‘I’m really sorry—’ I tried to say, but she cut me off again.
‘I don’t understand this,’ Rosie said, her voice strained with frustration. ‘I literally don’t. How are the two of you better friends than the two of us? How did that happen?’
‘Of course we’re not better friends than—’
‘I mean than me and her. Not you and me. Don’t even suggest that the two of you are better friends than you and me, because if you do, I might actually fucking die.’ She was breathing hard, her jaw set. I could see how hard she was trying not to get upset.
I had no idea what to say. Anything that came to mind seemed hopelessly inadequate.
‘You’re my best friend,’ I said finally, ridiculously.
‘And what about her?’ Rosie challenged. Her hands had balled into tight fists at her sides. ‘What is she?’
What was she? I had no idea.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Caddy . . .’
‘I really don’t. She’s my friend, OK? Does it matter? Best means best, and that’s you.’
‘It does matter. Because she’s supposed to be my friend, not yours. And now suddenly the two of you are all chummy, and she’s turned you into the kind of person who’ll leave me on my own at a party.’
‘You weren’t on your own.’ It felt important to point this out. ‘You were with Liam.’
For a split second I really thought she was going to slap me. But instead she reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone, tapping on the screen and then handing it to me.
‘Look at this,’ she said.
It was a string of text messages. Rosie had scrolled to where they began. Feeling apprehensive, I began to read.
09.39: What the hell happened last night? Where did you and Caddy go?
11.19: I don’t know, total blank on it all. I woke up at Caddy’s house.
11.24: You realize you both left me on my own?
11.29: Like I said, I’m blank on it. Ask Caddy.
11.31: Your stuff is still here.
11.34: Fine, I’ll come and get it then. When?
11.36: Are you not even sorry?
11.39: Roz, I’ve got such a major headache. Can we save this please?
11.44: Your fault for getting so wasted.
11.47: Don’t. Just tell me when to get my stuff OK.
11.49: I’ll bring it to school tomorrow. Do you remember what you did with Dylan?
11.50: Fine. Yes.
11.51: . . . ?
11.52: What?
11.54: Nothing to say about that?
11.55: I’m trying so hard not to get mad at you, Roz. Can we drop this.
11.56: I’m already mad.
11.58: Then stop texting me.
12.02: Why are YOU mad? I’m not the one leaving you behind and taking your friends.
12.05: Grow the fuck up.
12.06: Wow. OK.
My fingers felt itchy, my throat tight. It felt as if each savage text was directed at me. I handed the phone back to Rosie, trying to figure out what to say. She was looking at me expectantly.
‘You see?’ she said.
‘You were both horrible to each other,’ I said.
‘How was I horrible to her?’
‘Oh, Roz.’ I suddenly felt panicky, knowing that whatever I said was going to be the wrong thing. ‘Please don’t.’
Some people thrive on conflict. They enjoy the drama. I felt like I was being held underwater.
‘I said I was sorry,’ I added a little desperately, ‘and I really, really am. Please don’t be like this.’
I so wanted her to relax, laugh and make a joke about me caving so easily. But her face was still hard, her mouth an angry line.
‘Don’t be mad at Suze,’ I continued, when it became clear she wasn’t going to speak. ‘It’s really not her fault. I was the one who decided to come here instead of yours; she was totally out of it.’
‘No one made her get that drunk,’ Rosie pointed out, sullen.
‘No, but she was that drunk. I was trying to look after her. And I guess that means I wasn’t thinking enough about you, and I’m really sorry, you’re right, I shouldn’t have just left you there.’
Everyone says apologizing works, but it never really does. Not quickly enough anyway. Rosie looked away from me, her face pinched, but now her mouth was wobbling slightly, like she was about to cry. Rosie, who never cried.
‘Do you like her better than me?’ she asked in a rush, still not looking at me.
‘No, Roz. God. Of course not.’
‘You only really like her because she makes you feel needed.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘Yeah, it is. You think I didn’t notice that you only started being friendly after you found out about her being abused?’
There was a sudden guilty silence. I felt a bit sick, thrown by the truth of it. I had started liking Suzanne after the truth had come out. What did that say about me? Was it simply timing, or something else?
‘That’s not why I like her,’ I said finally, but I could hear the uncertainty in my voice.
‘Sure,’ she said, long and sarcastic. ‘Just like you didn’t leave with her last night because you wanted to be the rescuer? Just like she doesn’t only like you because you put up with her shit without telling her to get the fuck over it?’