Follow Me Back by Nicci Cloke Page A

we do, he’stotally distracted. You can practically hear the fans whirring in his brain as he processes everything, and even when he’s talking to you he’s pretty much looking through you half the time. When there’s a problem in front of him, that problem is the only thing that exists until it’s solved. And given that I’m feeling pretty distracted myself, I can imagine that the two of us aren’t exactly the mostfun people to share a house with right now.
    But being out feels good, and being in the gym, with its purring machines and pumping dance music, feels even better. I run intervals on the treadmill until I feel like I’m about to throw up, pushing the speed up, making myself run an extra hundred metres each time. After the last one, I jump my feet onto the plastic sides of the treadmill, hit thestop button and watch the belt chug to a stop, my breath coming in hard and ragged and hot in my chest.
    The main room of the gym is long and thin, with rows of cardio equipment and the windows overlooking the café on one side, a mirrored wall on the other with mats and exercise balls stationed along it. There’s only me and three other people in there; two women of about Mum’s age, who havecross-trainers next to each other and spend the entire time chatting away, and a girl I recognise from Year 13 power-walking on a treadmill at the opposite end of the row to me. Tucked off to one side is a weights room, and I head for it, rubbing at my face and neck with the rough strip of towel I keep in my kit bag.
    The weights room is small and square, packed with equipment. It’s darker inthere; the windows that look over the car park are tinted so that the light they let in is blueish and dim. The music’s quieter in here too, and there’s the rhythmic clanking of someone doing reps on the chest press.
    I’m still under strict instructions to keep working my injured leg, so I head for the leg curl, where I’ll have to sit and do a hundred hamstring stretches. It’ll be boring, andI’m already flicking through my phone, looking for a podcast or something to fill the time, when I round a corner in the maze of machines and come face to face with the person at the chest press.
    It’s Deacon. Of course it is.
    He’s sweating, his tight grey t-shirt soaked through, lifting a stack of weights far heavier than anything I would attempt. Not because I’m weak; because I’m not an idiot.He’s still wearing his diamond earrings, and his long, baggy shorts and neon Air Max look brand new. He looks up and clocks me just as I register that it’s him.
    We look at each other. We don’t say anything.
    I find the leg curl and sit at it, and of course, obviously, it’s directly opposite Deacon’s machine. He begins pulling his reps in earnest, letting out a grunt each time. I start on mystretches, feeling – and hating the fact I’m feeling – kind of self-conscious. Deacon finishes with a clang, and stands up abruptly. I tense, waiting for him to come over, telling myself to keep calm, but instead he heads for one of the abs machines by the window and starts doing rapid crunches. I can’t tell if the silent treatment is because it’s no fun to pick a fight with me without an audience,or if it’s something new he’s trying out, but I’ll take it. I settle into my stretches and try to forget that he’s even in the room.
    After a couple of minutes, the girl from Year 13 – Emily, I think her name is – comes in and sits at one of the machines near mine. I see Deacon’s eyes flick over her long, tanned legs and up to her face, then he looks away again. I remember him getting out ofCheska’s car, the way his hand tangled in her hair, and I smile. I glance up to find him looking at me, eyes narrowed. I look away. I don’t let the smirk off my face.
    A phone starts ringing somewhere in the room, and Deacon gets off the machine and fishes his iPhone out of his pocket. As he answers, he turns his back to me, but that’s