Highly Suspicious and Unfairly Cute(80)

He’s hurt. He’s gone. And I fucked everything up, even before all that.

He didn’t want me to go with him.

Since I have nothing better to do, I force myself to complete the day’s expedition. The thought of a scholarship should motivate me but every time I think about it, I imagine coming face to face with my father at the Explorers’ Ball on Saturday and instead of feeling triumphant, I feel small. Brad would’ve had my back. I doubt he will anymore.

My BEP performance lacks any sparkle or sophistication whatsoever. I don’t find Golden Compasses. I don’t giggle with Sophie and Aurora in our tent. Everyone creeps around me like my dog just died. I’m glad because it’s annoying, and if I wasn’t annoyed, I might be crying instead.

We finish the Glen Finglas expedition on Wednesday night and pile into the coach on Thursday morning, and I know I’m being a completely miserable drama queen, but I sit alone at the back so as not to infect everyone else’s happiness with my grim and gray mood. This gives me a lot of time to gaze out the window and ruminate on my sins.

I have to fix this. I have to fix everything, and as much as my pride and my nerves cringe away from it, I’m done coddling both. Either I face my feelings, or I don’t. Either I try, really try, to move on from everything my dad put us through, or I spend the rest of my life living in his shadow. I know what I want to do. And I’m Celine bloody Bangura, so I have no excuse not to do it.

That’s what I tell myself, again and again, as I step off the bus in front of the Sherwood. Mum is waiting by her parked Corsa down the street, bundled up in her bright blue coat, arms folded against the cold. She spots me and waves, her whole face lighting up with this wide, welcoming smile, and my chest heaves.

Beside me, Aurora whispers, “Celine, are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I gasp.

“Are you crying?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll text you later.” Then I rush off before anyone else notices the literal ocean spilling down my cheeks.

Mum’s not wearing her glasses, so she doesn’t notice my expression until I’m a foot away and throwing myself into her arms. “Celine?” she asks, her confusion muffled by my hair, a comforting vibration through my entire tense body. “Baby? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I sob.

“Oh, sweetheart. Come here, give me your bag. Get in the car.” Mum directs my basic functions like I’m five again and stuffs me into the passenger seat. Then she’s in the driver’s seat, picking up her glasses from the dashboard and peering at me like the clue to my inner turmoil might be tattooed on my face. Spoiler alert: it is not.

“Is this about Bradley?” Mum asks.

I would honestly rather die than say yes, because that would involve admitting to my mother that I have a romantic connection with another human person, and since I haven’t even managed to admit that to the person in question, I’m clearly not there yet.

Brad’s phone sits heavy in my pocket, vibrating with a text that’s probably from Jordan.

“He’s doing well,” Mum says. “Back at home resting. Just some cracked ribs and abrasions and a minor concussion. Maria says he’ll be right as rain—”

This news does make me feel at least a quarter better. One of the links in the anxiety chain formerly known as my spine loosens.

“—in time for your little party at the weekend.”

Aaaand that makes me feel worse. Because Brad might be at the ball, but he won’t want to see me. And I don’t want to see Dad. And I should be so happy right now because I did it; I’m a Breakspeare Explorer, whether I get the scholarship or not; I have Katharine Breakspeare’s seal of approval and the chance to network to my heart’s content in a fabulous dress Michaela officially labeled absolutely bitchin’. I have achieved multiple steps on my Steps to Success board, except I don’t even give a damn because I’ve also monumentally fucked everything up.

It’s possible that I’m crying again.

“Celine,” Mum says, concerned. “What’s wrong? Talk to me. You’re giving me a heart attack. Feel my heart.” She takes my limp hand and presses it to her chest, like I can feel anything through her many layers of winter clothes. “See? You’re killing your mother.”

“I’m sorry,” I choke out.

“Don’t be silly. Come now, tell me what’s happened. This is a drop-off only parking space, and I can see a warden down the street.” She narrows her eyes at a man in a high-vis jacket several cars away.

God, I’m being ridiculous. I take a few deep breaths and pull myself together, tucking my knees up against my chest.

“Ah!” Mum says. “No shoes on my upholstery, Celine!”

“Seriously?” I mutter. “I’m crying.”

“I’ll cry if you stain my seats. Shoes off.”

I kick my boots into the footwell with great difficulty and resume my pose of desolation. Mum makes a satisfied noise, starts the engine, and speeds off with a sound of triumph as the traffic warden approaches.

My confession is delivered to the smooth, plastic face of the car’s glove box. “I saw Dad.”

There is a stomach-wobbling pause before Mum responds. “In a Scottish forest? On a workday? Is he going through a midlife crisis?”