The Reunion

saw a Japanese film. Dan was the only person he knew who really enjoyed Japanese cinema, who could talk for hours (pretentious wanker) about Kurosawa. And since then, Conor couldn’t remember Dan and Jen saying two words to each other.
    Conor felt hot and cold at the same time, as though someone had poured petrol over him. He felt sick, breathless, his head swimming, he wanted to get out of the car. The sun was beating down outside and yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that a storm was coming, he could sense it, dark clouds gathering somewhere just out of sight. He needed to talk to Jen, to look her in the eye, to ask her what happened, to ask her why she lied. He wanted to put his hand around Dan’s throat and squeeze.
    ‘Are you feeling all right, Conor?’ Dan was looking at him, a little frown on his face. ‘You feeling sick? You want to stop?’
    Conor looked at Dan’s face, at the genuine concern in his eyes, and he couldn’t believe the thought that had just run through his head. Dan was his friend. Jen loved him. And Conor trusted her, he trusted them both. This was ridiculous. He was wrong, he had to be. Dan would
never
do that. Jen would
never
do that. She would rather die than hurt him like that. He let go of the door handle and slipped his hand back between the door and his seat, he reached back for Jen and she took his hand and squeezed it, and he felt breath come back to his lungs.

Chapter Forty-two

    THEY COULDN’T GET there too soon. Jen wanted to tell Dan to drive faster, faster, faster. She couldn’t wait to get out of the car, to get out of this ridiculously cramped, uncomfortable back seat, to stretch her legs and put some physical space between her and Dan, because she couldn’t bear this proximity.
    She couldn’t stop looking at him. She tried, she focused on the service stations and the scrubby embankment, the stitching coming undone on the back of Conor’s seat, the dark red varnish peeling from her fingernails, but no matter how she tried her eyes were drawn back to him, to the muscles in his tanned arms, flexing as he changed gear, to that little scar, a tiny crooked white mark on the nape of his neck just below his hairline. A knife fight, he told her the first time she asked him how he got it. Attacked by a vicious dog. An unfortunate forklift incident. He had a different story every time, they got more and more ridiculous. In the rear-view mirror she caught his eye and she realised she was smiling.
    Her face felt hot. Everything felt hot. God, she wanted to get out of this car. Conor opened his window a little and there was a moment of relief as the air rushed in. She breathed deeply: exhaust fumes and the faint tang of petrol.
    She wanted to get out of the car and yet she was afraid, because once they were out of the car she would have to face them both, and she wouldn’t know how to behave, she’d forgotten how she used to be with the two of them, back when things were normal. She couldn’t remember how she used to look at Dan, but she was sure that when she looked at him now, she did so differently, and Conor would know. He would see something in her face, in the way she couldn’t quite hold Dan’s gaze, and he would know.
    Just then, with perfect timing, Conor reached back and took her hand, and the guilt came over her in waves. She felt as though she were drowning. She bit down hard on her lip, she squeezed his hand tightly, she felt Dan’s gaze, still on her, watching her face, and she closed her eyes.
    They stopped in Weyhill for lunch, where they had arranged to meet up with the others. Jen clambered out of the back seat as quickly as she could, almost falling over in the car park.
    ‘Steady,’ Conor said to her, catching her arm and pulling her closer. ‘You all right?’
    ‘That car’s a bloody nightmare,’ she muttered, pushing her hair out of her face.
    ‘Hey!’ Dan protested. ‘She can hear you,’ he said, patting the bonnet.
    ‘Yeah, well, it’s not built for three, is it?’ As she said it she wished she hadn’t, she felt as though she were pointing out the awkwardness, the
wrongness
of the three of them.
    They got a table in the beer garden. Jen perched on the edge of the bench with Conor at her side, Nat to his right. Across the table from her sat Lilah with Dan to the right, as far away from Jen as he could get. Andrew appeared with a tray of drinks, placing it down in front of her with a wide grin and sliding onto the bench beside Lilah.