Beautiful Broken Things(Beautiful Broken Things #1)(52)

‘Caddy’s my friend,’ Rosie said, before I could speak. ‘She goes to Esther’s.’

Dylan’s eyebrows raised as he finally registered my name. He looked amused. ‘You’re Caddy?’ He took the entire length of me in at a glance, then laughed. It was the kind of laugh that made me feel like my skin had been peeled back, leaving every nerve on show.

If I could be anyone but Caddy Oliver, I would have been able to voice the words that had jammed in my mouth. Something confident and brazen, or even just ‘What are you laughing at?’ But I was me. Self-conscious and tentative. Cowed by the casual cruelty of teenage boys.

‘Don’t be such a knob,’ Suzanne said, rolling her eyes.

She gave his shoulder a shove and he caught her wrist, grinning, and turned to me, his eyes mocking. ‘Hey, hey, I’m just teasing.’

‘I don’t care,’ I said, even though I definitely did. ‘Come on, Suze,’ I said again.

Dylan moved his hand up from Suzanne’s wrist and entwined his fingers with hers, pulling her closer to him in one smooth movement. He looked at her, that smile on his face, and said, voice soft, ‘You’re all right with me, right, Suze?’ He moved his free hand to her shoulder, curling around her neck, pulling her towards him.

Suzanne closed her eyes and leaned her head against his chest. I heard Rosie let out a groan. ‘Let’s go, Cads,’ she said.

I didn’t move. ‘She got suspended because of you,’ I said to Dylan. Something like rage was building inside me and it had nowhere to go but him.

‘I didn’t throw any chairs,’ Dylan replied, smirking.

‘You called her damaged goods,’ I said. Suzanne’s eyes, already closed, clenched further shut. ‘You said she was cheap.’

The smirk had disappeared. He was watching me warily. ‘She knows I didn’t mean it. Now would you just fuck off?’

I waited a beat for Suzanne to open her eyes and say, again, ‘Don’t talk to her like that.’ But she didn’t move.

‘You’re such a dickhead, Dylan,’ Rosie said after a silence. She took my elbow and began steering me back towards the house. Then she paused, turned her head slightly and added, ‘And you’re pathetic, Suzanne.’

We walked back into the warmth of the house together, Rosie’s arm through mine. There was something comforting about the noise of the party and the anonymity of the drunken crowd, but I still felt as if I was about to start crying.

‘I think I liked it better when it was just the two of us,’ Rosie said.

For the next couple of hours I tried to forget about Suzanne. I drank enough to blur out the edges of my anger and turned my attention instead to the beautiful boy who had sat next to me on the sofa and offered to share his beer. His name was Tariq. We would have beautiful babies, I had already decided. Rosie would be my maid of honour; maybe Suzanne could come to the hen party.

It was nearing midnight when I went to find out if there was any alcohol left, leaving Tariq on the sofa – ‘I’ll be back don’t run off I’ll be back OK?’ – with my bag. Rosie, who I would usually entrust with my possessions, was otherwise engaged with Liam on an armchair on the other side of the room. I was on my way past the kitchen when I saw Suzanne, her back against the fridge, kissing . . . who? I stopped mid-step, confused, looking at the boy. Not Dylan. Not anyone I knew.

I was about to turn away in disgust, I was maybe a second away from doing this, when I saw her hands. They were squashed in front of her, ineffectually but unmistakably pushing against the stranger. I was processing this when she moved her head away from him, stumbling slightly, and he pushed her – hard – back against the fridge.

‘Hey!’ I heard myself shout, the loudness of my voice startling even me. I was already moving forward, shoving him away. ‘What are you doing? Get off her!’

Without anyone to hold her up, Suzanne staggered, and I reached out my hands to steady her. ‘Are you OK?’ I tried to make eye contact, but hers were unfocused. I couldn’t tell if the redness was due to alcohol or if she’d been crying. ‘Hey.’ I shook her shoulder slightly. ‘It’s me, it’s Caddy.’

‘Hey, we were just—’ the boy started saying, his voice slurred.

‘Fuck off before I knock you out,’ I snarled, because he didn’t know me and I could have been a black belt, for all he knew.

It worked. He bolted out of the kitchen, looking far more terrified than a threat from me should ever warrant.

‘Caddy?’ Suzanne’s voice was hoarse and quiet, choked with tears. So she had been crying.

‘Suze,’ I said in response, relieved. I squeezed her shoulder. ‘You OK?’

She shook her head. ‘I’m a mess, Caddy.’

‘Yes, you are,’ I agreed.

‘Are you mad at me?’

‘No.’

Her face crumpled. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘No, I said I’m not mad at you,’ I said slowly.

‘I messed up so much,’ she said, like she hadn’t even heard me. ‘Everyone hates me.’

‘No one hates you, Suze.’

Tariq appeared in the doorway then, a friendly, searching smile on his face, my bag in his hand. ‘Hey,’ he said to me, ‘did you get lost?’ He took in Suzanne, and his smile faded. ‘Oh.’