What Are Friends For?: The will-they-won't-they romance of the year!

by Lizzie O'Hagan

  ‘I’m eighty-four.’ She rolls her eyes at me before resting a trembling hand on mine and squeezing it gently. ‘But on that walk, Max?’ Her smile is warm, so full of life. ‘I’ll be eighteen again.’

  Becky: Long day.

  Tom: Tell me about it. Chilling now?

  Becky: Yes.

  Becky: I mean kind of.

  Becky: Still doing work so you can’t really come over, sorry.

  Tom: Marking?

  Becky: Huh?

  Tom: The kids’ work?

  Becky: Oh yeah, sorry. I’m busy marking.

  Tom: Don’t worry, I wasn’t inviting myself.

  Becky: I know, but it’s annoying, isn’t it, someone messaging all the time but not wanting to meet up. Isn’t that like Dating Rule #1?

  Tom: I thought that was don’t date twin sisters?

  Becky: Ha! Isn’t that more like Dating Dream #1?

  Tom: Not for me. One woman is enough.

  Becky: Well that’s a relief. But seriously, I’ll see you again soon.

  Becky: I promise.

  *YOU’VE SHARED 10,000 MESSAGES. CONGRATULATIONS ON FINDING YOUR PERFECT MATCH*

  I look down at Tom’s screen, a digital confetti cannon sending colour through its cracks. Ten thousand messages? My perfect match? I reread the message. The one Becky will be looking at too. Just after her promise to see me again. We aren’t the perfect match. We can’t be. Her perfect match is Tom. Breathe, Max, breathe. This is okay. This will all be okay.

  I look down at the clock in the corner of Tom’s screen: it’s gone 10 p.m. and he and Yvonne are still out, so I assume he won’t be coming back now. But then it can’t be long until he’s back for good, can it? Until Yvonne has turned her back on him and he wants to pick up with Becky again.

  But what if he doesn’t? What if he and Yvonne work this time? I guess I’ll have to ghost Becky, or worse – for me at least – break up with her via message. It’s not like we can keep chatting on the app forever, is it?

  I look down at her words, for a moment feeling as cracked as the screen. The problem is, I could. I could keep chatting to Becky forever, if the situation were different. But it isn’t. And Tom’s right. If I carry on like this for much longer, Becky might get more hurt than she ever would have been by Tom in the first place. What if she sees them, Tom and Yvonne out together, and thinks he’s cheating on her? No, I have to stop this. Stop messaging the only woman I’ve ever sent ten thousand messages to. My perfect match? Dammit, Max. You idiot. Only you could fall into crazy, stupid unrequited love.

  Except what if it isn’t unrequited? What if she likes the guy on the other end of the phone more than the man in person? Ten thousand times more?

  Becky: Oh wow. Ten thousand messages.

  Becky: Eve always says I talk too much.

  You don’t talk too much – well, maybe in person a little bit. When Tom is around and you’re trying too hard to be something you’re not, the woman he wants you to be. You talk the perfect amount on here, though, about the perfect things, messaging me at the perfect moments when I just need someone to encourage me through my day. Dammit, no. This was a stupid idea. I’m not helping Tom. I’m not helping Becky. I’m just trying to help myself.

  I look across the living room to the space on the sofa where Tom used to sit. Without thinking, I fling his phone across the room. It lands safely on the sofa cushions. Not that it would matter if it didn’t; it’s already broken. Broken things have a way of breaking more; it’s a sad but inevitable fact. So isn’t it better that I keep breaking rather than Becky?

  Without Tom’s phone in my hands, I feel empty, eyes searching the room to replace it. Scanning the stacks of books by the sofa, I look for something that doesn’t remind me of Becky, but I’m at a loss. She swiped into our lives mere months ago, but it feels like her fingerprints are everywhere.

  I don’t even bother looking at my own phone: it’s late now, and who else would message me? Tom is with Yvonne, and Paddy is dating some new girl, and well, Eve was only ever a friend once removed. Maybe I can work on the walk. Take a leaf out of Eve’s book. Although it doesn’t sound like she’ll be spending her Saturday nights working any more. Sounds like everyone is struggling to be themselves nowadays. Becky’s messages seem to demand a reply from the other side of the room, and it’s taking all my strength not to run over to her. Come on, Max. Just stick Netflix on and drown out the noise of your mind with the white noise of a screen like everyone else. Everyone but—

  My phone begins to buzz in my pocket. Becky? I reach for it, looking at the caller ID. It’s only then that I realise that Becky would never call my phone anyway.

  It’s Amy. My heart sinks to my stomach and for the first time ever I pray that she actually likes me, that this is a drunk dial, that her other man is just a lie. But I know that’s not true; the only one lying to Peggy today was me.

  ‘Hello?’ I pick up the call, speaking into the ether. Silence greets me at first, and I listen intently, hoping for the faraway sounds of a pocket-dial. But then I hear it: the faint noise of Amy sobbing. No, no. What’s happened? Has Peggy had another turn? ‘Amy?’

  ‘It’s Peggy . . . she’s . . .’ Amy whispers the words in broken shards before breaking herself, her cries raw and ragged at the end of the line, the only words audible through her gulps for air repeated over and over: ‘I’m so sorry . . . I’m so sorry . . . I’m so sorry . . .’

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Eve

  ‘I’m sorry?’ I tear my eyes from the television to look across at Becky. Buster is curled up on her lap, her open book resting on his ginger back.

  ‘You heard me.’ She smiles. It’s strange enough that she is actually reading. But now she is going to take her book out to a coffee shop by herself. Maybe she and Tom are the perfect fit after all.

  ‘But you don’t like going places by yourself,’ I say. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. It really doesn’t look like she is going to fall apart this time. Every day I’ve studied her face for signs of sadness, waiting for her to download her dating app again and find all my messages there. But with each morning comes a new strength. A new strength she thinks I am finding too. When really all I have found is Tom. All over again.

  ‘Turns out I do, I’d just never tried it before.’ She surrenders her book, waking Buster with a thud: David Nicholls’ One Day. One of the first I ever discussed with Tom. ‘One of the downsides of having overprotective parents, I guess.’ She laughs at the thought, before stopping herself short. ‘Oh Eve, I’m sorry.’

  I shake my head to tell her it doesn’t matter. Becky still doesn’t know about my dad’s letters. Maybe she never will. I called him in my darkest moment, and surely after just giving me his number, he’d want to check whether the missed call was from me? His letters claim he wants to be there for me, but maybe even the thought of one missed call from me has sent him scarpering. Buster shoots from Becky’s lap and across the room, illustrating the thought.

  ‘Another man leaving me,’ she laughs. But it doesn’t sound sad like the week Tom didn’t message. Where she felt him pulling away. It sounds carefree, content.

  A vibration starts up, and I reach for my phone discarded beside me. Becky does the same with hers, and for a moment I stall: please don’t be on the app, please don’t be on the app. She has never asked me to delete it from my phone. To not use her password. But then Tom hasn’t replied to my last message anyway. The one I sent last night, right after that annoying 10,000 messages notification flashed across the screen.

  It scared me, sure. They are the perfect match. And yet so many of those messages are mine. So much of me on the screen. And Tom doesn’t even know. But why would it scare him? He likes Becky, and Becky likes him. Or at least I thought she did. I look at her now, concentrating on her screen. If she is heartbroken, she’s putting on a better show th
an me. I read over my last message to Tom: Eve always says I talk too much. Why did I bring Eve into this situation? Tom won’t have guessed, will he?

  ‘You got the same message?’ Becky swings her bended legs around to touch her toes to the floor. I look up from my screen. Shit, no, Becky can’t know about these messages. Not yet, not until I’ve worked out how the hell this story is going to end. ‘From Makena?’

  I swipe away the app and see Makena’s message dancing at the top of our group chat. I still haven’t seen her outside of work since the announcement. In the office I’ve managed to keep things professional in a way they never used to be. Keep our conversations minimal. But I know that the truth will come out over a couple of drinks. And, well, it turns out I am pretty good at avoiding the truth.

  Makena: Vintage pop-up shop near the canal. You in, bitches?

  ‘You do know it’s not very woke to call each other bitches?’ I look at Becky with a little smile, hugging our sparrow-shaped cushion to my chest. It’s by far the most outrageous in our collection. Which, naturally, makes it Becky’s favourite.

  ‘We’re reclaiming it.’ Becky moves across the room towards me and sits down by my side on the sofa. ‘Heeeey, you told us off for not being woke.’ She beams up at me as if to say: welcome back, bestie.

  I’ve been far from woke since my job dream fell through. Filling my days with mindless nothingness. Before I started filling them with Tom. And that part, I guess, is making me feel more like myself again. Reminding me of who I am. Note to self— Oh piss off, Eve. Well, it did. Before he stopped messaging me back.

  ‘Fancy it?’ Becky asks, as I try my best to force Tom from my mind.

  The only reason I was messaging him was to save Becky from realising too late that she wanted to give him a second chance. But looking at her now, balanced and content, next to me, anxious and on edge, I know there is only one broken heart between us.

  ‘It would be good for you to see the girls . . .’

  ‘I’m just not really up for it today,’ I say, heart hammering at the thought. Messaging Tom made some of the disappointment drift away. But now the silence of my screen, knowing that anything we shared wasn’t shared at all, is bringing it all back. I can’t see Makena, not today. Not while me and my motivation are still on a break.

  ‘You’ll have to see her outside of work sometime, Evie,’ Becky says softly, my dad’s endearment in her mouth making me flinch. ‘Eve, sorry. Eve.’

  ‘I know, I’m just . . . I’ve not got the energy,’ I say. It’s true. I haven’t had the energy to do much for the past fortnight. Apart from message Tom.

  ‘Are you sure? Do you mind if I go?’

  ‘Why would I mind?’ I laugh. It sounds pretty fake.

  ‘I’m . . .’ Becky scans my bare face. Not an inch of make-up, but so much of me hidden. ‘I’m worried about you.’

  I would ask why. But I’m watching Sunday Brunch and showing no signs of going anywhere. The old Eve dead and buried. Momentarily resurrected by Tom. But it’s not like that could have gone on forever. I was only doing it for Becky. And she seems fine. Better than fine. Right now, I feel broken. Broken by the goal I have set my sights on for too long. Broken by my dad, who seems to back off when I need him most. Broken by Tom, the only one able to remind me of the woman I was. Before everything became so blurry.

  ‘I’ve not seen you write in weeks.’

  ‘I’ve written,’ I object, not meaning to sound so mean. ‘I wrote a piece on the plight of living with curls just this week.’

  ‘I definitely need to read that.’ Becky smiles. She’s too kind. She deserves the best. I thought she deserved Tom, but now she doesn’t want him, and I do. And oh God, this needs to stop. Right now. Today. ‘I mean your articles, the human-interest stories, the ones you love,’ she goes on. ‘What happened to the column you were developing?’

  ‘Chucked out.’ I shrug. ‘Like my CV.’ I used to laugh at Becky’s dramatics. Before I became the leading clown.

  ‘I think you should write anyway. A new job will come up.’ Not any time soon.

  ‘Yeah, I’ll write again,’ I say. But not to Tom, I won’t write to Tom.

  Becky studies my face, as if searching it for the truth. Maybe I will write again. I did love it, didn’t I? That’s why it was able to hurt me. To love is to be vulnerable and all that.

  ‘You just want to write something that matters,’ Becky says. It isn’t a question. She’s heard me say it enough times before. And I did. I do. ‘I think you should quit.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I think you should quit your job.’ She looks at me, eyes wide with enough hope for both of us.

  ‘Quit?’

  ‘Eve, it’s making you miserable. You have so many good ideas, and you deserve to be able to share them.’ She squeezes my arm.

  I let the thought swirl around my mind. Quit? Quit? All my strength is going into not quitting right now. But I would love to leave, for that pointless article to be my last. To write the stories I have wanted to write since I was eight. Ever since I stopped believing in fairy tales. My conversation with Max shoots into my mind, the way it often has over the last couple of weeks. He made me feel like I could do anything: rise like a fucking phoenix.

  ‘It’s what I would do,’ Becky says.

  Yes, it’s what Becky would do. But Becky has parents who will back her to the hilt – emotionally, physically, financially. Not all of us are so lucky.

  ‘And live off what?’ I finally ask.

  ‘You’ll get a new job . . .’

  ‘Do you not think I’ve looked?’ I don’t mean to snap. ‘There’s nothing out there. And I can’t not have a job, can’t not have an income . . .’ Now that I’ve started, I’m not really sure how to stop. Just like with Tom. ‘We don’t all have overprotective families like yours, Becky.’ I spit the words back at her, the ones she’s already said sorry for.

  She looks at me, smile vanishing. For a moment I think she’s going to get mad. But she doesn’t. She just looks sad, a little hopeless. Like she wants to know how to fix me. She puts her arms around me.

  ‘Are you sure this is just about the job?’ she whispers into my hair. ‘Like, are you sure there’s nothing else on your mind?’ Her eyes scan my face before darting to my phone. Tom. Tom. Tom. But no, that’s over now. For Becky. For me. ‘Like, maybe . . . your dad?’

  My dad? This isn’t about him. It’s not always about him. But isn’t that better than it being about Tom?

  ‘I guess . . .’ I begin. I know Becky needs something to make sense of why the job stuff has hit me so hard. Because I’ve put all my eggs in that one sodding basket, pushing thoughts of family and love and relationships aside for far too long. ‘Sometimes I think it would be nice to have him in my life again.’

  Becky’s face breaks into a smile and she breathes deeply, like: thank God she’s finally being honest. If only she knew I was just scratching the surface. There’s so much more swirling beneath. His letters. My missed call. My last message to Tom. It’s over, and I’ve been left to pick up the pieces yet again.

  ‘I think he’d like to hear from you too.’ Becky gives my leg a little squeeze.

  Why is she saying that? I glance at my phone, knowing that I need to bury this thing with Tom, bury my feelings deep down before she can find them out. For a moment it looks like she wants to say something else. Surely not about Tom? There’s nothing going on between us, between them, any more.

  ‘Aren’t you meant to be meeting the girls?’ I ask, subtly changing the subject.

  ‘Oh crap, yeah. Are you sure you don’t want to come?’

  ‘I’m sure.’ I smile at her. ‘Tell them I’ll see them soon.’

  Soon. It’s what I’ve been telling Tom as Becky all week. Turns out that soon – like sorry – is one of those words that gets worn out pretty quickly without an
y action to back it up.

  As soon as I hear the door shut behind Becky, I allow my tears to fall. Messaging Tom was always a distraction from my feelings, right from the start. It distracted me from work, from my dad, from my disappointments. But what is going to distract me now that my feelings are for him?

  Through the tears I look down at my last message to him: Oh wow, ten thousand messages. Eve always says I talk too much. I always do: just look at the way I spilled my secrets to Max after a couple of coffees, a couple of kind comments. And now I’ve given myself to the wrong person again. Ten thousand messages that can’t lead anywhere. Not that Tom would want them to if he knew they were just me.

  It’s time to stop this. To delete the app. Just like I should have done the second Becky and Tom met in person. Finger hovering over the app, I press the icon and it begins to shake: Are you sure you want to delete?

  ‘Yes,’ I say out loud, mustering the courage to push my finger down and confirm my decision. But then my phone starts to vibrate.

  Tom: Sorry Tom didn’t reply.

  Tom: *I didn’t, sorry.

  Tom: I don’t know why I said that, my head’s all over the place.

  Tom: Something’s happened.

  Tom: I really need you.

  Shit. What has happened? But this shouldn’t be my problem. Tom doesn’t need my help. He needs Becky’s. Yet he needs someone right now. Just someone at the end of the line. I am so fed up of letting people down. Maybe I can still be here for him. One last time . . .

  Becky: I’m here.

  Becky: What’s wrong?

  Tom: It’s Peggy.

  Tom: She’s gone.

  Becky: Oh God, I’m so sorry.

  Becky: How’s Max?

  Tom is typing . . .

  Tom: I’m devastated.

  Tom: *He’s. Dammit. Autocorrect.

  Tom: He’s never felt like this before.

  Tom: Doesn’t know what to do.

  Tom: I thought maybe you’d know what to say.

  Oh God. I read the messages, my tears falling faster now. My heart breaking for Max. Breaking for me. Breaking like the promises told to loved ones every day, that we’ll always be there, when no one can promise to be there forever. Max will be distraught. I remember our conversation: me telling him my dreams. Him telling me about Peggy’s. His own dreams completely intertwined with hers. And now Tom is here wanting to be a good friend to him, whilst I am being such a terrible, terrible friend to Becky. But I know what it’s like to lose something – to lose a mother, lose a father, lose a vision, lose yourself.