𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐈𝐬 𝐀 𝐋𝐨𝐰. ⁽⁽⁽ᵐᵃᵗᵗʸ ʰᵉᵃˡʸ⁾⁾⁾

Explaining is an Admission of Failure.

Track List:

Crazy Love, MJ Cole, Elisabeth Troy

Sundown Syndrome, Tame Impala

Kerosene!, Yves Tumor

Rotterdam (or Anywhere), The Beautiful South

Confirmation (SSBD), Westerman

~

Lydia's flat is the seat of their communion. A two-bedroom in the Barbican, it's not cheap but it is spacious, the Brutalist architecture a source of much admiration from guests and friends alike. Lydia makes the most of it, hosting regular get-togethers in the airy, open-plan space. Wednesday evening finds Ray surrounded by their friends. Wil and Twyla actually managed to make it to the dinner party on time, and are currently accepting the accolades for such an achievement.

"I didn't even have to tell them to get here an hour early," Lydia mutters in Ray's ear. Ray grins, watching as Pearl envelopes Twyla into a hug. They've been friends since school, two halves of the same coin. Like Kate and Naomi, Pearl and Twyla have never lost the manic energy that defined their adolescence. And Wil joins in, long arms wrapping around them both as he presses a kiss to Pearl's head, and another to his girlfriend's temple, nose buried in her springy blonde curls.

"It is your birthday," Ray replies, although they both know that Wil and Twyla's timekeeping (or lack thereof) is the stuff of legend. Out on the balcony, Gus is skinning up a joint. A cosy, comfortable feeling settles in Ray's chest. The smell of fried onions and garlic is diffusing throughout the room, Lydia's kitchen counters covered in fresh vegetables, herbs, prime cuts and expensive cheese. "On that note, I'm still not sure how you cooking for us ended up being your birthday celebration." Ray's eyebrow arches delicately. Lydia flicks her with a teatowel, trying to shoo her out of the kitchen.

"I like cooking for you all, now get out."

"Is it just us?" Ray backs up a few steps but doesn't vacate Lydia's kingdom just yet. "No George?"

A delicate pinkness rises to Lydia's cheeks, and she looks at her phone as if to confirm something. "He's coming. Him and Matty, I invited all of them but Adam and Ross couldn't make it."

Ray's face remains passive, a bland smile covering her teeth. But her mind reels with the memory of Matty's hands on her body, the way he'd pulled her to his kitchen floor and fucked her right there. She sucks in a breath and nods. "I thought you'd invite George," she turns the subject over, eager to focus on Lydia's obvious affection.

"I've missed all of them when they're on tour, it feels like I have to squeeze everything in when they're around."

They're interrupted by the sound of her doorbell, and Ray steps aside to let Lydia answer it. She's always been a good hostess; she has the natural inclination, the warmth and interest in other people to remember details about their families, careers, hobbies. Ray's never questioned that she's in Lydia's shadow, and she prefers it like that. Compared with Lydia, Ray is still the gangly emo with acne and anxiety. She barely shook the vestiges of that persona off when they were at university, and in crowds Ray has always preferred to take a step back. There's easily enough space in the flat for ten people, and Ray can't stay in the kitchen forever. She heads out into the open-plan living and dining room and spies Lydia introducing all of her friends. The sight of Matty makes her breath catch, and she stalls, wondering if he'll say hello or leave it to her. Their eyes meet, and neither makes a step towards the other. She waves at him, desperate to crush the stuttering feeling in her chest, and then she turns around abruptly, heading straight out to the balcony to find Gus.