The Time of Our Lives - Portia MacIntosh

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I change the subject. ‘You’re Tom, right?’

      ‘That’s me,’ he says. ‘And you’re …’

      ‘Luca.’

      You think that when you finish school you put the God-awful hierarchy of the classroom behind you, but unfortunately uni follows a similar model. On our course, Tom is the cool guy, the one everyone wants to work with, the class clown. Of course I know who Tom is, and of course he doesn’t know me.

      ‘I’ve seen you around – I’ve noticed your colour-changing hair. I appreciate cool hair.’

      ‘I can see that,’ I say, nodding towards Tom’s dark, spikey, gravity defying hair.

      ‘Yeah, we look like anime characters,’ he laughs.

      I laugh too, but as I relax, I start to feel relief, and as the relief washes over me, I burst into tears.

      ‘Hey, hey,’ he says, reaching out, placing an arm around me, giving me a big, reassuring squeeze. ‘Everything is OK, I promise. I’m not going to let anyone hurt you. I’ll attend all your parties from now on, how about that? I’ll wear a suit and an ear piece – the works.’

      ‘You’re my hero,’ I tell him. ‘You should wear a cape.’

      With Tom here, I feel so safe. Not just because I’ve seen him on my course for over two years and because I know that Matt can vouch for him … I just feel like he really is looking out for me, like nothing bad can happen to me on his watch.

      ‘How about we sneak downstairs, grab some food, come back up here and I’ll watch whatever movie you want me to. I don’t even care if it has Matthew McConaughey in it.’

      ‘I’d rather watch a Scorsese flick, to be honest,’ I admit. ‘Give me a young Ray Liotta over Matthew McConaughey, any day.’

      ‘Whoa, OK, we didn’t agree you could be cool and have good taste,’ he jokes. ‘Smart, stylish and a cinephile. That’s a triple threat.’

      I smile.

      ‘Right, come on, let’s go steal some pizza, and if anyone so much as looks at you in a way you don’t like, I’ll go full Joe Pesci on them.’

       Chapter 7

      Now

      I feel like to say this wedding has turned into a circus would be grade-A hyperbole … except I just saw an alarmingly muscular man doing press-ups on the lawn with the mother of the groom on his back. So there’s that.

      I hurry over to Kat, the bride, with a book full of messages from well-wishers. I’ve done my best to get around everyone – I think I might’ve accidentally asked one of the waiters too, but he was more than happy to write something so all is well that ends well. It’s finished, I can go back to being a regular guest whose only responsibility is having a drink without making a fool of herself.

      ‘That’s great,’ Kat says, taking the book from me. ‘When I need something else, I’ll call on you.’

      ‘You’ll call on me?’ I reply weakly.

      ‘Yeah, I’ll call on you.’

      I think the words she is looking for are ‘thank’ and ‘you’.

      I pull a face to myself as I walk away, leaving her to the circle of guests that has formed around her. How have I landed myself in this mess? I know how – it’s this stupid, beautiful dress that I spent far too much money on. If I were still a goth I would’ve turned up in something black and slutty and, sure everyone would’ve asked me if I were attending a funeral (perhaps even a funeral for strippers, depending on who was making the joke) but there’s no way I would have been asked to fill in for a bridesmaid dressed like that, and there’s no way I’d be assuming boring bridesmaid duties right now – I’m not even sure they’d let me in the photos.

      Tom collars me halfway across the lawn. Great. Just what I need.

      ‘Hey, are you ready for that catch up?’ he asks me.

      ‘I think we’re about to eat actually.’ I turn on my heels to walk away but Tom stops me.

      ‘Luca, wait,’ he starts. ‘I just …’

      I turn around and glance at Tom as he runs a hand through his thick, dark hair. I notice the bulge of his bicep stretch the inside of his shirtsleeve to capacity, before immediately telling myself off for looking at him that way. He deserves no credit, at all, for anything, ever.

      ‘I haven’t seen you in, what, ten years? I can’t believe you’re standing here. It’s made my day seeing you here, but you just seem like …’

      I shrug my shoulders casually. I can’t see his eyes, just my reflection in his Ray-Ban sunglasses, and seeing myself be so casual with him when he’s so pleased to see me makes me feel horrible.

      ‘Luca Wade,’ I hear Cleo’s The Only Way Is Essex accent squeak behind me.

      ‘Cleo, hello,’ I reply with faux enthusiasm.

      ‘You look amazing,’ she tells me, pulling me down to her level for a hug. Cleo creeps in at just over five feet – another little lady who makes me feel like a giant beast of a woman.

      ‘So do you,’ I tell her, kissing the cheek she’s offered me.

      As she releases me, she lightly knocks me with her bump.

      ‘Oops, watch out for little Sunny,’ she says, placing her hands protectively on her stomach.

      ‘Sorry,’ I say, not that I have anything to apologise for. I’ve always been the kind of person who apologises, even if it isn’t my fault – even if it’s only a lamppost I’ve walked into. I just can’t seem to lose the reflex.

      ‘Gah. Luca, Luca, Luca. Such a cute name but, you know, I always thought it was a boy’s name,’ she muses.

      ‘Sunny is a type of weather,’ I reply through my best fake smile. ‘It’s all good.’

      Cleo laughs wildly, throwing her head back theatrically.

      ‘You’re so funny,’ she tells me. ‘Tom, didn’t I always say Luca was a funny girl?’

      She playfully digs him in the ribs with her elbow.

      ‘Yep,’ he replies. ‘Cleo, can you give us a minute please?’

      Cleo pouts. ‘OK, sure. But it’s nearly time for food,’ she tells him. ‘Hurry back.’

      Ergh, that girl needs to loosen her bun or something, I think it’s stopping her brain from working properly. And telling me I have a boy’s name, pssh. If there’s one thing I remember really well about Cleo, it’s that she has mastered the skill of dishing out backhanded compliments.

      ‘Why do girls do that?’ Tom asks me.

      I look at him for an explanation.

      ‘Greet each other with all the love and excitement you’d feel if you were reunited with a dead relative,’ he says. ‘Cleo gets all that and you haven’t even hugged me yet.’

      Tom flashes me that cheeky smile of his that I’ve always had a soft spot for. It’s probably the first thing that attracted me to him, the first time I saw him in one of our lectures, playing the class clown with such charm and warmth.

      I think about how much I want to feel his arms around me but, at the same time, the thought of touching him terrifies me. The thought of him touching me after all these years makes me feel like a nervous teenager again, but it’s all I can think about now.

      Before I have a chance to act, I feel my body lifting off the ground, like I’m being beamed up by an alien spaceship which, to be honest, I don’t think

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