And what am I doing? I’m not trying to impress him. I hate people who change themselves in order to impress people, and here I am doing exactly the same thing. I’m such a hypocrite.
And I’m obsessing over five minutes.
He answers the door.
“Hey, come on in.”
Chapter Fifty-Three
When we are being civil to each other, it is so strangely like old times that it feels like we never fought. Being friendly, talking about our day, talking about mutual friends and acquaintances and enemies . . . it feels so weirdly right.
When he hugs me, I don’t want to let go.
When I “accidentally” push up my sleeves in a casual gesture and he asks about the marks on my arm even though it hits him instantly what they are, I love the concerned look on his face, I love that someone gives a damn, I love that he makes me feel special and worthy of attention.
And that’s why that, when he leans in to kiss me, I don’t turn away.
Chapter Fifty-Four
On a scale of one to ten, with one being completely sensible-decisions sane, ten being completely are-you-out-of-your-mind insane, how would you rank what you did today, Abi?
A part of me says that it’s somewhere around a fifteen.
Another part of me says “Hmm. Two?”
Chapter Fifty-Five
Monday night is when I lie awake contemplating the events of the day. Tuesday morning is pretty much the same, only sitting in an uncomfortable plastic chair instead of lying in bed.
Am I just doing this because Graham stepped into my life just when I was moping about the Shane situation and I feel like he’s my rescuer? Or does this actually make sense? Do I actually like Graham?
Kissing him wasn’t unbearable, which is a point in his favour. I don’t particularly like kissing anyway. I mean, it’s pointless, it really is. There is so much more intimacy in little gestures, the fingertips running along your arm, the teeth nibbling on your neck. Kissing is just . . . well, not bad, but not brilliant, let’s put it that way.
But if I really hated him, then I wouldn’t have been able to go near him. Unless of course it’s just that I’ve been so love-deprived for so long that I don’t care who it is who’s kissing me.
I’m not that sort of person, am I? Physical contact should not be that important to me. Only somehow whenever it happens, it becomes important.
We’re really nothing but animals, when it comes down to it.
I wonder what would have happened if Anna hadn’t arrived home and we decided to go out for a walk. (Holding hands.) How far it would have gone.
And what am I doing? There’s one part of me that shudders at the memory of the two of us sprawled out on his couch making out, and another that loves it. It’s Graham. And then it’s Graham.
He cares. And that makes me feel worthwhile, relevant, fabulous.
Chapter Fifty-Six
“I can’t believe it’s only Tuesday. How the hell is it only Tuesday? Are they playing some horribly cruel joke on us or something?”
Fiona is spending her lunch-time ranting about the injustice of the working week. Sarah and I nod in sympathy.
“Come on, at least we’re off on Friday,” Sarah reminds her.
Easter holidays. Ah. Bliss.
“Speaking of which, we really should do something this weekend,” Fiona says.
“Girly sleepover fun?” Sarah grins. “Awful cheesy teen movies and an unhealthy amount of chocolate . . .”
“Mmm,” she says. “Or . . . we could go out.”
“Go out? Out? Into the real world? Are you serious?” Sarah kids.
Fiona smiles. “I know, it’s all terribly exciting and daring. But seriously, Saturday night, what d’you think?”
“Sure,” I shrug. I suppose it won’t be that bad . . . will it? And it’s good to try new things, right? Try to experience as much as you can when you’re young? I haven’t gone out to a club in nearly a year, since last summer.
“Sarah?”
“Sure, where? Bearing in mind that you’re the only one of us with an ID, by the way.”
“Well, if we bring Hugh along, we can go into town – he knows one of the bouncers at some club. Plus he’s kind of cute.”
Sarah and I stare at her.
She giggles. “Oh, come on, he is.”
“Yeah, he is, but he’s with Emily,” Sarah reminds her.
“I know, I know,” she sighs. “He’s still fun to look at, though.”
I grin. “So we’re dragging him along, yeah?”
“Yes, we’re going to shamelessly use him,” Fiona says. “Some of us more than others.”
“Well, if he’s coming, then Emily’s coming,” Sarah muses. “Shane might want to come along, too . . .”
The mention of his name makes me feel strange. Very strange. I’m not sure why. It’s not jealousy, is it? No, it can’t be. I’m over him. I must be. Graham. Think of Graham. I like him. He’s soft and safe and soothing and comforting. Shane is unfamiliar territory. Shane has too much power over me. Shane makes me insecure and anxious and I worry about every little thing I do when I’m around him.
“Can I ask Graham?” I ask.
“Sure,” Sarah says automatically, and then both she and Fiona stare at me. “Wait. What?”
“He might like to come,” I say.
“Since when are you two even speaking to each other?” Sarah enquires. “I thought you hated him with a passion.”
I shrug. “We were hanging out yesterday, and it was . . . just like old times.” If the ‘old times’ had involved tonsil tennis, that is.
“So you’re friends with him again?” Fiona says, looking bewildered.
“Yeah, pretty much.” I shouldn’t have mentioned him. They both think I’m out of mind. I probably am.
“That’s great.” Sarah smiles. “Ask him about Saturday, anyway. It’ll be more fun if there’s a big group of us going.”
Even though she’s smiling, I know she’s wondering what’s going on, why I’m suddenly friends with someone who I’ve professed my undying hatred for many times. It doesn’t make sense. I know it doesn’t make sense. Chalk it up to living in a crazy mixed-up world, I guess.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
I see him on Tuesday evening. Wednesday evening. Thursday evening. It always begins with a hug. Then we talk. Hug. Curl up together and kiss.
It’s safe. I have his arms around me and I’m leaning against him and I can feel the warmth of his body and I know he likes me and wants me . . . and it’s fantastic.
And I don’t tell Sarah, or Fiona. I don’t tell Jess, not that she’d care. I don’t tell Sharon when I email her. I don’t feel like talking about it.
I don’t know why. Is it because I’m scared of what they’ll think? That they’ll judge me?
Why would they judge me? Am I doing something wrong?
I really don’t want to think about it, any of it.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Friday morning. Last day of school before the Easter holidays. I think about Graham. And Shane.
In my mind, Graham and I are dancing, really close, and I can see Shane looking hurt. Jealous. And I like it.
This is why I’m a horrible person. I want to make Shane jealous. But I do like Graham. I really do. I like being around him.
Oh, this is just a big mess. One colossal mess. I want to turn back time. I want to snap my fingers and zap both of them out of my life completely. I want to go home and sleep for the next two weeks or so.
I concentrate on other things. Like what I’m going to wear tomorrow. I am Typical Teenage Girl, wondering what to wear to impress her –
Not boyfriend. Almost-boyfriend.
Do I want him to be my boyfriend?
I hate being indecisive. I want to slap myself. I would, if I wasn’t sitting in class right now. I’d probably get strange looks. Wait, don’t I get those already? Stranger looks, then.
I stare at my watch, counting down th
e minutes to home time, when I can escape from school, if not my thoughts.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
I can’t believe they gave us homework. Homework. In Fourth Year. Over the Easter holidays. This is truly evil.
I am bored on Friday night. I cut. Not badly. Just scraping the skin. It won’t even leave scars. Why am I still doing this? I don’t know.
I sit cross-legged on my bed. Nothing to do. I don’t feel like doing the homework. I don’t want to write. I glance at the Sylvia Plath journals and am too intimidated by the size to even attempt to read.
I daydream about Shane.
Yes, I am a horrible person. Yes, I am just using Graham. Yes, I deserve to feel guilty.
And I don’t. I don’t feel guilty. I don’t feel anything at all in the way of remorse. It bothers me. I should feel guilty, right?
Why can’t I feel guilty? Why can’t my mind let me accept the fact that I have done something wrong and immoral and blatantly stupid and feel bad about it? Why do I just keep thinking about Shane?
Shane who is not interested in me. Because he could never be interested in me. Because I’m boring, and ugly, and self-indulgent (come on, you know you were thinking it), and stupid. And I wallow in self-pity. Look at me, wallowing!
He could like me. He might. And it’s that little spark of hope that keeps me going, keeps me daydreaming and sighing happily and feeling giddy at the thought of him. I’m crazy about him. I really am.
Chapter Sixty
“Last night . . . really didn’t go as planned,” I tell Emily on Sunday morning.
She nods. “Yeah. I know how you feel.” Gulps down aspirin. “I’m never drinking again.”
“Really?”
“No.” She laughs.
I grin.
“Abi?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m sorry about . . . last night.”
I shrug. “It’s no big deal.”
“No, seriously. I know I kinda freaked you out, and I’m sorry for the awkwardness and everything.”
“It’s fine. Seriously.”
“Please keep in mind that I was very, very drunk and promise to never kiss you ever again.”
I smile. “That’s very considerate, thank you.”
She smiles back. “That’s me.”
As you may have guessed, Saturday night was . . . somewhat eventful.
The drama began before we even left. We were all meeting up before going into town. Shane and Hugh had already been drinking. Graham looked disapproving and kept muttering things to me about them. How pathetic it was that they needed to drink before even going out. This was complete hypocrisy on Graham’s part, by the way. He’s done it himself many times. I think he was just feeling insecure. Compared to the other guys he seemed immature, a sulky brat. He even looked younger. I mean, there’s only a year’s difference between their ages, but they seemed almost grown-up, and he seemed still very much a child.
Of course I was trying not to think about this, because Graham had his arm around me and we were acting like a couple (which we were, I suppose, in a way) and it wouldn’t have been the best time to mention that I was sort of madly in love with Shane. Besides, he’d asked me, the moment he saw me, how I was, how I felt, whether I was OK.
And yes, I’m a sucker for concern, OK?
We got into the club no problem. I couldn’t help but smirk a little when I saw Leanne, Hannah and a couple of others being turned away while we got in.
Alcohol was ordered by all. I didn’t intend on drinking, but when Graham handed me a drink I decided to just go along with it. It wasn’t peer pressure. Really. (Sure, Abi, keep telling yourself that . . .)
We danced. I object to dancing. I’m terrible at it. However, after a few drinks, I was wonderful. At least, I thought I was. And that’s the important thing, right?
Graham clung to me like a leech. Oh, that sounds too harsh. Wait, no, it isn’t, as you will soon learn. He wrapped his arms around me, pressed himself against me.
The others were still dancing in a group at this stage, along with a couple of other friends from school. I noticed that Hugh and Emily weren’t acting terribly couple-ish, not that I’d ever really seen them act that way before, but it surprised me that they barely seemed to even look at one another. I mean, at Sarah’s party they hadn’t been one of those sickeningly-cute permanently-glued-to-one-another couples, but they hadn’t avoided each other, either.
Slow songs. Ah, what clears a dance floor faster than a slow song? I was permanently attached to Graham, of course, so there was no question of me going to join the others and commiserate about our terrible love lives and the depressing nature of slow songs.
Now that I think about it, most of the others wouldn’t have been commiserating. I was swaying slightly with Graham as I watched Hugh pull Fiona over to dance. The strangeness of it jolted me. I looked away –
– and found myself staring at Shane with some girl. He had his hands cupping her face. I couldn’t see her properly. But I knew who it was. Of course I knew who it was.
Don’t stare, Abi, they might notice, I told myself.
So instead I just buried my face in Graham’s shoulder and tried not to cry. Gulp, gulp. Hold back the tears. Don’t let yourself cry. Not now. You can’t hurt Graham by crying on his shoulder over another guy.
The song didn’t help. It was – oh, I remember now. It was Iris. And it hurt.
Chapter Sixty-One
I don’t think I’ve ever been so relieved to hear a song end. After that, I just threw myself into the music, dancing away frantically.
Look at me now, Shane, look at me enjoying myself. Watch me move to the music. Wish you could have me? Jealous of Graham? I don’t need you. I can have fun without you.
Of course, if he’d come over to me at that moment and declared his undying love for me, I would have fallen at his feet. But he didn’t. So I kept dancing.
With Graham.
I’d glance over at Shane and then look away in case he saw me looking. But I always knew where he was. By that stage our group had broken apart into fragments, individuals and couples floating around, and I’d lost track of everyone else. Except him.
And, because she was with him, Sarah. Naturally.
Sarah who’s so pretty and kind and wonderful and talented and of course he likes her. Who wouldn’t?
We were supposed to be leaving at two. I came up with many innovative ways to look at my watch without it seeming like I was actually looking at my watch. Finally I told Graham that I needed fresh (fresh? In Dublin?) air, and that since it was half-one, I probably wouldn’t bother coming back in.
He offered to come with me. Of course he did. That’s what a good boyfriend-type-figure does.
I accepted, because I doubted that anything short of a severe blow to the head would prevent him from following me.
We left, me breathing in the gloriously polluted air, him stroking my back.
It was at that point that he started whining. Why couldn’t I just have stayed inside for another while? We’d been having a great time dancing. Why had I bothered inviting him if I wasn’t going to enjoy myself?
I stared at him, and I had an epiphany. I saw him, really saw him, for the first time since I’d seen him on the bus that day. I saw the whiny self-righteous brat, the manipulative asshole, the boy that had hurt me and was now doing it again, by making me feel horribly bad over something as silly as leaving a club early.
I had been using him. And he’d been using me. We both wanted someone to listen to us, to make us feel special. He didn’t really care about me, which suited me just fine because I didn’t really care about him.
“Graham,” I said hesitantly, “I think we need to talk.”
Chapter Sixty-Two
He didn’t take it well.
Well, of course he didn’t take it well. We are talking about Graham, after all. And in typical Graham-like fashion, he got angry at me.
He accused me of being incredib
ly screwed up and of using him. He said I’d taken advantage of his feelings for me. He told me I’d led him on.
And I said nothing. Only it wasn’t because I couldn’t think of anything to say. It was because he was completely and utterly right.
He stormed off, and I was left in tears on the street alone. Well, not alone as such. There were several drunken people there as well. I choose not to count them because I didn’t know them and because most of them were barely conscious.
I took out my phone to call Sarah, only I realised I really didn’t want to speak to her at the moment. I called Fiona, but she didn’t answer. Shockingly enough, it can be quite difficult to hear a mobile phone ring when music is blaring out of giant speakers.
I was drying my eyes when Emily walked out. “Abi! What happened?”
I sniffed. “Graham and I broke up.”
“Oh, honey,” she said sympathetically, hugging me. I almost didn’t want to let go. It felt like she was the only person who cared about me at that moment, the only person in the entire world that thought that I mattered.
“It’s OK,” I told her. “I mean, I wasn’t interested in him at all – I hate him, in fact – it’s just that he has a tendency to yell at people when he’s angry. It’s not exactly fun.”
“I bet. I hate people like that.”
“You going back inside?” I asked.
She looked at her watch. “Nah, not going to bother. You want to go get a taxi home?”
In the taxi, I took out my phone to text Sarah.
“Who’re you texting?” Emily asked.
“Sarah. I’m supposed to be sleeping over at her house tonight . . . but I don’t think that’s going to happen.” I sounded just a tad bitter when I said that, I guess.
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