We were silent for a while, both of us sipping from our glasses. I was frantically trying to think of something to say, any way to plug the silence with something other than either a comment on the fact that it was raining or a seriously heavy question about her dad.
Finally Suzanne let out a shaky laugh. ‘You know, I just realized I’ve only cried twice outside of this house since I moved here, and both times it’s been in front of you.’
I smiled, unsure if this was the right response.
‘I hate crying in front of people,’ she added, unnecessarily.
‘I don’t think anyone likes it,’ I offered.
‘Some people do. I had a friend who used to turn on the tears for attention. It was really annoying.’ She rolled the bottom of her glass against the tabletop. ‘But it’s pathetic, crying like that. Like you can’t control your emotions. It’s so weak.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with showing weakness sometimes,’ I said.
Suzanne made a face. ‘You only say that because any time you’ve shown weakness people have responded with love.’
I tried not to let the annoyance I felt show on my face. ‘You don’t actually know if that’s true.’
‘Oh, it is,’ she said, matter-of-factly, almost dismissively. ‘I can tell.’
‘You hardly know me.’ I tried to say this in a light-hearted voice, but even to my own ears I sounded defensive and trite.
Suzanne looked at me, a strange half-smile on her face. The openness of the vulnerability that had come with breaking down in front of someone had gone. She was unreadable again.
‘I don’t need to know you to know that,’ she said. ‘It’s not a bad thing. You should be pleased.’
I had no idea if she was trying to goad me, or if she really did think that way. Maybe it was both. I tried to think of how to respond, but before I could speak she spoke again.
‘My dad hated it when I cried.’ She ran her finger around the rim of her empty glass, her eyes fixed on it. ‘It made him so mad. So I’d try to stop myself, but . . . sometimes you can’t.’
And then of course there was nothing I could say.
Eventually Suzanne got restless sitting in the kitchen and we went to the cocoon of her room, where she wrapped herself in an afghan on top of the bed and hunched her chin down into her chest, looking at me as if expecting me to speak. The lack of other places to sit in her room made me perch on the end of her bed, half sitting on my shins. It still felt awkward between us, and I wasn’t sure if she even really wanted me there. But it would have felt more weird to not have followed her, like I was her babysitter or something.
‘Are you and Tarin really close?’ Suzanne asked, surprising me.
‘Sure,’ I said. ‘I mean, eight-years-apart kind of close.’
‘I wish I had a sister. I always used to think it must be the best thing. Like having a best friend genetically hard-wired to love you.’
I had to laugh. ‘Best friends love you without any genetic wiring.’
‘Not in the same way though, right? And it’s different with sisters than brothers?’ She was earnest, like my answer really mattered. ‘I mean, Brian is, like, my favourite person in the world, but he’s always my brother, not my friend. Sisters are both.’
‘I think you can get friends who are like sisters,’ I said, thinking of Rosie. ‘And sisters who are like friends. Maybe if Tarin and I were closer in age we’d be more like friends. But she’s definitely a sister first.’ I thought about it. ‘Maybe you and Brian wouldn’t have been as close if you’d had a sister.’
Her shoulders moved under the afghan. ‘Probably not.’
‘He’s at Cardiff, right?’ I asked.
She nodded.
‘Where does he go when it’s not term time?’ I’d meant to broach the subject more innocuously, but it came out about as subtle as a plank.
‘Home.’ She said. Poker-faced.
‘Is it . . . ? I mean . . . how is it there for him?’
‘My dad never hit him, if that’s what you mean.’ Her voice was resigned, as if she’d expected this conversation. ‘That was just for me.’ She turned slightly, sliding her fingers under an old Lego advert, and pulled out a photo that had been hidden from view. ‘Here’s us,’ she said, handing it to me.
I recognized Suzanne, looking maybe three years younger, first. Then Brian, from the photos on the mirror, and finally her father, from earlier. He, Brian and a woman – presumably Suzanne’s mother – were standing by a Christmas tree, all smiles. Brian was leaning slightly as if to squat closer to Suzanne, who was sitting at their feet, arms hugging her knees. She was smiling too, but it was close-lipped.
‘See how you could just cut off the bottom of the picture and it would be perfect?’ she asked me. ‘I kind of love that picture because it’s so horrible but so accurate. The three of them, then me.’
‘You still said us,’ I pointed out. She looked confused. ‘Just now. You said, “Here’s us.”’
A look of intense sadness passed over her face, and she turned quickly away from me again without answering, putting her fingers up to touch a piece of sheet music that was taped to the wall.