“Yeah, yeah. Night, Alex. And thanks—for—you know—helping me and stuff.”

“Anytime, sweetheart.”

“Ah, piss off.”

“Later, Con. Sleep well.”

Chapter 6

April 1994

I hated Aidan Gallagher from the very first moment I met him. He was everything I hated in a boy; entitled, stupid, and loud. My deep-rooted resentment of Aidan stemmed from a clashing of personalities, aims, interests, values—not because he was a boy, as many of our friends seemed to assume. Getting along with the lads from Christopher’s had always been a challenge for me but Aidan Gallagher was in a league of his own. I knew he was never particularly fond of me either. Where most of our mutual friends forgot quite quickly that I had been next to a nobody before I had known them, Aidan never did. Not that I cared a tremendously large amount what he or anybody else thought of me, of course. A conversation that lasted more than five minutes with Aidan Gallagher ought to have classified as a war crime but in spite of the hatred I bore for his very existence I did have to hand it to him; he always threw a good party.

His parties—or, technically, his older brother’s parties—were well known all across Halford, and only the very best of those in Christopher’s and Michael’s warranted an invitation. We were sixteen, immature and full of notions regarding what it meant to be cool. Connie chose my outfit, as she was prone to do; a skin-tight skirt and bralette that served no real purpose, as far as I could see, because it didn’t exactly leave a whole lot to the imagination and I was fucking freezing. She let me wear my own denim jacket and eventually caved enough to allow me to wear my own runners, but I failed to feel like myself even still. Jeans would have been more appropriate for the occasion. I tried to reason with her but of course, she simply failed to listen.

Aidan lived a few houses away from Connie on the seafront, his house just as unnecessarily ostentatious and gaudy as hers. Molly and Orla decided to skip getting ready with us and just call to Connie’s when it was time to head and I was silently grateful for that. Halfway through Fourth Year most of the girls that had been part of our friend group during the summer began to fade into the background of our social circle; relevant enough to attend our parties and greet in school, but not significant enough to actually hang out with. Everyone knew that when it came down to it the social hierarchy that existed narrowed enough at the top to only fit four girls, and that those four girls were Connie, Molly, Orla, and I. They were my best friends, my favorite people, but Molly and Orla weren’t Connie. Nobody came close to her in my eyes.

They came to the house when Connie was already half-drunk and I was more than a little tipsy, greeting us each with a kiss on the cheek. They both began to rave as Connie locked the front door about her effortless beauty before Molly turned to me, fighting back a smirk.