Fragile Like Us

by Sara Barnard

  For a second I thought she was going to burst into tears, which confused me so much I almost tripped over my own stationary feet. She turned on the spot and then hugged me suddenly, so tightly I let out an involuntary hnuh, then let go. “You’re super, Cads.”

  “Super Cads,” I echoed happily. I sat down on the nearest sofa, curling my back against the cushions. “God, this is the most comfortable sofa in the entire world.”

  “Right . . .” Her voice sounded far away. “I’ll go get you some water.”

  * * *

  I had lost track of time, lost track of myself, lost track of my senses. I had no idea where Suzanne was. The sofa, so comfortable, had me safe and cocooned, like a hug. I was burrowed into it, the armrest against the back of my head, and Joe Something lying on top of me, one leg in between mine, his hand up my top. Everything was beautiful. And hot.

  Maybe I’d been confused earlier about why exactly I was here. Here being Reading, this random city I hadn’t ever even given much thought to, and now the scene of my imminent devirginization. But now—now—it was clear. This was number two on that list I’d made all those months ago on a bus. This was the bonus of having a friend like Suzanne. She introduced me to boys. Boys who thought nothing of taking the virginity of girls they’d just met and would probably never see again.

  There were three things I was thinking. One was, So this is why people do this (because, okay, it all felt pretty good). The second was, Hnnnarrrgghhhh (because I was pretty much the most drunk I’d ever been in my life). The third was, Sometimes you just want to get it over with, in a voice that sounded a lot like Rosie’s. I did want to get it over with. And wasn’t Joe Something the perfect get-it-over-with guy?

  “You’re so hot,” he whispered into my ear, and my brain said, Caddy, you’re a lot of things, but you’re not hot. Maybe you can pull off cute on a good day. Hot is a sex word. Hot is not you.

  A shot of panic pinged from my head right down to my feet. How was it possible to want something and not want it at the same time? Joe’s hand moved to the zipper of my jeans, I thought, Yes, okay, and then the room flooded with light.

  “Oh, for God’s sake.” Suzanne’s voice.

  “Turn the fucking light off,” Joe’s voice, loud against my ear. Hand still on my jeans.

  “Are you kidding me?” She was angry, I registered with some surprise. “Joe, get off my friend.”

  For a few seconds nothing changed. Joe’s weight was heavy and solid and exciting against me. For my part, I was still kissing him. And then he was suddenly wrenched away from me, and everything went south very fast.

  Joe, regaining his footing after being pulled backward by someone—Suzanne?—whirled around, furious. “What’s your problem?” he shouted. Suddenly loud, suddenly angry.

  I sat up on the sofa, trying to take in the scene through the fuzz of my confusion. Toby had come through the door and was standing there, looking like he too was trying to make sense of what was going on.

  “Go home,” Suzanne said, steady and controlled, but clearly simmering.

  Joe stepped forward, shoved her shoulders with both of his hands. “Don’t be such a bitch.”

  “Hey.” Toby was there instantly, stepping in front of her, pushing Joe away. “Back off, okay?”

  “Can’t you keep her occupied?” Joe gestured at Suzanne, who was standing rigid behind Toby, one hand clenching her shoulder as if it had been burned by his touch. “I heard it doesn’t take much.”

  I’d never seen boys fight. I’d seen girls fight, plenty of times. Hair pulling and slapping and nails clawing at skin. But when Toby went for Joe it was all fists and testosterone. It wouldn’t exactly have been an equal fight; Toby probably outweighed Joe by at least twenty pounds, but that didn’t matter. It ended almost as soon as it had begun, and all it took was Suzanne, frantic, saying, “Toby.” Just once.

  Toby, who’d only thrown one punch but was breathing as if he’d boxed three rounds, stepped back. “Okay,” he said. “Okay.” He reached out a hand to Joe, who’d stumbled to the floor on the first contact. Joe pushed his hand away, pulling himself to his feet.

  “Fine,” he said. “I’m gone.” He threw a hand up as he left the room, as a brush off or a wave, I couldn’t tell. I heard the front door open and then slam. He hadn’t even looked at me.

  “Wanker,” Toby said. He took a step toward Suzanne. “You okay?”

  She flinched away from him. Even from across the room, I could see her eyes were ablaze. “What the hell was that, Toby?”

  He blinked. “That was . . . He was . . . I just—”

  “I don’t need you to fight my battles for me,” she said. She was still holding her shoulder, her arm crooked against her chest like a shield.

  “Well, yeah, you kind of do,” Toby replied, his voice suddenly tense. “Maybe if you’d let me earlier, you’d never—”

  “Don’t.” One word, sharp and violent. But then on the next word her voice cracked, her face crumpled momentarily. “Please.”

  For whatever reason, my brain decided this was the time to remind them both I was there. It chose to do this by making me get up, abruptly, from the sofa, and then just stand there.

  “Um,” Toby said after a moment. He was looking at me, but still he directed his words at Suzanne. “Is your friend okay?”

  “She’s just drunk,” Suzanne said. She sounded tired. “Come on, Cads.”

  “Did you two have sex?” I asked.

  Toby let out a noise that could have been a laugh or a snort. Suzanne rolled her eyes. “Oh, for God’s sake.”

  “I like your friend,” Toby said to her, a grin back on his face. “She’s good value.”

  “She has sex with everyone,” I said, by way of explanation.

  “Shut up, Caddy,” Suzanne ordered through gritted teeth. “Can you sober up, like, now, please?”

  “I didn’t mean that in a bad way,” I told her. “I mean, I would too, if I looked like you.”

  She was looking at me like she’d never seen me before. “Is this what your head sounds like all those times you don’t say anything?”

  “You’re very pretty,” I said, confused that she didn’t look more pleased. “Like, not even real, you know?”

  Suzanne looked at Toby. “You should go.”

  “Don’t you think?” I asked Toby. “You know what I mean, right?”

  “Don’t answer that,” Suzanne said before he could speak. “Just go.”

  When he finally did leave, after hugging us both three times and returning twice for his coat and his phone, I’d drained a glass of water on Suzanne’s command and was leaning against the hallway wall, counting my split ends.

  “So did you?” I asked her, almost as soon as she’d closed the door.

  “Did I what?”

  “Have sex. With Toby.”

  “No, Caddy. God.” She looked horrified. “Why would you even think that?”

  “Because he clearly loves you,” I said. “And I know you like it when boys are like that.”

  “Like what?”

  The sober me would have noticed the dangerous note in her voice. The drunk me did not. “You know, being nice to you.” When she didn’t say anything, I added helpfully, “Like Dylan. You went back with him even though he was so shitty to you, just ’cause he smiled at you.”

  “God.” Suzanne’s voice was flat. “You really think I’m pathetic, don’t you?”

  “No,” I said, surprised. I really didn’t.

  “When who was it, out of the two of us, on her back with some guy she doesn’t even know?”

  Far, far too late, I finally picked up on that dangerous note. My stomach lurched, violently.

  “What’s his surname, Caddy?” She’d rounded on me, sparks all but coming out of her eyes. “How old is he?”

  “Don’t yell at me,” I protested. “I thought you’d be proud of me.”

  “Proud of you? Why?!”

  “For living in the moment. For, you k
now, doing something fun. You’re supposed to be encouraging me to do fun stuff.”

  “Yeah, fun stuff, not idiot stoner guys. Do you even know how out of his league you are? You’d be totally wasted on him.” Her eyes went wide. “Oh my God, please don’t tell me you were going to lose your virginity to him.”

  It could have been the tone of her voice or the incredulous look on her face. It could have been the vodka, or the pot, or the fact that I was somehow in Reading with this girl who was suddenly a stranger again. Whatever it was, the tears had spilled before I’d even realized they were coming.

  “Oh, Cads,” Suzanne said, instantly softer. “Don’t cry.”

  I hiccuped, a humiliating, double-gasped hitch of a noise that made me think of a toddler midtantrum. “Sorry,” I choked out, sinking down onto the floor and pressing my forehead into my knees.

  I felt rather than saw her slide down beside me, her arm curling around my shoulders and squeezing me in close to her. There was a softness to being hugged by Suzanne, I thought through the drugged, drunken fog of my mind. At arm’s length she was jagged edges and fire, but in her close affection she was cozy and warm. Which one is real? my fuzzy brain asked. Which one is you?

  “Don’t be sorry,” she said. Squeeze. “I’m sorry.” She pushed her head momentarily against mine. “I’m being a bitch. It’s not you. Blame me.”

  “I just wanted to have fun,” I said. The words were meaningless. “I wanted to know what it was like.”

  “Sex?”

  “Well, yeah, but I mean not being so . . . quiet and crap. I wish I was more like you.”

  Her smile was sad. “You really don’t.”

  “I do,” I insisted, my voice coming out petulant and ever so slightly slurred. “You’re confident and like . . .” I tried to find the word, sure it was somewhere there in my mind. “Like . . . more.”

  The sad smile quirked; amusement flickered in her eyes. “Confident? Me?”

  “Don’t say you’re not,” I snapped, a sudden anger welling in me. “Girls like you—you don’t get it; how it feels to not be confident.”

  Her brow furrowed. “You mean confident, like, with boys?”

  I nodded.

  “Oh, Cads, that’s all crap,” she said. “They’re the easiest. Honestly. They just want you to smile at them, act like you want them. That’s all.”

  That’s all.

  “You’re confident,” Suzanne continued. Her head tilted slightly, nudging mine again. “I get that you think you’re not. But you are. In your life. In yourself, you know?”

  Like that means anything when you walk into a party full of people you don’t know and all you want to do is hide in a corner until it’s over.

  “I’m a massive wuss,” I said, then hiccuped again.

  She laughed, but it was friendly. “You’re not.”

  “I am.” I felt tears start to rise up again.

  “You came here, didn’t you?”

  “Because you tricked me.” I felt my face scrunch up, as the vodka and the pot and the weight of my own inadequacy spilled down my face, salty and hot. “Oh, God, I’m such a loser. I’m such a loser even my best friend has to trick me into doing fun stuff.”

  I could tell Suzanne was trying not to laugh again. “Caddy. Caddy! Calm down. You’re not a loser. You’re so not.” Her breathy chuckling stopped abruptly. “Did you just call me your best friend?”

  “Oh, God!” My voice came out as a wail. “I didn’t mean to say that. Don’t tell Roz I said that. I didn’t mean it.”

  “Oh, great, thanks.” Suzanne’s fingers pinched into my side. “Now I feel super-special.”

  “You’re like . . . sort of best.” I scrabbled for sense. “You know? Like second best.”

  “Do you think a shovel would help with this digging?”

  “No, Suze,” I said earnestly. “No, I mean really. Like, if it wasn’t for Roz, you’d totally be my best friend. ’Cause you are, like, the best. But just not my best. ’Cause Roz is my best. My very best.”

  “I am so very, very flattered,” Suzanne said drily. “Nothing’s better than a drunk friend telling you how much they love you. As second best.”

  “I do think you’re brilliant though,” I insisted.

  “Okay, Cads. Time for bed.”

  “I thought you wanted to stay up and talk.”

  “I think we should save that for a time when you might actually remember the conversation afterward.”

  The rest of the night passed in a foggy haze. I’d forgotten most of the details by morning, but I retained a clear memory of throwing up into the toilet, the bathroom tiles pressing into my knees, Suzanne’s hands holding back my hair. Slumping onto her bed, looking up at her spinning ceiling.

  When I woke up on top of the covers on her bed, feeling an awful lot like death, the sun was bright through the open curtains, hurting my eyes. I lay there for a while, trying to sift through the jumble of blurry memories in my head, before giving up and going to find Suzanne.

  I found her in the living room, curled up asleep on the sofa. When I touched her shoulder—as gently as I could—she jolted up, pushing my hand away. “What?”

  “It’s me,” I said quickly. “It’s just me.”

  She relaxed back against the cushions, letting out a breath. After a moment she smiled. “Oh yes. Super Cads.”

  “Oh, God,” I managed. The first memories were starting to unblur. Me, standing in her hallway, announcing that I wanted a hug. Oh, God.

  “It’s okay,” she said, laughing. “Trust me, it could have been a lot worse.”

  Joe, sitting next to me on the sofa, telling me I had a pretty face. Me, telling him I went to a girls’ school. Complaining that I’d only kissed three boys. Him: Want to make it four?

  “Aargh,” I collapsed next to her, tucking my head against her shoulder. “Is this what the morning after feels like?”

  She laughed again. “Yes. Enjoy it. Remind yourself it means you must have had a good night.” She glanced at the clock on the wall. “Do you mind if we head off soon? I know it’s early, but I just want to get out of here. We could head into town? Get some food?”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “You can use the bathroom upstairs if you want. I’ll meet you back down here in half an hour.”

  After I’d washed my face and dosed up on Tylenol, I felt vaguely human again. I brushed my hair with a hairbrush I found in Suzanne’s room and headed downstairs to meet her. In the kitchen, she was folding up a piece of paper and setting it in place with the key she’d taken from the back garden. She smiled at me. “Just going to grab my hat.” When she was gone, I gave in to curiosity and unfolded the paper to read what she’d written.

  Mum and Dad—

  It’s me! Just to let you know I came by with a friend, so if you see anything out of place, that’s why. Hope you had a good anniversary weekend.

  Lots of love, Suzie xx

  I’d expected something sullen, maybe even overtly sarcastic, but the ordinariness of the note hit me right in the chest. I closed the paper back up and stepped into the hall, biting on my tongue to contain the sudden impulse to cry.

  Suzanne’s footsteps sounded on the stairs and she appeared, pulling her hat over her head and tucking stray hairs under the rim. “Ready to go?” she asked me.

  I was just about to nod when the unmistakable sound of a key turning in the lock jolted us both. I saw a look of total, complete panic pass over Suzanne’s face. As if by instinct, she moved closer to me, her hand clenching over my wrist.

  She relaxed as soon as the door opened to reveal a figure I recognized from the photographs on the mirror in her Brighton bedroom. When he saw us, his face dropped in shock. He stopped in the doorway, one hand still on the handle, mouth open. Then, “Fucking hell, Zannie.” Suzanne’s brother walked forward, leaving the door open, and lifted her right off the floor into a hug.

  “Hi,” she said, her voice muffled against his shoulder. “What are you doin
g here?”

  “Looking for you!” Brian set her back down on the carpet and let out a breath. “God, I was worried sick.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “You don’t appear at Cardiff station and no one knows where you are? Yeah, I was worried.” The relief had faded from his face and he looked faintly annoyed for a moment before his eyes fell on me. “Oh! Are you Caddy?”

  I nodded mutely.

  “I recognize you from Facebook pictures.” He actually held out his hand, and I shook it. “Right.” He reached out and hooked his arm around Suzanne’s shoulder, pulling her in for a second hug. “Seeing as I’m here, I guess I’d better take you both home.”

  * * *

  As soon as we’d got in the car, Brian pulled out his phone and dialed a number before he even started the engine. “Hey, Sarah.” His voice was relaxed and easy; it was the voice of someone used to smoothing situations over. “I’m in Reading . . . Yeah . . . No, that’s why I’m calling. She’s here.” He glanced to his left at Suzanne, who glowered. “She’s fine . . . No, totally fine.” His eyes moved to the rearview mirror, catching my gaze.

  I answered the unspoken question with a vigorous, horrified shake of my head. There was still at least a chance that my parents didn’t know what had happened or that I’d ever been out of the city. He grinned, an understanding ally. “So we’re heading back now,” he said into the phone. “We’ll be in Brighton in a couple of hours probably.”

  When he hung up, he tossed the phone onto the dashboard and started the car. “So—” he said, still upbeat. He executed a perfect three-point turn, throwing his hand into a wave at the house behind us, as if there was anyone there to see it. “Want to explain yourself?”

  “What’s to explain?” Suzanne asked.

  “Oh, I don’t know, Zanne,” Brian said, deadpan. “Maybe start with why the three of us are in my car driving from Reading to Brighton on a Sunday morning?”

  Suzanne muttered something I didn’t catch, but whatever it was made Brian laugh. She looked at him, a grin appearing on her face. He reached out a hand and ruffled her hair. “I’ve missed you,” he said.

  * * *

  After a respectful fifteen minutes, Brian tried again. I sat in the back, fiddling with my hoodie cuffs, hoping they’d forget I was there.