My dad told me two things that stuck with me when he bought his pub. The relevant one was that I should never underestimate an inebriate's ability to be profoundly entertaining or entertainingly profound. We're on our way home, and currently, this trainload of legless British socialites is proving him so very right.

Somehow the train back seemed busier than the train here, but Eric and I snagged an entire row to ourselves because the girls (friends of friends of friends of Pip) who were supposed to be sat here voted – drunkenly and amongst themselves, I might add – to give up their seats for the 'lover birds'. I told them they could sit with us, and Eric, ever the gentleman, insisted that we didn't need the whole row, and that there were enough seats for us all to sit down, but that only seemed to strengthen their resolve.

"Oh my god, you guys, they're so cute."

"So cute!"

"Nope! No! You two", one pointed at us, shaking a drunken finger and doing her best to steady herself, "are sitting together – right here. 's it. Final. Come on, girlies." Leading the legless line, they plopped themselves on the carpeted floor of the train, next to the 5 empty seats. Once Eric and I had accepted that they wouldn't budge, I shrugged and we took the seats, deciding to try and make it up to them by intervening in their drunk ramblings from time to time when things got teary or belligerent.

Eric had to pull Sasha and Georgina apart when Sasha called Georgina's fascinator the most fascinating thing about her, and currently, we're doing our very best to convince a blubbering Poppy that she will find love if she's open-mind about her... options. Well, I am. Eric's playing the silent support because he says a man has no place telling a woman how to feel about anything, and it makes me smile because it's exactly the sort of thing Mum would say.

"It's just, like, when I saw him today, I knew he was my soulmate, you know? Thanks, hun." She sniffles when Eric hands her his silk handkerchief since neither of us have any tissue. He's so sweet that he doesn't even flinch when she vigorously blows her nose in it. I do. "Like, I know there's nobody else."

"But Poppy, wh-" I stop short, preparing to say a string of words I never thought I would have to say, "what if Prince Harry isn't the only man out there for you?"

"But, Angie, they both had on cornflower blue today," Sasha garbles, all her words running together, "that means they're, like, written in the stars"

"But, like, I'll probably never see him again and that's so, like, sad."

"Shh, babe, don't say that," another one whispers, pressing her finger right against Poppy's lips, "if it's meant to be, you'll see him at Wimbledon." I'm not sure that's exactly how it works, but they're all sat in a coven-like circle, nodding their heads in agreement, and I sure as hell won't interrupt.

"You're so right. But, guys," Poppy whines, and the waterworks are threatening to start again, "what about his wife? She's like properly lush."

"Meghan? Pfft, babe, she might have the accent and the ring or whatever, but you – you have the soul."

"Yeah! And way nicer dimples."

"Aw, guys! Sto-op, I'm gonna start crying. D'you really think so?"

We've lost them, and Eric and I eye each other before he hides his laugh against my neck, and snuggles up close, resting his head on my shoulder. I relax against him, breathing in the faint smell of cedarwood.

I can feel my eyes slowly closing, but I straighten my posture and blink a few times, resisting sleep.

When Eric feels me tense up, he chuckles,

"Evie, it's a long ride home – sleep."

"I'm wide awake. Don't you worry about me," I say, patting his head playfully.

"Whatever you say, my love." He grunts lightly, wrapping an arm around my middle as he nestles into me.

We've been up since dawn today, and as badly as I want to finally rest, and fall asleep in Eric's embrace, I have to finish telling the girls about today. I sent selfies and zoom-ins of royals here and there, but after the weird thing with Scott, I sent a voice note, explaining everything as coherently as I could, and, short of running home and calling an emergency meeting to debrief, I need to check the group chat. As soon as I click on the chat, the messages start flooding in, I'm grinning like an idiot and ugh, I miss my girls.

EASY AS A.B.C.

17:01

angie: ►⟝―――――⟞ 03:41

babe: sorry what

babe: WHAT

caz: omg i remember camille, she was my fashion icon

caz: also, !!!!????!!! NO BLOODY WAY

babe: wait

babe: i don't get why he apologised

caz: B not again 👀

babe: relax relax

babe: i meannnnn

babe: if he went to all the trouble of going to the heads, seems like he meant it

babe: why take it back now

caz: true true

caz: maybe he's making amends

caz: doing the 12 steps? 💀

babe: lmaoo

babe: idk seems corny to me 🤷

caz: 🥴 🥴

caz: that picture thing was kinda sweet tho 🥺

caz: does this mean he wants proper wants you guys to be friends???

babe: i'm sorry no

babe: you don't almost ruin someone's relationship and them to ask them to hang out

caz: ooo someone's suddenly very #TeamEvanglin

babe: haha

babe: just anti-scott

18:31

angie: first of all, we're actually #Ervie

angie: second... it was kinda nice to properly talk to him again? i felt sorta comfortable

caz: that's what i was gonna say!

caz: bffs reunited

babe: uhhh a friendship in year 3 does not a bff make

babe: why's he mr nice guy all of a sudden?

angie: i mean technically he was always nice?

angie: we just kinda grew apart idk

babe: and he's rekindling it now because...?

babe: i just feel like it's weird he wants to be pals after a) not being close for years

babe: and b) trying to bust you & maglin

caz: @babe

angie: fair point ig

angie: but it's not like i'm marrying him lmao it's just a truce

babe: mhmm

babe: as long as kellerboy knows that's all it is 👀

angie: okay mum i'll make sure to draw the line 🙂

caz: i say give him a chance tbh

caz: he seems like a sweetie

caz: plus, someone you feel comfortable with is always a good find x

seen by: babe, angie

I pull a cautious face as I turn the phone off, careful not move too much and wake my boy. His light snoring hasn't started, but watching the steady rise and fall of his chest calms me just as well.

Scott and I... friends again? I knew I was in for a world of surprises today, but I wouldn't have come up with this one in a thousand guesses, and I don't have a clue how I'm supposed to feel.

On the one hand: I hate him.

Okay, maybe hate's a little harsh – I definitely don't hate him. I hate what he did – I hate that he put Eric and I in jeopardy without so much as a 'hey, just to let you know, I'm planning on possible turning your life upside down next Monday!'

But on the other hand, it's... Scott. The same Scott that gave me wonkily-iced red velvet cupcakes and taught me 'Miss Mary Mack' when I couldn't get the hang of it, and spent all of lunch making a list of things that rhymed with Evangeline when I got upset that nothing did. We're not 8 anymore, I know, but that's who I see when he grins his dumb lopsided grin.

Maybe that's why I was so quick to forgive him. It was a heartfelt one, sure, but all it took was an 'I'm sorry' for me to let bygones be bygones. Somewhere in my unconscious mind, he's the same. We're the same.

Ugh, why are teenagers so bloody weird about everything! A thousand things dash and trundle and churn in our minds every minute, and we're lucky if we're confident or comfortable enough to say 20% of it out loud.

In an ideal world, I'd have tapped him last year, when a lesson was starting to drag, and asked, hey, how come we're not friends anymore? But in the real world, ten years is a bloody long time. I'm different. He's different. I might not know Scott Kellerman as he is now, but I know of him – everyone does. And according to the grapevine, and the prize nights and the writings on the bathroom stalls, he's 'perfect'.

Admittedly, girls our age have pretty low standards for 'perfect', but Scott's effortlessly framed himself in this casual kind of excellence – he's every student's best mate, every teacher's pet, and every girl's first choice for the guy to take home to mum. He's not the amoral bad boy, or the troubled artist with a penchant for face tatts and freshman – he just sort of sits back and exudes this unassuming charisma that, ironically, draws everyone to him.

Sure, he did a shitty thing – but he's not a shitty guy. When I look at him, I don't see a traitor or an arsehole, I see an old friend. Maybe a new one?

───･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

We're almost home and I'm only slightly annoyed that I'm still awake, because the spectacle parading through the train is so worth missing an hour-long nap for.

Pip seems to be the perpetual leader, and he's taking a rolling-drunk conga line up and down our carriage, who belt the wrong words to 'Copacobana' and spill their mimosas as they march, blissfully ignorant of any pissed off eyes. I've needed to pee since about 7 stops back, but I refuse to interrupt the hilariously drunken dance train, or the intense game of patty cake the girls are playing on the patch of floor right in front of our seats.

'Cousin Freddie', towards the back of the conga line, of course, can barely keep his eyes open, but still manages to slur with limited coherence,

"Can-can I," he hiccups, "can a get 'nother sip of le vino? Isit with Luce or Pops?"

"Me, obvi."

Freddie pops himself down on the floor next to the girls, taking a swig from the dark bottle with a sleepy grin, and he reminds me of the winos at school. My guess puts him at about 26, and I hear he's Marquess of Somewhere or the Other, but right now, the only thing differentiating him from the goofy kids back home who chug their booze under the bleachers, is the price of the French wine in his hand.

When the girls take the bottle from his hands for a very unsanitary game of 'Drink or Dare', Freddie slowly and unsteadily, raises a hand in a last attempt at intelligibility, and, as plastered as they are, the girls are all rolling their eyes before he's even spoken a word.

"Come on, giiiirls, you're not 'onna play sans moi, are ya?" As unimpressed as the girls look, Freddie's garbling has just given me a new benchmark for posh: (a) proper (b) plummy (c) perfect French in the middle of drunk ramblings.

"Freddie, you're asleep."

"No!" He insists with a jerky rock of his shoulder. "Am not!" He flashes his lazy Cheshire smile before falling backwards, snoring as soon as head hits the train floor.

If Auggie was here she'd cackle out loud or would have told him to piss off the second his Cheval Blanc-scented arse stumbled over calling booze 'vino'. It's weird to think that he'd be family if Eric and I were ever to...

Like he can hear my thoughts, Eric shuffles a little, with a light grunt, stirring to slow but certain wakefulness. He sleeps heavy, but he's one of those sleepers who shifts at the slightest sound, and every time someone uncorked another bottle, and he turned his head with furrowed brows, I thought about telling him about Scott.

I thought about it – but what would I even say? 'Hey sleepyhead, so, funny story...' Or maybe, 'Hope you slept well; I'm thinking about befriended the guy that tried to get you fired?' I can't explain it to him because I can hardly explain it to myself. Scott might have some sort of nostalgia-based amnesty in my head, but he doesn't in Eric's, and it would be downright shitty of me to even ask him to see past what he did. Eric stands to lose the most if we go about this the wrong way, even Scott said so.

I let out a mew-like yawn, and Eric tilts his head, looking up at me with one open eye.

"Good morning, almost-Birthday Boy. Or good evening, I guess."

He sits up with a groan, but he's smiling as he rubs his hands over his face and comes to.

"Ah, God. Don't say that too loud, Pip'll hear you and come over with a load of shots of something."

Looking over at Pip, he's, luckily, preoccupied, but Eric's not wrong. At the rate at which he's throwing back the liqueur, I have no doubt he'd be more than happy to acquire yet another drinking buddy.

Eric looks over at me, and when his lips stretch into a smile just because, I decide on two things.

Number one, he sort of looks like Brad Pitt in that one 90s movie about a school track team.

Number two, I won't tell him about Scott – not until I'm more certain.

When I yawn a second time, and keep my lips together in an attempt to hide it, Eric catches it and grins. He leans over to kiss my temple, and I lean into his chest instinctively.

"Are you tired, kitten?" He asks, all smug, brushing a wisp of hair from my face.

"Shush." I say against his chest, without raising my slowly-but-certainly closing eyes to meet his. "Mm," I hum, snuggling in further, "that's a new one."

"What – kitten?" When he chuckles, I feel the vibration on my cheek. "Would you prefer babe?" I scrunch my nose and shake my head; he always says he finds 'babe' so unimaginative. "You're my kitten," he says softly, stroking circles on my shoulder, "just seeing how it feels out loud."

Christ, he's so cute. "And how does it feel?" I ask, raising my head from his chest, bringing our faces just inches apart.

"You tell me," he says, his gaze fixed on my lips that can't help but smile.

"Good."

"Oh, you like it? It's good?" He asks, teasing with raised eyebrows as he grins right back, and presses his lips against mine, then against my cheek, then all over, sending the sweetest tickle through me, making me giggle his name.

A dramatic retching sound catches our attention, and Pip's smile is as drunken as it is entertained.

"I'm sorry, do we offend?" Eric laughs, his hands settled on my waist.

He rolls his eyes before putting a glass to his lips,

"Bloody lover birds."