if you're lost, you can look and you will find me, time after time


NINE YEARS LATER

"Hero!" Celia bundles her into her arms as soon as she walks through the door.

Hero laughs and squeezes her back. "Congratulations!"

"Thank you! I love your dress!"

It is a baby blue lacy thing with a layered skirt that flares out at the knees.

"Thank you, yours is beautiful. And it goes perfectly with that pretty sparkle of yours."

Celia grins, wiggling the diamond on her finger.

"Oh, that too," Hero cups her cheeks, "But I meant your smile."

Celia laughs delightedly and hugs her again. "Oh Hero, if it weren't for Rosalind, you'd be my Maid of Honour."

"I understand. It will be Beatrice beside me at the altar, regardless of anyone else."

Celia gives her a sly look. "And? Any developments on the prospective groom?"

She snorts. "Not likely."

"Weren't you seeing that guy you met at a wedding?"

"Laertes."

Ophelia's brother. She cringes at the memory. He had been so sweet leading up to the wedding, doting on his sister, helping Hero with her bridesmaid duties. But when they started dating she discovered his temper was short and his views on women backwards.

"We went on several dates but didn't suit. He got into a fight with a waiter."

Celia wrinkles her nose. "Ooh, not good."

They parted amicably, at least. Hero had been more afraid of upsetting Ophelia; but, as it turned out, her friend was relieved.

("I love my brother but he can be a real ass sometimes. As much as I'd adore having you as a sister-in-law, you can do sooo much better than Laertes.

Kate cackles. "She was tearing out her hair the whole honeymoon. She purchased a bottle of champagne as soon as she heard you'd split up.

Ophelia swats her arm. "Not the whole honeymoon."

"Noo," Kate purrs. "I was able to distract you some of the time."

Hero smiles at the look of love passed between the married couple and doesn't object when their video call is brought to an abrupt end.)

"Well, if you're single, Olly has this friend coming—"

"Ha ha, this night is supposed to be about you and Oliver."

"But you deserve to be happy! And I've been trying to match him up for ages. He keeps resisting my attempts. As do you. If you get together it will be the best wedding gift ever!" She bats her lashes. "Pleeaaassseee."

Hero laughs. "If he's so opposed, why do you think I'd make a difference?"

"Oh my sweet, darling Hero. That lovely smile of yours could melt even the coldest front. And don't let John's scowl fool you. He's a sweetheart underneath."

Amusement fizzles with affection. "I came early to help you set-up, not be set-up."

"Oh it would be extremely helpful," Celia grins.

Hero laughs, in real danger of caving to her friend's puppy eyes when Oliver interrupts. "Is anyone going to help me with these balloons?"

"It's not like you don't have enough hot air, darling," Celia coos.

With great affection, he flips her the bird.

"I'll help," Hero says, seizing the chance to escape.

She spends the next hour decorating the hired hall, blowing up balloons, organising tables, and preparing the buffet food, all the while Celia rambles on about Oliver's friend and work colleague.

"—he has this barbed humour, which is fun, but if you're in genuine distress he is sooo gentle — and he has dogs — I know you love dogs — they're the sweetest creatures — he's so affectionate with them, it's adorable — and he is a great cook—"

"Try to remember who exactly you're marrying, my angel," Oliver calls.

Celia blows him a kiss. "My heart is solely yours, my love. I'm only thinking of our dear Hero."

Oliver winks at Hero. "I'll put in a good word for you."

She lets the balloon in her hands belch, expressing her feelings on that. Oliver chuckles and goes to assist the DJ.

The first of the guests have started to arrive when Oliver hurries over to Celia, drawing her aside. Without meaning to, Hero overhears their exchange.

"Hey babe, we have a problem. All the wine is corked but there's no bottle opener in the kitchen."

"What? But the guests are already arriving! You didn't bring one?"

"Screw-tops are so common these days."

"Ugh, OK, don't panic," Celia says, panicking. "I'll call Rosalind. Maybe she hasn't left yet and can bring one."

Oliver pulls a face. "Orlando already texted me to say they're on their way."

"OK — OK — I'll ask the guests if anyone has a corkscrew in their pocket."

"That's a weird chat-up line."

Before Hero can intercede, Celia flitters away.

"Um… Oliver? I have a corkscrew."

His eyebrows leap up his forehead. "You — do? Why?"

She takes the penknife from her purse. "It's a multi-tool."

He kisses her hand. "Hero, our hero."

She giggles at the ridiculousness. "Careful or people will talk."

She follows him to the kitchen and he uses the built-in corkscrew to uncork the wine.

"You know, of all our guests, I never would've pegged you to carry a knife. Hero, do you have a secret dark side?"

She laughs. "No, I've barely used it. It just — has sentimental value. It was a gift."

"Strange gift."

"Strange boy." She smiles, tucking a curl behind her ear.

"Oliver, Celia said you needed help—" He halts, midnight eyes locking on her.

As if she summoned him…

Hero's lips part.

"Too slow, John," Oliver chuckles, oblivious to the frisson in the atmosphere. "As you can see, our Hero is here."

He is taller than she remembers, broader too, shoulders clad in another leather jacket. He has a beard now, a well-groomed shadow clipped around his mouth and jaw.

She clasps the kitchen countertop, lips tugging into a smile. "John Donner, it's been a long time."

"Hero," he dips his head, rolling her name like a lost treasure.

Her heart flutters and she feels those fingers down her spine.

Oliver's head swivels between them. "You two know each other?"

"We were at school together," she explains, eyes never leaving John.

Oliver's face lights. "Ooh this is priceless. You knew John when he was a spotty teen? You have to tell me. Do you have pictures? Please tell me you have pictures!"

She bites her lip, laughter bubbling in her throat. "No pictures, I'm afraid. But I don't remember any spots."

"Stories then?"

A muscle twitches in John's jaw, tensing.

"Maybe one or two," she admits with a wry smile. "But we ran in different circles. Most of what I heard was only rumour. I never saw him set anyone's hair on fire."

"It was only slightly singed," John mutters and Hero's eyes widen along with her smile.

Oliver claps his hands. "OH HO! This is fantastic! I should let Celia know the crisis is averted but this is great. We'll catch-up later." He saunters to the door, waggling his eyebrows at them. "I'll leave you two to get reacquainted."

Alone, Hero and John regard each other. Here they are again, at another party, separated from the crowd, the music pulsing through the walls, and the only two beings in the universe. They have come full circle, yet so much has changed.

She admires him beneath her lashes, suppressing a shiver as he drinks her in. Over the years, Hero often envisioned what she would say if she were to encounter him again. But finally face-to-face, the words wither on her tongue. Crushed beneath a consciousness of how fragile this moment is, how irreversible the wrong word could be.

"You still have the knife I gave you?"

John breaks the silence and Hero finds she can move again, busying herself by uncorking another of the bottles.

"Yes, it doesn't light-up but it has its uses."

The corner of his mouth twitches. She might be imagining it but she swears his gaze drops to her left hand, wrapped around the neck of the bottle, before returning to her face.

"How do you know Oliver and Celia?"

"I work with Cece. We're good friends."

She sees the dots connect in his head. "Celia is a teacher?"

"So am I."

"Huh," he folds his arms, leaning against the counter, less than an arm's breadth between them. "I assumed you'd want nothing more to do with school."

She smiles at the floor, fingers brushing the lace of her skirt. "I teach primary, it's less of a warzone. And I hope — I hope I inspire more kindness than our teachers did."

"I'm sure you do."

She meets his eyes — and, oh, her memory has not done him justice. "How do you know Olly and Celia?"

"Similar story. Oliver and I met at university, now we work together."

She gasps, clapping her hands. "You're that John! The one Cece has been badgering me to go on a date with for the last hour."

He grimaces, rubbing his brow. "Celia means well."

"If I'd known it was you—"

"You'd have told her not if I was the last man alive."

She catches her bottom lip between her teeth and smiles. "I'd have told her yes."

His eyes fly to hers, the wind knocked out of him. "What?"

"You left so suddenly. I always hoped we'd — get another chance."

"I thought you'd never want to see me again."

She shakes her head. "The opposite. When everything came out, I wanted to talk to you so badly — to understand."

He sighs. "My father — he was looking for an excuse to send me away. I was already suspended for fighting. Pedro tattling what I'd done to you was just the icing on the cake."

She presses her lips together. "How did Pedro even learn the truth? I never figured that out. It seemed like Claudio went from thinking me a whore to an angel in the space of one weekend."

John sneers. "He was an idiot."

She quirks an eyebrow and he falters.

"You're not — you're not still dating him?" He shrivels his nose, glancing around like Claudio might crawl out from the woodwork.

"God no!" She laughs, smiling coyly, "I'm not dating anyone."

His eyes widen a fraction, the shadow of a smile flickers on his lips before it falls, gaze dropping to the counter. "Pedro found out from Borachio. He was angry over our fight and wanted to settle the score. So he told him and Claudio the truth."

Hero turns this over, sliding it into place with the rest of the dust-covered pieces. "And they just — took his word for it?"

"What do you mean?"

She traces her fingers over the counter edge, a thought unfurling. "You said it yourself, Borachio was angry with you. Why would Pedro trust the word of some creep with a grudge over his brother?"

"It wasn't the most ridiculous tale Borachio had fed him," John reminds, an edge to his voice, but she senses it is not meant for her.

"Maybe…" She glances up at him. "Maybe I'm reaching here, but I thought — I wondered — if you said something."

He regards her, as indiscernible as ever, and she wavers — she wants to redeem him but that is not up to her.

When he speaks his words are measured, "I might have — called Claudio an idiot."

She snorts. "No shit."

His eyebrows rise. "Well, well, Princess Sugarplum finally learnt to swear."

Her eyes roll to the ceiling, giddy at him being here, with her again, wrapped in his wicked humour. "You're deflecting."

"Apologies, your honour." He presses his hand to his heart. "I promise to behave."

And, oh that crooked smile, his voice richer and more intoxicating than the wine he pours for her and himself, swirling the glass before he takes a sip.

"I might have… mocked your ex a little… for believing such an obvious lie. I told him what an idiot he was to doubt you and let Borachio fill in the blanks."

She inhales. "Is that — is that why you attacked Borachio in the cafeteria that day?"

His eyes darken. "It wasn't my main motivation. But I knew they'd doubt an outright confession."

At last, the puzzle that has plagued her since she was seventeen is complete. She expels a breath. She hadn't been wrong about him.

"I read your letter."

His face flickers and he chuckles humourlessly. "Didn't burn it then?"

"I was so confused. We were practically strangers until that moment in the locker room and then — just when I thought we might be becoming friends — you stormed off — and the next time I saw you — you're punching the pervert who groped me."

He winces.

She continues, "Then my reputation is miraculously restored and everyone says you're to blame for my fall in the first place — but you disappear before I can confront you, leaving only a letter and a knife."

He scratches his beard. "My teenage self was… prone to dramatics."

"And that's changed?"

He tips his head, acknowledging. "I suppose this is the part where you deliver that long overdue slap."

He moves in front of her, offering his cheek. But when she strikes, it is words she wields. "Did Claudio really call your mum a whore?"

"Fuck." He recoils, like someone who has burned their fingers playing with matches. "How do you — why would you ask that?"

She fiddles with the stem of a wine glass. "I needed an explanation. Conrade provided."

"Fuck…" He rakes his hand through his hair, glaring at the wall. "Claudio called my mum a lot of things, that's no excuse."

She exhales, the knowledge rippling through her like a pebble in a pond. "So, it really wasn't about me."

His eyes are a maestrom. "Everything that came after — I never wanted that. It doesn't excuse — I knew it was wrong. I knew it would hurt you. I did it anyway. I'm sorry."

The words flood from him like a man gasping through saltwater and Hero sees he has gashed himself upon the rocks of this regret many times before, caught in a tempest of his own creation. And while Hero has long since wrung the sea from her skirts, he is still drowning.

She throws him a lifeline, "I forgive you."

He looks like the ocean has spat him out, soaked to the bone, though there is not a drop on him.

His breath is ragged. "Just like that?"

She nods. "It's been nine years. I'm not holding onto a grudge."

"No, you wouldn't." She doesn't think she imagines the crack of awe woven in soft-tones. "You've always been kind, Hero."

"Kind and special," she recites the words inked across her memory in his hand, the letter pressed between the pages of a journal, safe, if slightly crinkled from all the times she has taken it out and run her fingers over the paper. "But if you think me merciful, consider I know you still have Beatrice to face."

His head whips to the door and back to her. "She's not coming tonight, is she?"

She grins and nods. Beatrice met Celia's cousin, Rosalind, at the university, where they became good friends — because the world is small and John Donner is standing before her.

"I'm a dead man." He groans, tilting his neck back — and there's an image.

She giggles, covering her blush. "So dramatic. Luckily for you, Beatrice would never commit a murder at a friend's engagement party."

"My body may limp on but I don't doubt my ego will be slashed to pieces."

Amused, she considers him. "You remember her well."

"I remember her punching Claudio." His mouth curves in a smile, deliciously devious.

"At least some good came of that night."

The smile drains from his face, the mask returning, and she wishes she could cram the words down her throat.

He steps back, voice soft. "You didn't deserve that. Any of it. I'm glad Beatrice punched Claudio. If I had used fists instead of tricks, you never would've suffered."

"Perhaps not." Her fingers skim the counter, settling around her penknife. "I'd have still been one of the in-crowd, adorning Claudio's arm — his pretty, little girlfriend. Maybe we never would have broken-up and I'd still be with someone who could suspect me of something so horrible. Who could act so cruel and still claim he loved me." She plays with the knife, opening and closing the familiar tools. "I wouldn't have the friends I do now or as much confidence. I wouldn't have taken a stand or found my voice." Her eyes meet his. "I never would've known you."

His face is as unreadable as braille. "That's not such a bad thing."

She wants to run her fingers over him, to learn each edge and imperfection, and become fluent in his language.

"It'd be tragic," she croons. "For starters, I wouldn't be able to uncork this wine here and then poor Olly and Cece would be without for their celebration."

The corner of his mouth twitches. "A tragedy indeed."

"You see." She collects two bottles, wagging them at him. "All's well that ends well."

"I'm not sure that's right," he murmurs, brow furrowed but smiling. "I still owe you."

"Then you better buy me dinner."

Hero of nine years ago would never have been so bold, but Hero of today has had close to a decade to consider what she wants from this man, and so, with the gauntlet thrown down, she tosses a wink and swishes from the room.

Behind her, she can hear John coughing, and her smile grows, irrepressible. She doesn't wait for him to follow. Instead, takes the wine out to the rest of the party, trusting he will catch-up.

They will have time to talk more later, to learn who the other has become, and who they could be together. But for now, they have a chance, and that is all that matters.

:-x-:

"I can't believe Miss Glowing Report Card started a revolution," he chuckles when she shows him the photos of her and her fellow rebels.

She knocks her shoulder against his. "Someone had to stir things up after the school's main troublemaker disappeared."

His grin is open and crooked, more boyish now than in his youth. "Wish I'd stuck around. I would've liked to see your wild side."

"Who's to say you won't." She sucks on his throat, just catching the ruff of his beard.

"Minx," he grunts and turns his head to capture her lips.

She giggles, nipping his bottom lip, fingers curling into the worn leather of his jacket, shoving it from his shoulders, both laughing as they topple to the floor.

And, they're here — they're here — what sprouted at a party, bloomed in a locker room, flourished on a rooftop, and nurtured for nine years — after could have and might have beens — here they are, together at last — and this time, they do not let each other go.

:-x-:

It comes out at the next "rebel girls" reunion.

"JOHN DONNER! JOHN DONNER IS THE GUY YOU'RE SEEING!" Ophelia slams her hands on the table. "HOW DID WE NOT KNOW!"

Kate lifts her beer in salute. "Congratulations on finally achieving your teenage fantasy of riding Donner's dick."

"Kate!" Hero shrieks, cheeks aching with laughter and embarrassment.

"Tell us EVERYTHING!" Ophelia orders. "The first guy you've been serious about in ages and he's the one who got away."

"Does he know you used to have wet dreams about him?"

Hero buries her face in her arms. "Arghh! Why did I ever tell you that!"

"Drunken truth or dare." Kate grins, nodding to the fourth member of their group. "No wonder Bea's been pissy."

Beatrice does not react, typing viciously into her phone. Without looking, Hero knows she is texting Ben, her colleague and "rival", with whom she is engaged in a skirmish of wit, which can only be described as foreplay.

"Beatrice has already given him the shovel talk."

Kate snorts. "That must have been good. Bet the guy's still pissing himself."

In fact, John had stood unflinching as Beatrice gutted his character and past wrongs, agreeing with her that he did not deserve Hero, but would endeavour to live up to the worth she bestowed him. Hero thinks Beatrice was begrudgingly impressed or she wouldn't have honoured him with such a creative end should he hurt Hero again.

Afterwards, John admitted he had been terrified — not because of Beatrice's threats, but because of what her approval meant to Hero. However, this is a secret she does not share.

"I can't believe you didn't tell us!" Ophelia pouts. Hero hasn't seen her friend this upset since her favourite book series was adapted into a movie.

Kate rubs her wife's arm, soothingly. "Easy, love. She was waiting until she saw us face-to-face." Before Hero has time to be grateful, the redhead turns to her, a mischievous glint to her gaze. "So, does he fuck as good as he fucked you over?"

Hero's face burns and she wills the floor to swallow her. "Uhhh — HEY — did you see Meg's pregnant?"

As close as they had been for that last year of school, Meg had drifted apart from their group as life led them in different directions. Hero still follows her on Facebook, exchanging messages now and then. Her old friend is happily married to a good man who takes her dancing and flies her to all sorts of exotic places. The couple are expecting their first child.

Hero harbours no resentment for the way their paths have diverged. It is the nature of life. Even now she only sees Kate and Ophelia every few months, busy as they are trotting the globe. No matter the distance between them, Hero knows they will be there if she needs them, just as they were before.

Although, she is starting to wish they weren't here right this moment.

Kate wags a finger. "Don't try to change the subject."

"No — uh — hey 'lia, isn't your next book being published soon?"

"Ohh, I think you should answer the question," Ophelia croons.

Hero seizes her last hope. "Beatrice! Help, please!"

"He misspelt predestinate. Idiot," her cousin mutters fondly.

Hero sighs, defeated.

"Come on," Kate crows. "How does he compare to his dream-self?"

Hero groans and throws her face onto the table, not caring that it is sticky.

"Ooh, is that the noise you make in bed?"

Eventually, her friends take a break from teasing (torturing) Hero and Kate sneaks Beatrice's phone off her while she goes to the bathroom, composing a text to Ben disguised as misfire meant for Hero, detailing how hot she is for him, then erasing the evidence before Beatrice returns.

Hero feels a little guilty for the trick and even guiltier when Beatrice pouts at her phone, seeing no response to her latest text. But Hero promises herself it is for the best and Beatrice will thank them at her wedding (well, Ben might. Beatrice will likely commit a murder).

No longer distracted, Beatrice soon joins in the fun and they totter to the first club, the night young and sparkling as they laugh and cheer, dancing together, fingers interlocked, the world turning iridescent, and Hero twirls surrounded by the most amazing friends in the universe, feeling free and made of stardust.

H [01:56] : LOVE UUUU!

H [01:57] : U R BETTR

H [01:57] : THAN DREAMS XXX

Tomorrow (because tomorrow doesn't begin until she sleeps) she will be mortified to discover her first use of the L-word was in a drunken text, and when John arrives with a care package for the hangover and a roguish grin, she will attempt to smother herself with a pillow and then him.

But her embarrassment will ease as she reads the response she missed, pulled back to the dancefloor.

J [02:03] : Drink water. Have fun.

J [02:04] : I love you too x

And when he kisses her temple she will lean into his touch, relishing the scratch of his beard, and know he is her past, present, and future, and somewhere in time two outcasts on a roof find their home in each other.