Page 53 of When We Were Young

Liv

I’m worried Chloe will look ill, but when I go into her hospital room, she looks the same as always – if you ignore the dark circles under her eyes, the ugly gown, and the grumpy expression on her face. She’s still angry with me.

‘Hey,’ I say.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘Your mum asked if I would visit. I’m sorry, I thought you knew.’

‘So you’re not here because you wanted to visit?’

‘Of course I am. I got here as soon as I could. I’ve been worried about you.’

She says nothing. A bag of clear liquid dangles above her, connected to her arm by a tube.

‘How are you?’ I ask.

‘What do you care?’

‘Chloe, I care––’

‘How was Beatland?’ She says it in a nasty sarcastic voice that doesn’t sound like Chloe.

‘You heard about that?’

‘I heard you told your parents you were staying at mine when you went off for the weekend with your boyfriend.’ She gives me an intense, cold stare, then looks away.

‘He’s not my boyfriend, and it wasn’t just Nathan – it was a group of us.’

She shakes her head slowly. ‘You used me.’

‘No, I––’

‘Why didn’t you invite me?’

‘To Beatland?’ I ask, buying time to think of an answer. ‘A spare ticket came up at the last minute – there was only one, otherwise I would have.’

She picks up the book resting on her lap and starts reading, so I sit on the chair by her bed.

‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Nathan… and Beatland,’ I say, but she carries on reading. ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you when you got ill.’

She lifts her eyes, they sweep over my raw cheek and pause on my patched-up ear, but she says nothing.

‘Chloe, please let––’

‘Liv, just go.’

On the drive home, Mum asks, ‘How did she seem?’

‘She didn’t want to talk to me. She told me to leave.’

‘What happened between you two?’

‘I didn’t ask her to come to Beatland. She didn’t know I’d been texting Nathan,’ I admit. ‘I’ve been a terrible friend.’

Mum sighs. ‘Well, we all make mistakes. All you can do is apologise and try to make it up to her.’

‘It’s not as simple as that, Mum.’

‘No, it’s not, but good friends are worth fighting for and if she’s a good friend, she’ll forgive you eventually.’

Mum pulls up outside Dad’s house. I’m still having trouble thinking of it as home.

‘You know what would be cool?’ she says, brightly. ‘If you made a photo book for her. You could fill it with pictures of the two of you growing up together. A record of your friendship. There are loads of companies that do it online. You upload the photos and sort them into the template.’

I consider pulling a face, my default reaction to anything she says lately. But I’m sick of being horrible to her. I’m sick of failing to be the sort of person I want to be.

‘That’s actually not a bad idea,’ I tell her, and she looks at me like I gave her the best compliment, which makes me feel even worse than if I’d been mean.