Chapter 13 Seventeen years old
Seventeen years old
Kath
It’s a Friday evening, and instead of being out with my friends, I’m lying face down on my bed, crying. I feel like an idiot.
Claire walks back into my room, carrying a third cup of tea. Each one has had progressively more sugar, like she thinks the sweetness will magically fix everything.
“I promise that tea makes things better,” she insists, placing it on my bedside table.
I’m not so sure. I don’t feel any better yet. Claire sighs and plops down next to me, rubbing my shoulder. “If tea doesn’t work we can make a voodoo doll and shove pins into unmentionable places.”
I give her a watery laugh, and she strokes my hair.
“I’m sorry, Kath,” she says softly.
“Don’t be,” I mumble into my pillow. “I just feel so stupid. I should’ve realised. It’s so embarrassing.”
And it is. I’ve moved past denial, past sadness, into anger. But it’s the kind of anger that’s dulled by humiliation. Some part of me knows I’m being ridiculous, that most people don’t care about the intricacies of my love life. But the other part? It feels like everyone’s talking about me.
“It’s not embarrassing,” Claire says fiercely. “He’s the one who should be embarrassed—not you.”
I let out a shaky breath. But that’s not how it works, is it? Guys never seem to carry the blame. Right now, Bobbie is probably laughing about this with his friends, while I’m curled up in bed crying.
“But everyone knew before me,” I whisper. “That’s what makes me feel like an idiot. I hate it.”
It’s been a few hours since I confronted Bobbie about the rumours that people had seen him kissing Tracey from St Hilda’s. At first, he denied it. Then he admitted it was true.
But apparently, I wasn’t supposed to be upset about it. Apparently, I was “being dramatic.”
And then he casually dropped that they’d done more than just kiss.
That was another slap in the face. You see, I forgot—we weren’t even dating.
At least, not officially. So, of course that meant he could do whatever he wanted.
Apparently, all those months of dates and hanging out didn’t mean anything to him.
Claire lets out a huff, shaking her head. “Well, he wasn’t worth your time anyway.”
I don’t respond.
“No, seriously, Kath.” She sits up straighter like she’s about to deliver a scientific lecture on why my ex sucks.
“I get that he was fun, and he went to that posh school, which felt cool at the time. But he always acted like he was better than everyone. Like he was some kind of worldly philosopher because he once went to a gig in Brixton and drank a craft beer. But honestly? He’s not half as cool as he thinks he is. ”
I let out another wet laugh. She’s not wrong. He had this smug way of acting like going to another school made him some sort of wise elder. I remember when he tried to explain what Camden Market was to me, like he was an oracle, never mind the fact that I’d been there first.
“You’re right. No more crying over the Douche Who Shall Not Be Named,” I say. “May he rest in irrelevance.”
“Or trip over his own ego and fall into a bin,” she adds sweetly. “Now where’s your nail polish? I’m ready. It’s time for your turn in Claire’s salon. And then we can rewatch Princess Bride.”
By the time she leaves and I finally drag myself downstairs for dinner, I have a fresh coat of polish on my fingers and toes, my hair styled into some impossibly intricate plait, and, somehow, a flawless line of winged eyeliner.
I help my mum set the table, but she pauses, leaning against the counter, watching me.
“I know you don’t want to talk about it,” she starts.
I groan. “Mum, please. I literally just stopped crying.”
“I only have one thing to say.”
I hesitate, then sigh, giving her a nod to continue.
She hands me the napkins. “I’ve always believed that we all have a relationship that teaches us our own worth.
Everyone has one terrible boyfriend—it’s just part of growing up.
But it’s how you come out of it that matters.
” She pauses, waiting to make sure I’m listening.
“You let someone mess you around once, but then you learn. You realise your worth, and you make a choice never to let it happen again.”
My throat tightens and I nod slowly. Because the truth is, I did let Bobbie make me feel like I wasn’t enough. I did settle for it. Even when I knew I shouldn’t have. It was just… exciting to feel like someone wanted me.
My dad walks in, stretching as he emerges from his office. “What are you two talking about?” His shirt is slightly rumpled and he has a paint splatter on his cuff. He must have had an art lesson at school today.
“Nothing,” I say quickly.
Rehashing my breakup with him is the last thing I want to do. He takes the hint and goes to find some serving spoons.
“How’s Angie?” he asks as we start eating.
I grimace. “Not great.”
Mum nods knowingly. Turns out, having an intensive care nurse for a mum is useful for a lot of things—including understanding what’s happening even when no one wants to say it out loud.
“She’s stopping chemo,” I continue. “They don’t think it’s working anymore. I know it was only ever to buy a bit more time, but it still sucks.”
Mum sighs, setting down her fork. “Poor Sam. I don’t know how he’s handling it all.”
“I don’t think he is,” I admit. “He just trains and refuses to talk about it. I’ve decided to stop pushing him and just… let him come to me when he’s ready. He even went to a race last weekend.”
My parents exchange a look before Dad forcibly changes the topic to something lighter.
But as my parents continue talking I can’t shake the knot tightening in my stomach.
I spent the night crying over a boy when Sam’s mum is dying.
Guilt stabs at me as I stare at the tablecloth, racking my brain for anything I can do to help in a hopeless situation.
I start mentally going through my list; meals, lifts, shopping.
There must be more I can help with over the next few months.