My dreams are full of the two little boys in their Manchester United jerseys, playing football in the garden. They haunt me.
Of course, the next day, my head is killing me. But I wake up sharply with the memory of everything from last night, and one certain, angry point bubbling to the forefront of my mind.
Kitty kissed Harper.
Kitty, who knows that I like him, and is supposed to be my best friend, betrayed everything and kissed him. And she was the one who told him he shouldn't be with me. She told him that I couldn't be trusted. But really, it's her.
Kitty was always my lifeline to the rest of the group. Kitty got me this job, and she was my connection. She was my best friend as a child, and despite our differences through high school, I was certain that she was once again my closest friend. And we're supposed to be family. Ever since my dad married her mum, we have been sisters. She's never accepted that particular title for our relationship, but that's what we are. Sisters.
I thought Kitty was looking out for me. I thought she had my back, and wanted the best for me. I thought she wanted me to be a part of her London group, the Brew Books circle. But now it seems she has no love for me. And without her love, how can I possibly hold onto the others? I can never have Sylvie, Charlotte, Will, Harper, and Ed, without Kitty. They're hers. And I have no one.
I rip all of the clothes out of my wardrobe and shove them into a suitcase, and tear photos down from the wall and throw them in the bin.
All of the photos are fake. Photos of me with my school friends, or my London friends. But none of these people in these photos, with the fake, cheery smiles, none of them really love me. None of them have ever wanted me, the real me.
I find myself sitting on the bed, sobbing, staring at the one photo I have with the entire London group. One remarkably warm Sunday afternoon, after we closed the bookshop, we all went to sit on the green, and drank bottles of cider in the fading light. Charlotte set up her camera with her tripod, and the seven of us crowded together. I stare longingly at Harper, who has his arm around both me and Kitty. It's a friendly pose, but I remember at the time feeling giddy with joy at having his arm around me.
Everyone is fake.
Harper is fake. He fakes his feelings, and doesn't care about a single girl whose hearts he breaks. He only cares about his inflated idea of his own self, and whether girls will like him if he's read Tolstoy.
Kitty is fake. She pretends to be the nice, kind hearted, warm and welcoming girl in the group, but she manipulates everything to get her own way.
Sylvie is fake. With her wigs and her fake nails and lipsticks and eyeliner, all covering up the fact that she's a heartbroken writer beneath it all.
Will is fake. With is over-inflated sense of joy at all occasions, masking the fact that he is so insecure about his body, and his relationships, and his cheating ex-boyfriend.
Charlotte is fake. With her fake cherry red hair and her fake tan and revealing clothing to get tips in the bar, while she creates a fashion blog that displays an even more fake look at the world.
And Ed. Ed pretends to be the good guy. The unassuming, hardworking guy. But he has some dark secret about his brother that he refuses to tell me, and I can see the guilt he harbours. I can only assume that something horrible happened, and that Ed is not as innocent as he seems.
I rip the sheets off my bed, deciding once and for all that I can't stay another night in this place. I need to go back to Brighton. I need to get out of this toxic situation.
When I pull the fitted sheet out from the mattress, a few loose sheets of paper come with it. I frown, and lift the mattress, to reveal a few more sheets of paper. They aren't mine, so I'm not sure who they belong to, but I bundle them up, and as I do, my already-hungover stomach heaves to read the name in the top right corner of each page.
Matthew Lyndon-Reed.
The pages don't have numbers, so they're out of order, but I read each page, trying to make sense of what I'm reading in the mess. A few lines jump out at me.
My brother, Edgar, always supported my identity...
...my parents sent me to an all-girls Catholic boarding school, perhaps hoping the flood of femininity would transfer, like osmosis, through into my body. The school was my own personal prison...
...even when I shaved my head, my mother called me Melanie. When I grew stubble, she refused to see me...
...my father's campaign manager removed all photos of me from Dad's Facebook page. She said it was best if the voters made the assumption Dad only had one son...
I try to make sense of the pages, trying to put them into order, but there are things missing. But it doesn't matter. I've realised something that I never figured out before now.
I pull out my phone and pull up Kitty's Instagram, and scroll back to December, where she uploaded the photos of the ski trip the seven of them took together. I zoom in and stare at the photo of Matt. Matthew Lyndon-Reed.
He's shorter than Ed, but stockier, with a solid jawline defined by dark stubble. His brows are thick, and his eyes are small and intense. There's not a hint of femaleness in this face. He's a man.
But he wasn't born Matthew.
He was born Melanie.
• Author's Note •
omg omg drama, let me know your thoughts in the comments!
elle xx