Beautiful Broken Things(Beautiful Broken Things #1)(74)

Better go. I love you and I hope you’re not in too much shit. I haven’t come to see you coz no way am I risking getting you in more trouble. I’m not really sleeping, though. My head won’t shut up. I miss our little walkabouts and talking things over with you. That really helped.

Anyway. Sorry.

Lots of love

Sz xx



I printed the email out and read it over a few times more that evening, sitting on my bed with nothing else to do. She sounded so empty and lost it was almost frightening.

Folding the paper in my hands, I went to my parents’ room, knocking softly on the door and poking my head around it. Mum was sitting on the bed watching the news. When I appeared, she smiled at me and muted the TV with the remote. ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Come and sit with me.’

I sat down next to her, crossing my legs underneath me. ‘Can I talk to you about Suze?’

‘Oh, Caddy . . .’

‘I mean properly,’ I said. ‘No shouting or anything.’

She sighed and rubbed the edge of her forehead. ‘I’ve spoken to Sarah,’ she said. ‘At length. And your father and I have discussed it. I really don’t think there’s anything you can say that will change things.’

‘But –’ I unfolded the paper, ready to show it to her, knowing its contents would probably get me into more trouble but not caring.

‘I know this is hard,’ Mum said, as if she hadn’t even noticed I was trying to speak. ‘I know you want to help your friend. But your actions aren’t helping her, and hers certainly aren’t helping you. Some distance between you two will do you the world of good, I’m sure. You’ll come to understand where we’re coming from.’

I gave up. Why had I thought for even a second that she’d listen to me? I folded the paper back up, this time into quarters, pushing it into my pocket out of sight.

I retreated back to my room, lying flat on my back on my bed and staring at my ceiling. My anxiety had gone into overdrive, thinking about Suzanne’s email. My head won’t shut up . . . I’m not really sleeping.

And what was I doing to help? Absolutely nothing. Lying on my bed and worrying. I hadn’t even made any real effort to change my mother’s mind. So much for being trustworthy and dependable. I was just as useless as everyone else. Too worried about getting in trouble to do anything. Too passive, too scared to act.

By the time the house had quietened and everyone else was in bed, I hadn’t got anywhere. My thoughts were still a tangled, guilty mess. I forced myself to get up and brush my teeth, then collapsed back on to my bed, crawling under the covers and trying to turn my brain off. I couldn’t help but think of Suzanne, most likely doing the same. She was probably wishing she could just take off for a while to clear her head, but couldn’t now because it had caused so much—

I was jerked out of my thoughts by the sound of my bedroom door creaking open slightly. I closed my eyes instinctively, feigning sleep, and heard my mother’s whisper: ‘She’s here.’

After she’d gone, I actually laughed. The situation was so ridiculous. Six months ago the idea that my mother would feel the need to check I was in my bed after midnight would have been ludicrous. It still was ludicrous. As if I’d risk further trouble by sneaking out again.

And then, suddenly as a slap, I realized something. There was no further trouble. I had surely reached peak trouble. I sat up and gave my head a frustrated shake, trying to sort out my thoughts. But there was no need. The idea had crystallized in me and it was clear what I needed to do.





It was scarier by myself.

The moment my feet touched the ground beneath our garage I felt a rush of nerves so strong I almost climbed back up again. Maybe I was wrong; maybe I wasn’t brave enough to do this alone. I hesitated, my hand still on the rough wall of the garage. I closed my eyes, took in a slow breath and then let it out, counting the beats. Then I opened my eyes and started walking away from my house.

My heartbeat picked up further as I walked, to the point where I found myself breaking into a run. There was no one around; the streets were deserted. I wasn’t sure if this was better or worse. With each empty street corner turned, the need to see Suzanne, to validate my recklessness, increased.

I was breathing hard by the time I reached her door, realizing too late that as her bedroom was at the back of the house I would have to double back on myself and then try and find my way, in the dark, into her back garden. This was when it started to rain.

I stood there for a moment, feeling raindrops begin to trickle down the back of my collar. There was a reason girls like me didn’t do things like this. It was because we were crap at it. I had none of the fuck-it spirit that Suzanne possessed in spades. I was all nerves and second guesses.

But you don’t have to be, I told myself, clenching my hands into fists and feeling my nails dig into my palms. Maybe we have a degree of choice in how our personalities are formed. I could be brave. I could be reckless. I could be trouble.

It took me a while, but I eventually found the wall that I was sure backed on to Suzanne’s garden. On tiptoes, I recognized the pink of the Judas tree that had always caught my eye from their living room. I made it over and crept across the grass.

I crouched by the window I knew to be Suzanne’s, hesitated, then knocked softly. Nothing. I bit down hard on my lip, then knocked again.