Prologue: Twenty-two years old
Kath
Imust have an affinity for self-sabotage, because I’ve voluntarily switched the television channel onto the European Aquatics Championships. Clearly, I’m a masochist.
I pretend it’s just background noise while I half-heartedly dry the dishes I’ve been ignoring since breakfast. But now the commentators are talking through the race schedule, and my hand immediately moves to turn up the volume like it’s possessed.Damn it, Kath.Definitely a masochist.
“And then there’s Sam Fletcher,” an announcer says. “Surely after Rio he has to be the favourite for gold?”
“I don’t know,” the other commentator chimes in. “His performance at the World Championships last year was nowhere near his usual level.”
My hands clench. No wonder Sam always shied away from the media. You can only go so high before you fall from grace.
“Why are you watching swimming?” Theo asks.
I jump, nearly dropping the plate in my hands. I hadn’t heard him get home. Absentmindedly placing a kiss on my forehead, my boyfriend moves past me to open the fridge. I try to slow my heart rate down. It’s not like I’ve been caught doing anything wrong. I scrape my chestnut waves back into a ponytail with a bit more force than necessary, pretending I’m just hot from the oven being on.
“Oh! I just get kind of obsessed with it. I like seeing if records get broken.” I pick the remote control back up. “I can turn it off.”
It’s a half-truth. I do love watching swimming. Always have.
But I’venevertold Theo about Sam.
I tell myself it’s because Sam’s not in my life anymore—and maybe that’s part of it—but really, it’s because I don’t want to untangle all the reasons why we’re no longer friends. Especially not six months into a relationship with someone who’s never even heard his name.
“Don’t worry, leave it on if you like it. Do you mind giving me a hand with the stuff for the barbecue?” He starts to pull things out of the fridge, grabbing an eclectic collection of condiments and stacking them on the counter.
“Of course. Let me just mute this.”
I turn to flick off the sound, and as I do, Sam’s face fills the screen. They’re showing a replay of his last Worlds race—the one where he got the silver. He looks exhausted. His sandy blond hair is plastered to his forehead and the blue of his eyes is dulled by the shadows beneath them.
Before I can stop myself, I open my phone and send him my usual good luck text. Then I place it back on the counter face down. I don’t need to see my screen taunting me with what I already know… that he won’t reply. The string of unanswered messages over the past two years says enough.
How does someone go from being the most important person in your life for over a decade to a person who hasn’t replied to one of your texts in years? I still don’t know.
But it doesn’t stop it from hurting.
Part 1
Chapter 1
Eleven years old
Sam
“Seriously, Mum, please just drop me off round the corner.” My hands clutch my backpack straps tighter, nails picking at a stray thread. I can see the school gates in the distance, and I’m beginning to feel sick. My hair’s still damp from swim practice this morning, sticking up at angles in a way that’s making me self-conscious. Great. The new kid with wet hair and a soaking shirt collar.
Solid first impression.
Mum sighs from the driver’s seat. “It’ll be fine, Sam. It’s everyone’s first day.” Her fingers drum the steering wheel as she glances over, clearly gearing up for one of her pep talks.
I tip my head back against the headrest, inhaling deeply. New school, new city. I can do this. It’s not like I had a ton of friends to leave behind. But change still sucks.
“Everyone’s in the same boat, sweetheart. Just smile and be yourself.”
I nod and jump out of the car. “See you later. Don’t forget I have practice tonight.”
With one last wave, I speed-walk down the road, eager to blend into the flow of kids streaming towards the school gates. I look around, feeling evenmore overwhelmed. There’s a girl my age with someone who looks like her older brother. Some sixth form students, another loud group who look one or two years older than me. St Peter’s isn’t huge, but it feels like it when you’re the new kid and have no idea where youre going. Navy blazers, grey trousers and skirts flash past as I search for the ‘Year 7’ sign. I find it, tucked away near a corridor, where a teacher stands with a clipboard.