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“Should we…” Shrugging, I chewed anxiously on my lip and flicked my attention back to our friend who was now swimming laps. “I don’t know, do something?”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Anything?”
“I’m not the one, Claire,” Hugh choked out and I watched as a full-body shudder rippled through him. “Not this time. Not anymore. I can’t keep saving…” Dropping his head in his hands, he sucked in a sharp breath, shoulders slumped. “I have Katie now… I can’t do this with her again.”
I got that, but I was scared, and he was my big brother who always seemed to know what to do. After all, Hugh was the one who knew more about Lizzie than any of the rest of us. He’d been there, right there in the middle of her personal breakdown the last time. Before the shutters came down around her heart blocking all of us out, he was the last person to be pushed away. He knew her better than anyone. The old her, at least.
“I could talk to her parents,” I offered, feeling lost and way out of my depth. “Or Pierce.”
“Pierce?” Hugh gaped at me like I had lost my mind. “Like he’s worth a fucking conversation.” His eyes narrowed in fury as he spoke. “He’s not blind, Claire. He just doesn’t care.”
“He has to care,” I urged. “He has to see. He’s her boyfriend, Hugh.”
“He only sees the parts of her he wants to see,” Hugh spat out. “He won’t do a damn thing, Claire, which suits Liz perfectly, considering that’s the only reason she’s with him.”
“Then we need to talk to Mam,” I blurted out. “She’ll talk to Lizzie’s mam and sort it out again.”
“Sort it out again,” Hugh repeated under his breath. “She’s not a computer that needs resetting, Claire. It’s not that simple.” Muttering something unintelligible under his breath, he abruptly stood and rolled his shoulders. “Fine.”
“Fine?” Hope filled my heart. “You’ll do something.”
“Yeah, Claire.” Another shudder racked through my brother, and he nodded solemnly. “I’ll do something.”
5
Evil Cats and Helicopter Mothers
GIBSIE
Gripping the porcelain sink in our upstairs bathroom, I stared at my reflection in the mirror and honed in on the droplets of water dripping from my hair to my face, courtesy of the water I’d just splashed on my face.
A shiver racked through me at the sight, and I sucked back a groan. Shuddering in a combination of disgust and self-loathing, I licked my lips and forced myself to get a grip. “Get a handle on yourself.”
Because this was pathetic.
You are pathetic.
While the rest of my friends had spent their summer holidays neck deep in the Atlantic Ocean, I sat it out on the sand like the coward I was. Sure, I had an epic tan to show for myself, sun-bleached streaks in my hair that lads paid good money for, and had constructed some seriously impressive sand forts and castles, but it was such a damn waste of a summer.
Pathetic as it was, I struggled to cope with anything more than dipping my toes in the water. Seriously, submerging my body in water was an abhorrent thought. I could never get out of my head, or my past, long enough to attempt it.
Showers I could manage because I was upright and in no danger of going under. But I couldn’t remember the last time I’d taken a bath. It must have been before that day. I’d definitely been joined by Batman and my Teenage Turtles figurines.
Come to think about it, where did Raphael ever go?
“Gibs?” Mam called from the bottom of the staircase. “The girls are here.”
Cowa-fucking-bunga. I smiled to myself, bad mood forgotten, and grabbed a towel off the rack to quickly dry my face. The knowledge that Keith had left the house an hour ago was another huge mood booster. “On the way, ladies.”
Freewheeling out of the bathroom, I grabbed a floral shirt from my wardrobe, pocketed a bottle of baby oil, and snatched up my sunglasses, determined to make the most of the late August sunshine.
It was Saturday afternoon, our last one before school started back on Thursday, and I was determined to put a tan on my skin that would last until Mr. Sun made a reappearance next summer.
Batting down all worries of hazardous currents and riptides, I made a bolt for the staircase. Narrowly avoiding a side swipe from the demon my mother had christened Brian on the turn of the staircase, I trip-tumbled off the last four steps.
“Did you just see that?” I demanded in outrage, pointing an accusing finger in the direction of my mother’s one-balled Persian. “He tried to push me down the stairs.”
