I Hold Your Heart Page 5

  I push my hair back and take another step towards Aaron. Then I do a slow smile I may have practised once or twice in the mirror.

  ‘Aren’t you late for lessons?’ I say.

  He shrugs, one side of his mouth twisting up, eyes warm. He smells so good. ‘So, what are you doing at lunch?’ he says.

  I’m about to say, ‘Nothing,’ then remember I just told Cal I’d do the application with him. I open my mouth, but Aaron gets in first.

  ‘Come for a drive with me.’

  I start to answer, but just then Mr Higgins pokes his curly head out of the door. ‘Are you joining us today?’

  ‘Uh, yeah, sorry,’ I say. Irritatingly, I’m flushing as I turn back to Aaron, all my fake casualness stripped away.

  Aaron smiles, then says, ‘See you outside the entrance at one,’ and before I can confirm or not, he’s walking away, hands in his pockets.

  As the lesson finishes and we pack up our stuff, I say to Cal, ‘Can we rain-check on the application? Just until tomorrow.’

  ‘This doesn’t have anything to do with a certain Mr Cheekbones, does it?’

  ‘Well …’ I say.

  ‘Go on then. But, you know, try to play it cool.’

  I give his shoulder a push, possibly a bit harder than I intended and he lets out an ‘Ow!’

  ‘Oops,’ I say in a sorry-not-sorry voice. Then I leg it to the toilets to sort my make-up out before I meet Aaron.

  He drives fast, taking the bends with his palm flat against the wheel. We’re heading out towards the sea again, mainly because it’s about the only place to go around here, but also I can’t help thinking it might have something to do with the almost-kiss at the beach the other day. We put the windows down and blast out The Greenwoods. The wind whipping my hair around my face gives me this wild, exhilarating feeling. I start singing along as the next song comes on. When we park up near a cliff path a few miles down from my house, I carry on singing even after Aaron has turned the engine off and the music’s cut out.

  He listens, that half-smile on his face until I finish. ‘Your voice is even better in person,’ he says, and it’s so sincere I know it’s not a line.

  ‘I think it’s the thing that makes me feel the most alive, you know?’ I say.

  Aaron nods. ‘I can see it on your face.’

  And I’m so grateful for the serious way he looks at me, how he gets it.

  Gets me.

  ‘Come on,’ he says.

  As soon as we’re walking, he takes my hand and it feels totally natural; safe and warm. The long grasses to one side make a whispering noise, like a counterpart to the sea’s song. We amble up to the peak and sit on a clifftop bench looking out at the light glancing off the waves in tiny sparkles.

  ‘So you’re definitely going to apply?’ Aaron says. I might have been going on about the songwriting competition a bit in the car on the way up.

  ‘Yeah, me and Cal. He’s got a great voice.’

  Aaron watches the smudged speck of a boat against the horizon. He’s still holding on to my hand. ‘How long have you known him?’

  ‘Cal? Pretty much forever. Most of us have known each other forever, around here.’

  ‘I like that. People were always coming and going in London. I always wondered what it’s like, to feel the ground under your feet and know it’s not going to shift.’

  I look into Aaron’s thoughtful eyes. They’re a light hazel colour, with flecks of green. Gorgeous eyes. I totally need to get a grip. I remember how he told me his parents split up and I think I can see the shadow of old pain in his expression. I think about Cal’s mum, how he told us he comes home to find her crying. But before I can think what to say, Aaron’s hand has tightened on mine, and he’s turning in towards me and this time I don’t have any doubts what’s going to happen.

  His kiss is light, gentle. One hand goes up to the side of my face, and then after a few moments, his other hand moves from mine to slide around my back, pulling me in closer to him. He kisses me harder, his fingers at the back of my head now, drawing me into him and holding me there.

  I’m dimly aware of the rushing of the waves breaking on rocks below. Of the wind surrounding us, the gentle September sun overhead. Every part of me feels like it’s exploding with energy as he draws me even closer, so that one of my legs overlaps his thigh.

  Then, just as one of his hands is sliding from my waist towards my chest, I pull back, breathless and smiling. For a second I see that same flash on his face – some old hurt, or uncertainty – then he says quietly, ‘God, you’re beautiful,’ in a way that makes my heart sing. He gives this smile that mirrors my own, before interlacing his fingers with mine again.

  We chat about nothing much, watching the waves together, and it feels so comfortable, so right. Like I’ve known him for years. He tells me about his dad’s girlfriend, Jaquie-with-a-‘q’ and inexplicably no ‘c’. ‘I call her C-minus Jack,’ he says and I start to laugh.

  ‘To her face?’

  ‘In front of my dad? Not if I still want to be alive on my nineteenth birthday,’ Aaron says, and I can definitely read the hurt under his words this time. I get that surge of knowing that comes when you’re tuned in to someone, like that feeling when you hit the right note. I give his hand a squeeze and he runs his thumb lightly across the back of my knuckles.

  I think suddenly how you could write a whole song telling the story of one hand touching another.

  A little while later, my phone goes with a text. It’s Esi.

  Where are you?

  I spot the time on the text and shriek. ‘Oh crap!’ I wave my phone under Aaron’s nose, and he does a double take, then follows it up with his Aaron smile.

  ‘Oops,’ he says.

  ‘I’m going to be so late for Psychology,’ I say, pulling a face.

  ‘Sack it off. Stay here with me.’

  I’ve already started to stand, but Aaron’s still got hold of my hand. I give it a playful tug and for a moment he holds on, then I say, ‘No, seriously,’ and his expression changes as he realises I’m worried. He leaps to his feet suddenly, pulling me up, and puts on that mock costume-drama voice, like he’s Mr Darcy or something.

  ‘I will get you there, fair lady, but we must make haste.’

  ‘You’re a doughnut,’ I say, but the next moment he’s taken off running, hauling me with him, laughing and shrieking as we fly back towards the car.

  He’s so fast, it feels like my feet barely touch the floor.

  *

  It’s fair to say that after I finally rock up at Psychology only ten minutes late, due to some driving from Aaron that in other circumstances might have been just the teensiest bit questionable – he definitely shouldn’t have overtaken on that blind bend – I still have trouble concentrating, because every time I blink, I can feel Aaron’s mouth against mine, the way he gathered me up so close to his body I could feel the muscles of his chest.

  The way I wanted to see them, and more …

  I try and snap myself out of it, but I’m glad when the bell goes. I hurry to get my things together but I’m not fast enough to avoid the disapproving eyebrows of Ms Hines, my Psychology tutor.

  ‘I’m sorry I was late,’ I say again.

  She purses her lips. ‘From what I’ve seen of you, you’ve got ability, but there’s no point in being here if you don’t want to commit, and that means arriving on time,’ she says.

  I bristle at this. Seriously. I was ten minutes late, once. But I give another apologetic look and tell her it won’t happen again.

  ‘So what were you actually doing?’ Esi’s waiting in the corridor for me.

  ‘Not what: who,’ I say, and start to smile, before realising the implications of that sentence. ‘Er, I mean, I went for a drive with Aaron. Lost track of time.’

  Esi has her eyebrows up near her hairline while she waits for details.

  ‘… and we kissed!’ I say. It bursts out of me. Esi opens her mouth to say something, but Rachael’s voi
ce cuts across us.

  ‘Who kissed? What have you been up to? Ohmigod, you kissed Aaron Weaver? He’s so fit.’ She gives a ‘You’re-so-lucky’ kind of sigh. And the next moment we’re all piling along the corridor towards the exit, as I give Rachael all the details. Twice.

  Chapter Eight

  Gemma

  ‘You ready yet?’ Esi’s tapping her foot in the entrance to my room; I think Michael let her in. It’s Saturday night and we’re going to this party Rachael’s been talking about all week. Esi’s still wearing the same jeans she had on at the cafe earlier, though she’s swapped out her top for a deep red one with three-quarter-length sleeves and a few bracelets on each wrist. Her twists are piled up on top of her head, held in place with a fabric hairband that totally goes with her top. How does Esi manage to create a look that’s effortlessly awesome in five minutes? While I’ve been getting ready for, ooh, about two hours now, if you count shower time?

  It was touch-and-go if I was even coming to the party tonight; I was kind of holding back in case Aaron had plans, but he already had some drinks night on the go with Jonny and co.

  ‘I’d rather spend it with you,’ Aaron said on the phone last night.

  ‘It’s fine, I don’t mind,’ I said, Cal’s joke about playing it cool sounding in my head. Plus, Rachael would probably kill me if I ran off with some guy, even an Aaron-shaped guy, and missed the first big party of college.

  ‘Come on, or Mum’s not going to take us,’ Esi says. Esi’s mum, Baaba, said she’d give us a lift which is just as well because Dad and Michael are already settled in front of a UEFA Nations League match – Denmark v. someone-or-other – before switching over to MOTD, and Mum doesn’t like driving after dark. I give myself a last once-over in the mirror, decide that’ll have to do, and follow Esi downstairs.

  Her mum’s already waiting in the lane, engine running. She greets us with a smile as we pile in.

  ‘That’s nice,’ she says, nodding at my new cross-body bag. That’s the thing about Esi’s mum; she always has something lovely to say and she notices stuff.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say.

  The drive only takes twenty minutes and then Baaba is pulling up outside a terraced house not far from the town centre. ‘I’ll be back at ten,’ she says, and leans over to give first Esi, then me, a kiss on the cheek. ‘Remember—’

  ‘I know, Mum,’ Esi interrupts, but gently, for her. Esi’s parents don’t mind her going to parties, but only if she’s with someone they trust – like me, more fool them – and as long as she definitely doesn’t drink. We thank her and pile out towards the noise of bass pouring from an open window into the street. It sets off something low and buzzy in me. There’s not much point knocking, so I hitch my bag up higher on my shoulder and we go in.

  Through the open door at the end of a short hallway I see a few people gathered in the kitchen, drinks in hand, and to my left another handful scattered around the living room. Rachael’s perched on the arm of a sofa chatting to Beth and Phoebe. Esi goes over to say hi, but I give them a quick wave, mime drinking and wander into the kitchen to see what’s on offer. I’ve brought a big bottle of cider, because I’m cheap like that, but if there’s anything better going I’ll have it. In the kitchen people are gathered around a big bowl of sludge-coloured liquid. One of the lads, whose name I don’t catch, hands a cup of it to me, his eyes only straying upwards from my boobs for a nanosecond. I take a small sip, then nearly gag. It tastes like six different spirits all at once, including Baileys and MD 20/20, which believe me is not a combination you ever want to try. It’s as though we’re still nicking drinks from the backs of our parents’ cupboards – or drinks cabinet, in the case of Rach, who lives in a big four-bed detached house in the best bit of town, unlike our ramshackle cliff houses.

  I’m too slow to stop someone grabbing the cider and pouring that into the mix, so I take my rank drink and wander off.

  In the living room Rachael’s eyeing me from under her heavy fringe.

  ‘Hey,’ I say. ‘Have you tried this stuff?’

  ‘I’m not insane.’ She makes an airy motion to a bottle at her feet. ‘I brought my own, anyway. Here, chuck that and have some of mine.’ She fills up her cup, takes a swig from it and offers the other side to me.

  It’s fifty-fifty vodka and Coke. I feel it catch the back of my throat as it goes down and give a small cough. When I hand the cup back to Rachael she’s grinning.

  ‘Like the old days,’ she says.

  I know what she means. We both had our first taste of alcohol at sleepovers.

  The music’s been cranked way up, a blur of beats. A couple of people are attempting to dance, badly. Robbie Wellings is, astonishingly, getting off with a girl on one settee. I can’t really see what she’s like because he’s basically attempting to swallow her whole, while his mates look on and give the odd whoop, which is about as close to any action as they’ll ever see unless things have seriously changed since school. The girl doesn’t seem to care.

  Rachael offers me another sip of the vodka and I take it, chasing that buzz you usually get from parties. The free feeling of alcohol and music and possibility. But it isn’t until my phone goes in my pocket with a text from Aaron that I really perk up.

  Having a good night? x

  Just getting started! G x

  I swig back more vodka, listening as Esi and Beth start a debate about which is the better film: Wonder Woman or Black Panther. I’m tempted to throw A Star is Born into the mix, just to provoke Esi, but realise I can’t be bothered. I tap my foot along to the music and think about Aaron instead. A couple of people stumble past and from where I’m sitting I’ve got a straight view of someone vomming on the front doorstep. I look at Rachael and see the same disappointment mirrored in her eyes.

  It’s not like the party’s terrible. It’s just a bit … more of the same as school, I guess. Not sure what I was expecting from my first college party, but I don’t think it was this. I’m seriously thinking about asking Esi what the odds are her mum will come and get us early, when Rachael suddenly says in my ear, ‘Well this is a pile of wank. Want to come to Fimo’s?’

  Fimo’s is a bar in town, about the only one in a fifty-mile radius that stays open until 2 a.m.

  I glance at a girl who looks like she’s well on her way through the cycle of get drunk, throw up, cry about some boy who probably doesn’t deserve it, then pass out before waking up with serious regret. Robbie Wellings is now shouting something about playing Spin the Bottle.

  I shout over to the others. ‘What do you reckon? Fancy going to Fimo’s?’ Esi’s deep in conversation with Beth and frowns slightly before turning to me.

  ‘Seriously? That’d be a no.’ She laughs. Her parents might be fine with her going to parties, but they are not going to be down with her sneaking into a club underage.

  Nor, when I come to think of it, are mine.

  But I’m nearly seventeen now. And I’m in college. With – maybe, possibly – a serious potential-boyfriend-shaped guy on the horizon. Who is used to clubs in London and all sorts of cool stuff. Isn’t it about time I lived a little?

  ‘I want to go!’ I say.

  ‘And how’re you getting home?’ Esi says. She sounds just like her mum.

  ‘We’ll get a taxi,’ Rachael shouts, waving a couple of twenty-pound notes under Esi’s nose.

  ‘And I’m telling Mum what, exactly?’ Esi says.

  I think for a moment. ‘That I’m staying at Rachael’s?’

  Esi raises her eyes to the ceiling for a moment, then looks at me. ‘Fine.’ She grins. ‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’

  It’s a well-worn routine with us. I think it started when we were about ten. Esi was always ten-going-on-fifty anyway, and she’d pick up all these grown-up expressions. This one stuck, probably because I’m basically always doing stuff she wouldn’t. I smile back and say what I always do.

  ‘As if I would.’

  Aaron

  The bar’s ti
ght-packed, close with twenty- and thirty-somethings sporting haircuts at least five years behind the ones back home. Jonny’s got in pitchers and has made up a game with arbitrary rules so that every five seconds someone else is downing a pint to chants of ‘Chug it!’ When it’s my turn, I slug mine down in less than five seconds, enjoying the whoops from the lads.

  ‘Christ, Weaver, you got that down your neck fast enough.’ It’s Binners – real name Mark Binney – hollering from his spot to my left. His voice is nasal and admiring, his eyes foggy with alcohol. I give him a shrug and a cocky smile, then throw back another pint for good measure.

  As I thud the triumphant glass down on the table, Binners shakes his head, grinning. ‘Dayum,’ he says, in a crap imitation of someone, anyone, with more cool than him. I feel myself bristling and realise why he bugs me: that need to please, his overeagerness. That used to be me.

  ‘So, have you shagged her yet?’ Jonny’s voice intrudes on my thoughts. It takes a moment to work out he’s talking to me. For a split second I don’t know how to react, then I laugh. ‘Eff off, Jonny boy.’

  Jonny gives a derisive sniff. ‘That’d be a no, then,’ he says, to loud laughs from everyone, including Mark Judas Binners.

  ‘Would you really want to go there though mate, that’s the question,’ Binners says, weaselling in Jonny’s direction now.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ My voice comes out sharp, which gets me a round of Ooohs, their voices lilting up and down.

  Jonny leans forward, pint in hand. ‘Just, you don’t know where’s she’s been, if you catch my drift.’ He looks around the table.

  Binney yells, ‘More like who she’s been under,’ at which Jonny grimaces, as though he’s suddenly developed delicate sensibilities. ‘Callum Smith, most likely,’ Binney adds, to more shouts of laughter.