She takes a moment to reply, but when she does, it’s worth the wait. “I wish you had.”
“Not tonight, my English rose.” I shake my head. “I was too busy pulling this bitch’s hair out.”
“What did she even do?”
“She … called me a name,” I say, spine straightening despite the aches everywhere in every bone.
“What do you mean?” Cassie turns her head. I can feel her eyes on me, but I don’t meet her gaze.
“When you look like me, you get called certain things. And I don’t like it very much.”
“That’s … not okay. Wait, where was Geert in all this?”
“Doing lines in the toilets. And then he took the woman,denjävla fittan,home.”
“What?” There is horror in Cassie’s voice and on her pretty, pretty face.
I shrug. “He has a lot of issues.”
“We all have issues,” Cassie snorts. “That doesn’t give you an excuse to be a terrible friend.”
“Wow, pretty and clever and with the voice of an angel,” I say. “No wonder the whole world loves you.”
“The whole world doesn’t…” She sighs, like she’s given up the idea of fighting my sarcasm. Wise move.
For a long minute, we just look at each other. Her eyes search my face, and I wish it wasn’t all bruised and damaged. I wish I could interpret her assessing look as admiration and not disappointment or disgust.
I drop eye contact.
“So, what does it mean?” I ask, aware now of a throbbing headache in my temple. I rub at it pointlessly.
“What does what mean?”
“The photo.”
“Oh, that.” She turns her head away.
“Yeah,that.”
“It means nothing,” she says. “It was Stephan. He’s such a…”
“Dick? Wanker?Röv? Horunge? Rá-yam?”
“I don’t know what half of those words mean, but yes, that’s what he is.”
“I think I hate him,” I say, and I lean more of my weight against her body because holding myself up is getting harder and harder, but also, I want to touch her. I want her warmth. I crave it. I crave her.
“You don’t know him,” she says, and she finds my hand, places it in hers. “If you really knew him, you’dknowyou hate him.”
I laugh, but that makes me feel like there are shards of glass between my ribs, so I stop and just lean my head on Cassie’s shoulder.
In the silence that follows, I realise she must be exhausted. It was the opening night of her tour. She can’t have had much sleep, if any. And here I am, barging in with all my fucking drama and stinky breath.
“I’m sorry I came,” I tell her, readying myself to leave.
“I’m not,” she says, and she grips my hand tighter. “Will you let me clean you up?”
I don’t know if she means literally or metaphorically, but I know the answer to either question immediately.
