Part 9 (1/2)

”Really? Friends that's what you call it? Have you looked in a mirror lately, Kaz, because that dress is not a friendly dress. It's a-”

”It's just a dress.”

”No, it isn't. Not when you wear it near him. Come and see our camp, Tom!” She sounds so much like Lee did and I wonder whether she has any sense of how mean all that tequila has made her. ”Let's go get chips, Tom! I love the way your trousers look, Tom!”

I really wish everyone would shut up about his trousers.

RUBY.

There's a moment when I can totally see there's a choice. Either I can a) stop shouting at the person I love the most in the world and apologize, or I can b) carrying on shouting.

I'm not someone who knows how to stop once they've started. ”Yay, please, let's play spin the bottle, Tom!”

”Why are you being such a b.i.t.c.h?” Kaz snaps.

KAZ.

I want to s.n.a.t.c.h the word from the air and crush it in my fist until there's nothing but a corpse of letters smeared in my palm. But that's not how words work. Once you let them out, you can't take them back.

RUBY.

We're in free fall.

”I'm not being a b.i.t.c.h!” I say, barely believing Kaz even said that word. ”I'm being a friend!”

”Really? Because right now you're just being poisonous. What has Tom ever done to you to make you hate him like this?” Kaz is properly crying now, but I don't know if it's anger or sadness or both. And I don't know how she can even ask me that question.

”HE BROKE YOUR HEART!” I hadn't meant to shout that loud and I can see people staring at us. ”That's what he did. I spent all summer gluing it back together and you're just going to hand it over to him to smash again. When are you going to get it? Tom is over you. It doesn't matter what dress you wear or how much you flirt with him. You are not what he wants.”

Even as I am shouting it, I know that it's a lie. Tom looks at Kaz the way that I want to look at Stu.

KAZ.

”Why are you shouting at me about this?” I'm furious at the tears that have escaped and I practically punch myself in the face as I wipe them away. ”I followed you over here because I was worried about you and somehow it's ended up with you telling me why I'm the one who's a mess.”

Ruby looks confused as if she's lost her train of thought and it's like I've pulled a plug I can actually see the fight draining out of her.

RUBY.

I try to backtrack through the words that brought us here, but when I look for them, they're jumbled and nonsensical and I realize that all the beer and tequila haven't so much caught up with me as overtaken me.

Kaz doesn't drink. Ever. And when she looks at me, it's no longer with guilt, but with disapproval. Just like that, the conversation pivots under me and I find I'm the one holding the s.h.i.+tty end of the stick.

”I know you're not OK, Ruby. But I don't know why.” Her voice is bordering on kind, but her expression is hard, patience stretched thin. ”Shout all you like about Tom or maybe wait until you're sober and use your indoor voice. But that's not why you bolted from the campsite. What's going on with you and Stu?”

Kaz plants her hands firmly on my shoulders, holding me steady. She's so close I can't really see anything else.

”Ruby.” Kaz looks at me. ”Tell me.”

But what am I supposed to say other than the truth?

”There's nothing going on with me and Stu. I couldn't kiss him, that's all.”

I don't tell her that the reason is because I wanted to.

KAZ.

Ruby says nothing more, just starts walking back to camp, and since I don't seem to have any other option, I walk with her. When Ruby clams up, there's no point trying to prise her open and even if we're not walking arm in arm, at least we're not walking alone. Camp is deserted when we get there, tents zipped shut like mouths keeping secrets, and someone's stamped down on the ashes of Owen's fire. Ruby looks like the (barely) walking dead as she struggles to pull off her vest. It's not unusual for her to hit a wall after a night out and usually I'd be tutting at her, untangling her hair when it gets caught in a zip or reminding her to remove her make-up.

Not tonight.

We brush our teeth, taking turns to spit from our tent into the ashes and listening for a hiss of success. Ruby's more accurate than me, but then, as she says, Naomi and I didn't engage in spitting contests as often as Ruby and her brothers.

”Callum always won.”

”Really?” Our conversation is paper-thin over the fissures of our argument.