Beautiful Broken Things(Beautiful Broken Things #1)(15)

‘I’m sorry,’ I managed.

‘Why?’ She looked, under the tears, confused.

‘I . . .’ I felt the words freeze on my tongue. She clearly had no idea that the orchestrator of her current situation was me, let alone that I’d basically done it on purpose. ‘I didn’t know that would happen. I just wanted to know.’

‘What are you talking about?’ She sounded frustrated, and it occurred to me that she probably wanted me to leave so she could cry alone. ‘Know what?’

Too late to back out now, Caddy. Own your mistakes. ‘I saw a message from someone on your wall,’ I said. ‘About . . . um . . . Corrie and trigger warnings? And I didn’t know what it meant. So . . .’

Suzanne pressed her lips together, her eyes on me, blinking hard. She asked, ‘Ellie?’ When I nodded, she shook her head. ‘I knew I should have just deleted that. I thought I was being paranoid.’ There was a long silence. I wondered if it would make me the worst person in the world if I ran away.

‘I don’t get how you saw it,’ she said finally. ‘We’re not even friends on Facebook.’

My whole body felt hot with shame. It stuck in my throat.

‘You looked on Rosie’s,’ she said. When I nodded, she set her jaw, bit down on her tongue and shook her head. ‘You know, when you first brought it up, I thought it must be a coincidence. That I was just being really over-sensitive, because I really am about anything to do with abuse. But clearly not.’

The word ‘abuse’ had snagged between us. I so desperately wanted to say the right thing, something to make this better, maybe even absolve myself, but all I could muster was, ‘I’m really sorry.’

‘I know you are.’ Suzanne’s whole face was scrunched, partly against the wind, partly with pain. ‘People are always so fucking sorry.’ With these words, practically thrown at me, she turned and started walking away.

‘Wait,’ I said, hurrying to catch up with her. ‘Where are you going?’

‘Sarah’s coming to pick me up,’ Suzanne replied without looking at me. ‘You can go back inside.’

‘No, I have to . . .’ I trailed off. Had to what?

‘Have to what?’ she asked, forced to stop at the traffic lights. ‘You’ve said sorry; what else is there?’ Then her face changed and she turned to me. ‘Oh. You want the story.’

‘No,’ I said quickly.

‘You want me to spill it all out, right? You want answers? Is that why you looked at my Facebook even though we aren’t friends?’

I had a horrible feeling I was about to start crying, but before I could speak she made a face and said, sounding frustrated, ‘I mean friends on Facebook. We aren’t friends on Facebook. Obviously we’re friends.’ She suddenly looked a little lost. ‘I mean . . . right?’

‘Right,’ I said quickly. The lights changed, and we both stepped forward. ‘You don’t need to tell me anything.’

She was silent for a while, and neither of us said anything as we crossed the road.

‘They’re wrong, you know,’ she said finally. Quietly. ‘Rosie, I mean. And Maya and Levina. What they said.’ She drew to a stop on the roadside and shoved her hands into her pockets.

‘The whole thing about Clarise deserving it? And maybe now she’ll shut up?’

‘People say that kind of thing all the time. That’s what people think. That you must have done something.’ She kicked the toes of her Vans against the concrete. ‘I wanted to keep it a secret as long as possible. People treat you differently when they know. They even look at you differently.’ She gave me a meaningful look then, and I tried very hard to not look at her differently.

‘Can I ask one question?’ I asked carefully.

‘One,’ Suzanne said. For a moment I thought she was going to smile, but then she swallowed hard and exhaled, glancing away from me.

‘Is that why you live with Sarah?’

She nodded. ‘She took me away from them. My parents. Well, just my dad really. Stepdad. I call him “Dad”. I mean, I thought he was my . . .’ She stopped abruptly and took a slow breath in. ‘Look, I’m really bad at this. Short version is, my dad – stepdad, whatever – used to hit me, like, a lot. And so my aunt came and took me away. And now I live here.’

A car appeared around the corner then, and Suzanne craned her neck hopefully. ‘It’s Sarah. Thank God.’ She waved, and the car pulled up alongside us. She took a step forward and opened the car door.

For a moment I thought she was going to leave without another word, but she turned to me and said, ‘Don’t tell Rosie. I’ll tell her myself, OK?’

‘OK,’ I said. ‘Um, where shall I tell her you’ve gone?’

‘That,’ Suzanne said, folding herself down into the seat, ‘is your problem.’ She closed the door with a decisive clunk.

I stepped back, feeling heavy with guilt, ready to watch the car drive away. But then the window rolled down and Suzanne’s face appeared.

‘Sarah says that was rude,’ she said.

‘Oh,’ I said.

Suzanne turned her head back into the car. I heard her say, ‘What?’ She looked back at me. ‘I’m supposed to tell you I know it’s not your fault any of this happened.’