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“The ice cream, or my reading habits?” says Kit as we leave the display behind and head down an aisle full of souvenirs and knickknacks.
“Both.” I touch the spine of a purple leather-bound sketchbook, though when I start to slide it off the shelf, I realize it has a cartoon cat on the cover. “Do you think anyone’s going to read it? The biography, I mean.”
“I fear it’s already a bestseller,” he says, unearthing a wooden box that holds a miniature painting set, complete with five colors, two brushes, and several small canvases. “Don’t worry—it’s mostly fiction.”
“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.” I nod toward the box in his hand. “My mom would love that.”
“Really?” says Kit. “I thought she’d have a dozen like it.”
I shrug. “She always says there’s no such thing as too much paint.”
Kit holds on to the paint set as we move down the aisle, and we both pause the conversation to lick our cones. “It’s really not as bad as it could be,” he says, and it takes me a beat to realize he’s talking about the biography, not the ice cream. “If anything, it’s surprisingly kind toward you. She interviewed some of your schoolmates and a few people who claim to be family friends, but there’s nothing terribly personal—”
“Kitters?”
We both look up at the same time. At the end of the aisle stands a girl not much older than me, with flaming-red hair and a smattering of freckles so adorable that I’m instantly jealous. Beside her is a brown-haired boy—man—roughly the same age, and though his expression looks like it’s set in a permanent scowl, there’s something inexplicably open about him.
“Aoife? Dylan?” says Kit, his voice tight with wariness I don’t understand. “What are you doing here?”
“Good to see you, too, mate,” says the boy—man—Dylan. He smiles, but even though I think he means it, it comes off as pained. “My gran lives here. Aoife’s visiting for Christmas.”
The redheaded girl nudges him affectionately, and I notice their clasped hands. “You must be Evangeline,” she says to me. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
“Wish I could say the same,” I say, glancing at Kit. His lips are pursed, and he looks vaguely like a deer in headlights.
“Evangeline,” he says in that polite, formal tone he only uses around other people. “This is Dylan and Aoife. Dylan and I were at Eton together, and now we’re on the same course at Oxford, while Aoife’s studying computer science.”
This immediately piques my interest, considering I’ll be studying the same in the autumn, but Aoife laughs before I can bring it up. “You make it sound like we all nod to each other as we pass in the hall,” she says. “We’re friends. Good friends, I’d say. Wouldn’t you?” She looks at Dylan, who grunts in agreement.
“Had to carry his arse home from the pub a few times,” he says, and Kit turns pink. He’s mentioned going out with friends during our VidChat calls, but for the life of me, I can’t remember him ever mentioning names. Or that he was close with anyone at Oxford.
“Complete exaggeration,” Kit assures me with a forced smile. “If anything, I was the one keeping Dylan upright.”
Aoife snorts. “Oh, no—I’m the one who had to tuck you both into bed,” she teases before catching my eye. “Don’t worry, it’s all in good fun. Unlike Dylan and me, Kit’s not a dosser.”
I have absolutely no idea what that means, and I’m afraid to ask. Dylan must see my confusion, because he finally cracks a smile.
“She means he’s a good lad,” he says. “On the straight and narrow, as it were.”
“He’s actually at uni to study, rather than to poison his liver,” she jokes. “And he talks about you all the bleedin’ time. I don’t know what kind of magic you’ve worked on him, but he’s completely besotted.”
Kit’s blushing so hard now that he’s practically scarlet. “Same magic you’ve worked on Dylan to get him to utter more than two words at a time,” he says, but as he speaks, his phone chirps. He checks his screen, and his brow furrows. “I’m afraid we need to go.”
“Bugger, really?” says Aoife, her shoulders slumping. “I was hoping you’d have time to grab a coffee. I’ve wanted to meet you for ages, Evangeline.”
“We’ll have to arrange something soon,” mumbles Kit as he hastily types out a reply to whatever message he’s received. I fight the urge to glance at his screen, sure he’ll tell me eventually as long as this isn’t a ruse to escape. “Evangeline, did you want to get something?”
I nod and take the box from under his arm. “You say goodbye, and I’ll pay.”
Kit doesn’t argue, and considering he never lets me pay for a thing, that’s how I know this isn’t some kind of ploy to shake off his friends. I excuse myself and head for the register, where the shopkeeper is beaming at my return, and as I pull the rose ring from the velvet case, I hear footsteps behind me.
“I’m sorry if I came off a bit strong back there,” says Aoife, pausing in front of the jewelry display. “Oh, these are grand.”
“Her daughter made them,” I say, and the shopkeeper winks. “And you have nothing to apologize for. It’s nice to meet some of Kit’s friends. I don’t really have many of my own here.”
Aoife’s easy grin returns as the shopkeeper rings me up. “Well, you can consider me one, then, if you’d like,” she says, and there’s a question there that I can’t turn down—not politely, anyway. And definitely not as Evangeline.
“I would,” I say, even though I’m not so sure. “You’ll have to tell me more stories about Oxford.”
