’
His words are low, coarse and sinking to the floor with undeniable gravitas. They’re eerily quiet, audible only because our argument has brought us face to face. Perhaps it was the back-and-forth, or the clear-up, or the fact that our bodies were drawn together through the sheer force of our pent-up anger. But whatever it may be, our eyes meet, with a tension so sticky it clogs my lungs faster than I can breathe. This is it. Years of silence coming to the surface, right here in the Abbingtorn boardroom.
‘My way breeds results,’ I say definitively.
‘Your way breeds disappointment. Your whole life is so obsessively rigid.’
‘Obsessively rigid?’ I echo his words.
‘Yes, obsessively rigid.’ He shuffles closer, the front of his trainers rubbing against my loafers. ‘And it actively only makes your life worse.’
‘You know nothing about my life.’ I stand strong.
In all the time we’ve known each other, he’s never made any effort to know. So, who the hell is he to come out now, after all these years, and act like he understands one thing about me?
‘I know what works for me. Goals work for me,’ I say. ‘Having something to aim for keeps me pushing on forward.’
‘Does it though?’ he asks, his voice semitones from a growl. ‘That list you wrote yourself– your five-year plan– what’s on it?’
I don’t know what’s more shocking– the question itself or the fact he remembered the five-year plan in the first place. It was a quick aside in a conversation he barely engaged in. He’s up to something– a larger point, a closing argument– and I have no choice but to fall victim to it. If I shy away from telling him then I look like I don’t believe in it. I do believe in it. I own my five-year plan and my methods.
‘Car, house, senior position at work, husband or boyfriend with marriage potential at least. . .’
‘And that’s before thirty, right? So, by your standards, you’ve only got a few years to do all that or you’ve failed.’ He looks at me challengingly.
‘Well, I—’
‘And how much have you completed? Like fully completed and ticked off your list?’
‘None,’ I reply, feeling my cheeks grow hot.
‘Exactly, because it’s stupid to try to plan out your whole life,’ he says. ‘You’re gonna stress about it and feel like a failure for what? Nobody asked you to do that but you.’
I want to say something back– eviscerate him– but every word I’ve ever known has escaped my brain. I’ve been slapped in the face by the one thing I’ve been actively trying to avoid for far too long. All the churning in my stomach, all the bubbling in my blood. . . Everything I’ve been trying to ignore is brought to the surface by his stupid utterance of the exact thought that I have tried so hard to keep at bay.
When I started my twenties, I was so excited for this fruitful and exploratory chapter of my life. I was finishing university and venturing into the real world with the promise of a futureI could shape for myself. Everything was new and exciting, and completely unmoulded. All the routes were untouched and however I wanted them.
But then I blinked, and now I’m on the brink of turning thirty, and the buzz of ‘potential’ is a thing of the past. I have friends getting married, buying houses and getting promoted, and I am in the same position I’ve been in for the last four years. That work promotion’s still an empty promise, I’m in the same bedroom I’ve been in since I was fourteen, and the closest thing I’ve had to a committed relationship is the guy who delivers my food shop every other Sunday. Everybody else has worked their way to the finish line and, no matter how positive I try to be about it, I can’t help but feel like I’ve been left behind.
‘Are you all right?’ Aiden asks, his brow furrowing.
He’s paused his vitriol to take a long, hard look at my face, his own growing awash with concern. I’ve never seen him so worried. I’ve never seen him look worried at all, for that matter, and it is only contributing to my fast-beating heart. He’s looking at me with such pity and it’s making me want to claw his eyes out. I don’t want pity, or worry, or anything from anyone– let alone Aiden Edwards, the bane of my existence.
But I can’t tell him to stop, because my words have disappeared and been replaced with sharp breaths. They’re spilling from my mouth and taking hold of my lungs, wrapping around my chest and squeezing as tight as they can.
‘Look it’s OK. I was just making a point. . .’ He tails off, face dropping further as he studies my own.
I try to nod, or shrug, or do anything at all to make it clear that this isn’t about him. I don’t want him thinking that he of all people can affect me like this, because he can’t.
Apparently, my body has other ideas, because it can’t seem to do anything but shake uncontrollably. I feel my head growinglighter and my vision narrowing. Everything is a blur. All I can feel is the weight of my ribs as they cave into my body.
