Beautiful Broken Things(Beautiful Broken Things #1)(23)

‘Are you and Tarin really close?’ Suzanne asked, surprising me.

‘Sure,’ I said. ‘I mean, eight-years-apart kind of close.’

‘I wish I had a sister. I always used to think it must be the best thing. Like having a best friend genetically hard-wired to love you.’

I had to laugh. ‘Best friends love you without any genetic wiring.’

‘Not in the same way though, right? And it’s different with sisters than brothers?’ She was earnest, like my answer really mattered. ‘I mean, Brian is, like, my favourite person in the world, but he’s always my brother, not my friend. Sisters are both.’

‘I think you can get friends who are like sisters,’ I said, thinking of Rosie. ‘And sisters who are like friends. Maybe if Tarin and I were closer in age we’d be more like friends. But she’s definitely a sister first.’ I thought about it. ‘Maybe you and Brian wouldn’t have been as close if you’d had a sister.’

Her shoulders moved under the afghan. ‘Probably not.’

‘He’s at Cardiff, right?’ I asked.

She nodded.

‘Where does he go when it’s not term time?’ I’d meant to broach the subject more innocuously, but it came out about as subtle as a plank.

‘Home.’ She said. Poker-faced.

‘Is it . . . ? I mean . . . how is it there for him?’

‘My dad never hit him, if that’s what you mean.’ Her voice was resigned, as if she’d expected this conversation. ‘That was just for me.’ She turned slightly, sliding her fingers under an old Lego advert, and pulled out a photo that had been hidden from view. ‘Here’s us,’ she said, handing it to me.

I recognized Suzanne, looking maybe three years younger, first. Then Brian, from the photos on the mirror, and finally her father, from earlier. He, Brian and a woman – presumably Suzanne’s mother – were standing by a Christmas tree, all smiles. Brian was leaning slightly as if to squat closer to Suzanne, who was sitting at their feet, arms hugging her knees. She was smiling too, but it was close-lipped.

‘See how you could just cut off the bottom of the picture and it would be perfect?’ she asked me. ‘I kind of love that picture because it’s so horrible but so accurate. The three of them, then me.’

‘You still said us,’ I pointed out. She looked confused. ‘Just now. You said, “Here’s us.”’

A look of intense sadness passed over her face, and she turned quickly away from me again without answering, putting her fingers up to touch a piece of sheet music that was taped to the wall.

My shins were starting to hurt, so I rearranged myself, stretching out across the lower half of the bed.

‘Did you see how he looked at me?’ Suzanne murmured, still looking at the notes on the wall, her voice so quiet it almost didn’t reach me. ‘Nothing’s changed. I’m still . . .’ I heard her pause, then sigh. ‘Just me.’

‘How come he was here?’ I wasn’t sure if I should ask, but couldn’t quite help myself. ‘Did you know he would be?’

She shook her head vehemently. ‘God, no. I can’t . . .’ She stopped, breathed in sharply, then continued. ‘I don’t know why he was here, or why I didn’t know he would be. I guess it must be a conference weekend. He used to have those a lot, all over the country, for work, you know?’ She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them again and let out a sigh. ‘God, I can’t get over how he looked at me.’

‘Did you think things would have changed?’ I asked carefully.

‘Not really. But you always hope, you know?’

I absolutely did not know. Thank God.

‘Was that why you moved here? So things would change?’

‘No. We moved here because I’d have died otherwise.’ She said this bluntly, still not looking at me. ‘It would have been a bonus if things had changed, if he’d had this amazing change of heart and stopped treating me like I was the cause of all the problems in his life.’ She closed her eyes briefly, shook her head slightly and sighed. ‘But then again, “Penny Lane” is his favourite Beatles song, and I went and put the sheet music up on my wall. So maybe I’m just as fucked up as he is.’

‘You don’t seem very fucked up,’ I said, trying to be reassuring, assuming that was my role in this conversation.

To my surprise she laughed. ‘Oh my God. Thank you! Can you write that down so I can put it on my wall?’

I couldn’t tell if she was being serious or making fun of me. Was I being ridiculous? How could I tell? I wished Rosie was here. Even when she was at her most prickly, talking to her was easy.

I was still trying to figure out how to arrange my face when Suzanne thrust a Post-it pad and a pen at me. She was serious.

I hesitated, then began to write, deciding as I did so to stop trying to fish for clues about her past and settle on a safe topic. I landed on, ‘What’s your favourite Beatles song?’

‘”Here Comes the Sun”,’ she said without hesitation. ‘But “Across the Universe” and “Blackbird” are high up too. What about you?’

‘”Let It Be”,’ I said, more because it was the first song that came to mind rather than because it was actually true.