Loveless (Osemanverse #10)(59)

It was nearly nine o’clock at night by the time we’d both finished, so we decided to get some fish and chips, then head back to my room to catch up on Killing Eve.

It probably would have been a normal evening. It probably would have cheered me up a bit, after everything that had happened.

If we hadn’t entered my bedroom to find Rooney crying.

She was curled up under her sheets, clearly trying to hide the fact that she was upset but failing utterly because of how loudly she was sniffing. My first thought was that Rooney was never in our room at this time of the evening. My second thought was, Why is she crying?

Pip had frozen next to me. There was no escaping the situation. We could see Rooney was crying. She knew that we knew. There was no pretending this wasn’t happening.

‘Hey,’ I said, properly entering the room. Pip hovered in the doorway, clearly trying to decide whether to stay or go, but just as I turned to her to tell her to leave, she came inside and closed the door behind her.

‘I’m fine,’ came the teary response.

Pip laughed, then seemed to instantly regret it.

At the sound of Pip’s voice, Rooney peered over her covers. Upon seeing Pip, her eyes narrowed.

‘Can you leave,’ she said, immediately less tearful and more Rooney.

‘Um …’ Pip cleared her throat. ‘I wasn’t laughing at you. I was just laughing because you said you were fine when you’re clearly not. I mean, like, you’re literally crying. Not that that’s funny. It was just a bit stupid –’

Rooney’s face, very clearly tear-stained, hardened. ‘Leave.’

‘Um …’ Pip rummaged into her bag of fish and chips and withdrew a large clump of paper napkins. She jogged over to Rooney’s bed, placed them right at the bottom of the duvet, then jogged back to the door. ‘There.’

Rooney looked at the napkins. Then up at Pip. And, for once, she didn’t say a thing.

‘I, er …’ Pip ran a hand through her hair and looked off to one side. ‘I hope you feel better soon. And if you need any more tissues, erm … I can go get some?’

There was a pause.

‘I think I have enough now, thank you,’ said Rooney.

‘Cool. I’ll just go then.’

‘Cool.’

‘Are you … are you OK?’

Rooney stared at her for a long moment.

Pip didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Yeah. No. Sorry. I’m going.’ She swung round and practically ran from the room. As soon as the door clicked shut, Rooney slowly sat up, picked up one of the napkins, and dabbed her eyes.

I sat down on my own bed, dropping my bags on to the sheets.

‘Are you OK?’ I asked.

This made her raise her head. Her eye make-up was smeared down her cheeks, her ponytail falling out of place, and she was wearing normal going-out clothes – a bardot top and tight skirt.

There was a moment of silence.

And then she started crying again.

OK. I was going to have to deal with this situation. Somehow.

I stood up and walked over towards her kettle, which she kept plugged in on her desk. I filled it up from our bedroom sink, then put it on to boil. Rooney liked tea. The first thing she did after getting back to our room was always to make a cup of tea.

While waiting for it to boil, I cautiously sat on the edge of her bed.

I suddenly noticed there was something on the floor under my feet – the photo of Rooney and Mermaid-hair Beth. It must have fallen off the wall. I picked it up and put it on her bedside table.

What was this about? The play, maybe? That was about eighty per cent of what she talked about.

Maybe it was a relationship thing. Maybe she’d had an argument with a guy. Or maybe it was a family thing. I didn’t know anything about Rooney’s family, or her life back home at all, really.

I’ve always hated being asked if I’m ‘OK’. The available answers are either to lie and say I’m fine, or to massively and embarrassingly overshare.

So instead of asking Rooney that again, I said, ‘Do you want me to get your pyjamas?’

For a moment, I wondered if she hadn’t heard me.

But then she nodded.

I leant back and grabbed her pyjamas from the end of the bed. She always wore matching button-up ones with cute patterns.

‘Here,’ I said, holding them out for her.

She sniffed. Then she took them.

While she was changing, I went over to the kettle and made her some tea. When I returned, she had transformed into Bedtime Rooney, and accepted the mug.

‘Thanks,’ she mumbled and sipped it immediately. People who drink tea must not have any sensation left on their tongues, I swear to God.

I linked my fingers together awkwardly in my lap.

‘Do you … want to talk about it?’ I asked.

She snorted, which was at least slightly better than the sobbing.

‘Is that … a no?’ I said.

She sipped again.

There was a long pause.

I was about to give up and go back to my own bed, when she said, ‘Had sex with some guy.’

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘What … recently?’

‘Yeah. Like a couple of hours ago.’ She sighed. ‘I was bored.’

‘Oh. Well … good for you.’