I Owe You One(35)

“Oh, right!” I try to laugh casually. “Yes, maybe! I’ve still got all this old school stuff …”

I’m expecting him to comment on me having a framed photo of him, but he doesn’t; he silently peers at the image. It’s a picture I took once of him and Jake, leaning against the school fence. (I cropped Jake out.) Ryan’s smiling, his school tie askew and his sleeves rolled up. His hair is gleaming. He looks golden. Perfect.

“I had no definition in those days,” he says at last with a frown. “I was a skinny bastard.”

“You were gorgeous,” I contradict him, and run a hand over his back, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He’s reaching for an old DVD labeled Jake’s Park Picnic.

Oh God.

“Is that our Park Picnic?” he says incredulously, taking the DVD out of its box. “Is this a video of it?”

“Er … yes,” I admit. “I filmed the football match and stuff.”

The Park Picnic is a tradition at our school—all the leavers head there after their final classes and there’s a football game and they all drink beer and make a mess and residents write to the local paper and say it’s a disgrace. I wasn’t even supposed to be there, but I snuck along with Hannah and filmed it. Well, I filmed Ryan, mostly. I didn’t know if I’d ever see him again.

“The football match.” His eyes light up. “I remember that. Let’s put it on.”

It takes me a moment to realize he’s looking at my TV. He means right now? Is he joking?

No. He doesn’t seem to be.

Well, I guess we can put sex on hold for a bit. It’s not like I’m desperate. (I am. I am desperate.)

I load the DVD and we wait for a few silent moments—then suddenly we’re looking at a sunny day, fourteen years ago. The park is crowded with kids lolling on the grass, swigging beer, and playing football. Some of the guys are bare-chested, like Ryan, who’s playing football, beer in hand, laughing and joking and looking like what he is: the golden boy of the school.

I remember filming him, creeping forward to the sidelines of the football game with my video camera, borrowed from Mum. And watching it later, over and over.

“Oh, Fixie,” says Ryan, with a massive sigh. “How did we end up here?”

I glance at him and my heart sinks slightly. His brow is knotted in a morose expression which I recognize from drunken evenings out with Jake. It’s the why-am-I-so-bloody-old look, which swiftly leads to the what-happened-to-my-life speech.

I mean, fair enough, I think those things too; everyone does. But we didn’t come up here to think about how crap life is. We came up to have sex.

“I’m glad we’re here,” I say encouragingly. “We’re together … you’re going to have a great job … it’s all going to work out.”

“You think?” His eyes don’t move from the screen, from his young, lithe, carefree self.

“Of course! You’re Ryan Chalker!” I say, trying to impress this on him. “You know, just the name Ryan Chalker used to give me goosebumps. I used to see you coming down the corridor and nearly faint. And not only me. Every girl in the school felt the same. Every person in the school. You must know everyone had a crush on you, even the teachers.”

Ryan’s brow has relaxed as I’ve been speaking, and his hand wanders toward my thigh again.

“So what did you think about me?” he asks idly. “I mean, what was it you liked?”

“Oh God, everything! Like, your hair and your laugh, and you were so fit …”

“Not as fit as I am now. I didn’t even work out back then.” He starts kissing me again, with more purpose, then murmurs into my ear, “What else did you think?”

“I thought you were like a rock star. I thought if you asked me out I would die,” I say honestly, and Ryan gives a soft laugh.

“What else?” he says, pulling me toward him.

This is turning him on, I suddenly realize. OK, quick, say some more.

“I used to think, Oh my God, it’s Ryan! He’s the sexiest guy in the school! And all I wanted to do was kiss you, but you never even noticed me because you were, like, Ryan the Sex God.”

“What else?” His breath is coming quicker now. He’s pulling off my underwear. I can tell he means business.

“I used to hitch up my school skirt whenever you were nearby,” I improvise hastily. “And I used to watch you play basketball and … er … you were so gorgeous, I wished you were bouncing me, not the ball.…”

No, wait. What am I saying? This is gibberish. But Ryan doesn’t seem to mind.

“What else?” he gasps as he enters me.

OK, it’s nearly impossible, trying to summon up sexy stuff to say while Ryan is driving rhythmically into me. My mind doesn’t want to work; it wants to surrender to sensation. But I must keep talking.

“That time we all went to the beach,” I manage, “you looked so hot, everyone fancied you.…”

“What else?”

“You were so sexy … everything about you was amazing.…” My mind goes blank. “Er … you had really cool sunglasses.…”

“What about my car?” he pants, his face contorted.

“Yes!” I exclaim, grateful for the idea. “Your car! Of course. I used to love your car. It was so hot and sleek and … and long. And hot,” I repeat for good measure. “And … and hard …” I’m racking my brains for another good word. “And throbbing,” I say in sudden inspiration. “It was such a … a throbbing car.”