Scott Kellerman was a young man of great importance. At least, that was how he had been treated from a very early age. When he spoke, the room listened; when he succeeded, applause resounded.

It's sometimes said that a boy can grow one of two ways when he knows that people are watching, one being more preferable than the other, and it was that course which Scott followed. He kept up appearances, never seen without a sports trophy in hand, or a pretty girl on at least one arm. He kept his attire effortlessly excellent – stylishly imposing and smartly impressive. He skated by in academia, doing his best to appear to his peers as though he didn't care what the report cards read, but they always read the same, and the consistency was of some comfort to him: 'stellar work; a sparkling young man.'

Coming from money was a key pillar in his importance, although he didn't like to think about that too much. His parents were new money Americans – big names on the New York filmmaking scene whose confidence (and talent to some degree) carried them from opportunity to opportunity, and eventually to London, where Scott was born, with the weight of great importance on his shoulders.

From time to time, being important felt too much of a headache, and around the age of 14, he'd discovered a way to rid himself of the suffocating sensation. When the day was still early, and the doorman dozed off and the drivers were off duty, he'd sneak out. Hooded and surreptitious, he creeped through the formidable front gate of his parents' Knightsbridge penthouse, past the Harrods, take the underground to London Waterloo, and just stand in the morning crowd. In all the jostling and intent of rush hour, he felt peripheral, and he relished the feeling.

Around 16, in the wake of his mother's 3rd marriage, Scott began to believe that he was the wrong kind of important. He was the expendable kind, which occupied a space fillable by any other young man with money, moderate sporting ability and well-aligned teeth. His mother's therapist said it was called 'imposter syndrome'. Scott called it life and didn't mind that he perhaps wasn't so important after all.

He'd stood in Waterloo today, but he hadn't enjoyed it as much as he usually did – likely because he was just passing through, and he wasn't alone. His older sister, Camille, had come to visit from the States, and insisted that the two went to Royal Ascot together, for 'old time's sake!' Scott didn't see why not. He didn't much like the pomposity of the whole event, but between planning her winter wedding and leading the demanding life of a New York magazine editor, Camille hadn't had much time for anything, let alone her little brother back in London – he said yes, and bound himself in a tailcoated monkey suit, determined to enjoy some family time. Sure, it meant engaging in some high-society hogwash, laughing at bad jokes, paying £75 for tea and the like, but he'd prepared himself for those prospects. What he was totally and utterly unprepared for was spotting Evangeline, rosy-cheeked and strolling alongside Mr. Macklin with linked fingers. Nonetheless, he'd done his best to ignore his acute awareness of her, given how things had turned out the last time. He'd only seen her out of school attire a handful of times, but today she looked an entirely different shade of glorious. She'd left her dark red curls to fly in the gentle wind, and that alone made his heart skip a beat, but the way her dress fitted and flowed in all the right places, the way she sparkled when she smiled without inhibition... He tried to focus on other things – the weather and the races and hey, Camille, do you think we should order the steak or the fish?

But when Camille saw her and began waving and hollering her over to their spot, the sound was muffled as though he was underwater, or worlds away.

"Scott. Scott, isn't that Angie Channing? Oh my god, it is! Angie! Evangeline!" As she waved her arm in the air frantically, he tried to shuffle behind her, look up, look down, look anywhere but at the girl approaching in the butterfly clips and blue dress. When Camille tapped him again, saying his name, saying her name, he was left with no choice but to gulp, straighten his posture, and look right into the eyes he often dreamed of; although in his dreams, he'd hoped they'd look into each other's eyes under rather different circumstances.

───･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

SCOTT

Fuck. Fuuuck. What did I ever do to the universe? Crowds of thousands, hundreds of acres of land, and somehow, by some fucked up force, Evangeline Channing is walking over to me. Suddenly the stupid necktie I put on this morning feels a lot tighter, and I tell myself that that's why I go mute as soon as she comes over.

"Camille?" Her unsure squint becomes a delighted grin as she walks into my sister's open arms, and I find myself thinking about the chunky prescription glasses she used to have in primary school. I wonder if she still wears them.

Camille's totally gushing over her, going on about how much she's grown and how mature she looks now. She smacks my shoulder for not giving her Evangeline's number, and Evangeline meets my eyes for a moment with a nervous glance.

The last time Camille saw her was about 11 years ago, give or take, climbing into the backseat of her Mini so she could take the two of us out for frozen yogurt after school. She was only about half of the leggy 5'9 she is now, and she and I were best mates then. I scold myself internally for not having said something earlier, but growing apart from childhood friends and snitching on their relationship wasn't the sort of the thing I could throw into our monthly debrief FaceTimes. 

"I've got you on Instagram, babe, but I've been so busy!" Camille drawls like a real American, and I guess she is one, since she lives there now, but she lays it on thick whenever she's back in the UK – says it gives her an 'established air'. "An-gie! Girl, you look so good! You're a whole woman now!"

I'm almost embarrassed by her gawking and gaping, mostly because her theatrics are drawing my eyes to the same place as hers, and it feels distinctly creepy to stare at Evangeline's cinched waist when I can hardly meet her eyes. 

Her smile's bashful and blushing, and she reaches up shyly to lace a strand of hair behind her ear but drops her hand when she realises it's clipped back. As ever, she's a wingless angel without trying.

"Thanks, Camille – but you¸ you look amazing!"

Camille shrugs her bare shoulders with a fashion editor's arrogance, and Evangeline's giggle is warm and sincere, and it goes straight to my heart. I can't help but look up with a small smile, just to get a glimpse of her face, although I get the feeling that my trying to supress it makes for some lopsided, douchey grin.

"Who'd you come with? I didn't know this was your scene." As usual, Camille's obliviously condescending, but if Evangeline notices it, she doesn't take offence. It's probably in my head, but I think her eyes dart to me, with a wary quickness, as if she's not sure if I'll butt in it and tell all, and I feel like shit all over again about snitching to the heads.

"No, yeah, it's not," she laughs, looking over at the neatly laid table she came from, cordoned off in the middle of the meadow, "some friends convinced me to come along."

Camille raises impressed eyebrows and nudges me too. I'm thankful she moves on quickly.

"How's everything? How's school! Oh my god, how's exam prep? Tell me you're not stressing out like this one is."

I cringe when Camille nods in my direction, and I almost feel bad that Evangeline keeps having to sidestep the friendship that fizzled.

"It's going alright..." She grins with adorable honesty, and the deep breath she takes says the rest before she does, "just trying to stay on top of it all."

Then, without any reason at all, she throws me a lifeline.

"Scott'll be fine. He always is." Her kind eyes are directed more towards Camille than me, but she said my name, and it sends the oddest tingling sensation through me.

"Oh, I know he will. You both will! This guy's issue is just the worrying," Camille pinches my cheek, "but that's what he has you for, right? You keep him grounded. I always knew you had ...good vibes..." My cheeks are burning, and as I hear Camille's words slow and watch her gaze rise slowly over Angie's head, I think I know what's coming next, but I hope to God it isn't what I think.

"Angie, doll, I think I've just seen someone I need to grab. But I will make sure," she clamps a hand on my suited shoulder, "that this guy gives me your number, okay?"

"Okay," Evangeline smiles.

"Wait by the phone, girl! Scottie, save my place, I'll BRB." Just like that, she strides off, likely in pursuit of some C-list celebrity, and leaves me utterly exposed.

Relief washes over me when Evangeline starts to leave before the moment gets any more awkward, if it can. I know what I should do: let her leave while we're still civil, even if it is just an act for the sake of my oblivious sister.

But maybe it's the perfunctory and polite half-smile she offers before turning away, or the very fact that she hasn't yet scoffed or slapped me – something pushes me to speak, and once I do, I regret it in an instant.

"I didn't mean to get you in trouble."

In a second that feels like sixty, she turns back around to face me.

"What?"

My game plan didn't go much further than an opener, and now that she's stood with her unreadable gaze squarely on me, I realise I have no clue what I really want to say.

"When I told the heads about... you and Macklin. I didn't mean to get you in any trouble." I repeat it because it's true, and because it's the only thing I can say that won't be completely and utterly wrong – or so I think until she looks at me with careful consideration, and asks,

"Okay. So, what did you think would happen then?"

Even though it's the logical question, it takes me aback. I didn't think, really. I saw, sulked and acted out. She looked so happy, so lit up, that the 9-year-old in me met with the jealous 18-year-old, and shortly after, logic left the building. If I had thought about it, I might have approached her in school at best, or drunkenly told some mates about them at worst. Put simply, if I'd taken a moment to think, I wouldn't have been such a prick.

Her shoulders jolt gently as she waits for my answer, and I wish I had a better one.

"I don't know. I thought they'd just fire him, maybe – I... I didn't think they'd give you any trouble."

I wince as I repeat it; in hindsight it sounds so stupid, and I say so before she can. "I know how dumb that sounds."

The scoff comes now, and I don't blame her.

"And what about me? Did you not think that maybe that wasn't what I wanted?"

"I didn't think." My tone's curter, ruder than I intend, but I don't know how else to explain it to her, and my surly side doesn't want to think about him being what she wanted – what she wants.

"Clearly."

"Look," I huff, more frustrated with my inarticulateness than with her, "I was trying to apologise."

She laughs, her voice laced with bitterness,

"Apology accepted." When she rolls her eyes and looks away, I feel the wall raising between us, the sharp falsity of her words, and I'm accordingly desperate.

"Oh my G- I just wanted to make sure you were okay!"

"Well gee, thank you, Scott." She thrusts her arms down for the warm safety of her hoodie pocket, but her dress is all fitted lace, and I just want to hug her, and fucking say the right thing, whatever that is — do whatever will make her feel safe, comfortable.

"Are you, Evangeline? Okay?" I ask tentatively. I feel myself being sidled out of the queue as it moves, and Camille can kill me when she comes back, but right now I need to hear her. Whether it was about Macklin or something entirely different, this, our talk, was a long time coming, and all I care about in this moment is her answer.

Her answer erupts with a small exasperated laugh,

"Yes!" Her eyes meet mine again. "Yes, I'm okay! I am fine, Scott – better than I've ever been!"

When her look softens, it sinks into a sort of disappointment that grabs all my heart strings in one fist, as she murmurs, sounding almost shy,

"I don't know why you wouldn't just come and talk to me."

She's so sweet, and honest, and genuine, and I immediately feel like an arse. I let the way I feel cloud the obvious: to her, I'm just 'Scott from Econ' or 'Scott from year 3', with no reason not to just come and talk to her.

Her sincerity begs mine, and I say what I want to, only hiding my seriousness behind a sharp breath through my nose.

"Yeah well, we don't talk so much these days."

She averts her eyes from mine so quickly, with such a fast flash of emotion in them, that I know she remembers how close we used to be. I take a step towards her.

"Evangeline, I am so sorry. I didn't think. And if I had, I'd never have done that you." I can't tell if she's on the verge of tears, or if it's just the light, but when she blinks a few times, letting out a shaky breath, her eyes clear.

"It's alright."

They're only two simple words, three technically, often undeserved, but they're so heartfelt, and they're from her. Suddenly, there's something that binds us again, even if it is as small as my stupid apology and her forgiveness.

Just like that the air between us relaxes like the unclenching of a jaw, and when I breathe out, I feel lighter, freer. Enjoying the feeling, I forget to speak, or even how to, but her sweet laugh trickles into the awkward silence, and I laugh too. This is my chance, our chance, to start over.

"Gimme your phone." I grin, and I revel in the look she gives returns. It's curious and amused as she fishes her iPhone out of the purse slung over her shoulder. Her eyes are still narrow when she hands it to me tentatively.

"Scott, what is this?"

Still cheesing like an idiot, I put a finger up to her as I slide a finger across the screen and key in my number. I'm doing my best impression of nonchalance, shrugging into the confident 'Kellie' posture I take on at school – ordinary Scott Kellerman might have passed out by now.

"Call it." I say, nodding at the phone as I hand it back. When she presses the little green button and Symphony goes off in my suit breast pocket, I wiggle my eyebrows at her, and pick up the call.

"Scott speaking. Who might this be?" She throws her head back in beautiful, bona fide laughter, and I snap a picture right then.

"Hey!" She exclaims, pointing at the phone, her mouth still open in a wide smile. "Scott!" She says, breaking my name into two-syllables in a whiny singsong as I tap at my screen. Then, I lift the screen to show her the new contact saved, evangeline 😊, accompanied by the photo of her, lit up with laughter, and the sun shining down on her rosy cheeks.

"It's for Camille." I shrug cheekily. Eyes still glowing with amusement, she opens her mouth to protest, but folds her arms over her chest and sassily insists,

"Fine, then, I'm getting one of you."

"Fine by me." I smirk, giving her my best Picture Day smile when she holds her phone up. Scott 😁, reads the screen.

"Looks good to me," I laugh.

She rolls her eyes playfully, and I can't believe that in a matter of minutes, we've gone from hardly acknowledging each other, to this perfect moment.

"I should go," she says, casting her gaze back over to the field, where a boozed-up blonde-haired boy is using up the little sober focus he had left to scan the field – for her, I assume. "I think my friend's looking for me."

"Yeah..." I don't want to say the wrong thing, and ruin the light air, so I don't ask any questions. "I should probably try and beg my way back into this queue before Camille executes me."

She laughs her melodious contagious laugh again, and I'm grinning back even though I have no reason to.

"I hope you live to tell the tale." She remarks before raising her hand in a little wave and turning to walk back to her friends.

"We should hang out!" I call when she's far enough away that if she says no, I can pretend she misheard me. But she doesn't say no – she turns to face me, and her lips spread into an adorable smile. She keeps moving, with her back to the table and her eyes on me.

"I'll text you!" She calls out, with her hands cupped around her mouth. She waves her phone, and almost trips, but regains her balance before giving me the cutest flush-faced thumbs up and turning away again.

Yesterday, I'd come to terms with the fact that she'd probably never speak to me again. Now I'm looking at her number and adorable smile in my phone, waiting for it to light up with her name. Maybe you're not so bad after all, universe.