I push through them, marching down the road back to campus, ignoring Libby’s calls of “Charlotte! Please!”
It’s not until I’m back in the safety of my dorm room that I collapse onto my bed, unleashing the betrayal and confusion in a flood of tears.
Nothing will ever be the same.
fifteen
Every year, our family throws a lavish dinner on Christmas Eve. Sometimes extended family will drive in, but this year our only visitor will be Nana, my mum’s mum and our only living grandparent. She’s taking the train down from York.
I’m particularly excited to see her because Nana is hilarious. She can be exhausting, and the most revolting things occasionally come spilling out of her mouth—but I still love her to bits. Even though I disagree with the majority of what she says, I have a feeling her politically incorrect bombs will distract everybody from the fact that I’m still not speaking to Libby. Catching Libby and Edward in the act was like a dagger through my heart. I’ve turned the moment over and over in my head since last weekend, sleepwalking through my final exams because I was so distracted and confused and hurt. Libby has tried to apologize, but I refuse to hear some half-baked apology. What if I hadn’t caught them? Would they have spent months sneaking around behind my back? I still don’t understand it. How could they?
I would never steal my sister’s boyfriend. And I would never get together with my ex-boyfriend’s brother. I don’t know who to be angrier at.
In my more charitable moments, I remind myself that Edward and I were broken up. Libby and Edward are friends, they got drunk, and Edward couldn’t help kissing her. Libby’s beautiful and kind. What guy wouldn’t be attracted to that? She probably didn’t mean for it to happen. It just did.
But then my heart tightens again, and I think: That’s no excuse. She’s my sister. She should have known better. Edward’s face pops into my head, and I get even angrier: What a piece of shit. Swapping one sister for another? Who does that? Of all the entitled, manipulative, arrogant guys, he takes the cake. Prince Charming, my arse.
On the train back to Midhurst, Libby sat next to me, but I got up and moved to a different seat. We gave each other a wide berth for the rest of the ride home. We’ve managed to ignore each other for almost a week now.
Mum and Dad refuse to take sides, although I suspect my mother agrees with me.
Meanwhile, I feel like a volcano. I’m trying to ignore Libby for my parents’ sake, but if I don’t let off some steam, eventually, I’ll explode.
I decide to take a walk into town and buy some Christmas decorations. Doing things that require concentration always calms me down—and I take my party planning very seriously.
Our house is on the outskirts of town: a good twenty-minute walk from the high street. Although we didn’t move to Midhurst until I was a bit older, I consider it my hometown. Sure, I’m biased—but I think it’s the prettiest town in England.
I turn out of our front gates, walking up Selham Road and then making a right toward town. The Spread Eagle, one of the best hotels in town, is dusted with a light coat of snow, making it look like a gingerbread house. The car park is full, crammed with visiting relatives and families out for a Sunday roast, no doubt.
All the Tudor architecture around Market Square is one of my favorite parts of town. It makes me think of Queen Elizabeth I and King Henry VIII, both visitors to Midhurst back in the 1500s. The fact that Edward is descended from them, however distantly, blows my mind. Will history remember him someday?
Elizabeth I was one of my childhood heroes. She seemed so fierce: fighting her way to the throne, refusing to get married, standing up to the men who were trying to tell her what to do. But even though I’ve turned her into this mythical creature in my head, in reality, she was an actual person born into a very surreal set of circumstances—just like Edward. She probably cried. She used the bathroom. She got hungry. She felt fear. Someday, students like me will be reading history books, and Edward’s name will come up, and he’ll just be a photograph and a bunch of old, irrelevant stories to them. They won’t know how he chews his nails, or has a weird laugh, or has the worst taste in music of all time.
They won’t know that he was real.
As I continue farther up the narrow country lane, passing St. Mary Magdalene & St. Denys Church, my spirits darken again. I try focusing on the shop windows, turning left down Knockhundred Row, but every restaurant, every shop, every brick reminds me of Libby and the thousands of times we’ve walked these streets together.
Is this what happens when you get older? Is it inevitable that your sister stops being your best friend—and, worse, eventually becomes a stranger to you?
The thought makes me want to cry.
I turn right onto the high street, nearly breaking my neck as I slip on a patch of ice. I have to breathe deeply as I stand back up, fighting the urge to burst into overwhelmed tears. The decorations store is just ahead, and I step inside carefully, closing the door tightly behind me to keep the heat in. Inside, the tiny shop smells like cinnamon and holly.
“Heya, Charlotte,” says Mrs. Cooper when I walk inside. This is both the blessing and the curse of growing up in a small town. It’s comforting having everybody know your name—but on days like today, I’d rather be anonymous. I just want to get from point A to point B without having to pretend everything’s okay.
I take a deep breath. “Hi, Mrs. Cooper. How are you?”
“Oh, fine, dear, just fine. I hear you’re back at Sussex Park. I haven’t seen you around town.”
“This is my first time home since school started. Haven’t had a chance to come back for a visit this term.”
“And how is Libby? Greene House is a beautiful school.”
“She’s switched to Sussex Park. She loves it.” I pick up some holly decorated with fairy lights. Libby and I always used to fight over colored lights versus white lights when we were kids. She preferred the elegance and simplicity of the white. I liked the colors. More fun.
“Oh, how wonderful! And Prince Edward goes to school there, too, doesn’t he? That must be terribly exciting. Have you met him?”
“Yeah. A few times.” I put the holly on the counter, changing the subject. “I think I’ll just take these.”
Later that afternoon, I stand at the kitchen sink, tearing off pieces of lettuce for a salad while I stare mindlessly at the falling flakes. It’s been snowing on and off all day, and normally I’d be thrilled, but today I’m just annoyed at the weather for being so pretty and cheerful. I’d rather a thunderous rainstorm to match my mood.
Nana is due to arrive soon from York. Dad is at the train station now picking her up, and Libby volunteered to go with him—presumably to get out of the house and away from me.