Page 136 of Tricky Girls

This is fun, right?

Josephina…

No, that’s too fucked up even for him. Damien was eleven when she was born, a miracle girl-child Aunt Kathleen had always yearned for. That’s worse than Heathcliff and Cathy, their book I can’t even read anymore. I made them change the reading list this year so it didn’t feature.

I was the Heathcliff in Aunt Kathleen’s life. She had her darling baby girl. She didn’t need me, didn’t need the reminder of a brother she couldn’t stand for reasons I never asked about. The ghost of his suicide haunting us all.

I was a black sheep, Damien was blacker, and for a while he helped fill the hole Tilda’s absence had left.

But like everything, it eventually soured.

‘Are you done?’

I flinch, the apple in my hands dropping to the ground. It lands with athunk,instantly bruising. With a tut, I bend to retrieve it. ‘Nice.’

‘I called your name, like, three times. You were just staring at nothing.’ Tilda tosses her hair, her septum piercing winking under the fluorescents. ‘Bloody weird.’

The hole she left might have scabbed over but here she is to pick at it again.

I glance at her basket. She’s hefting it awkwardly, the thing full to the brim with spirits, mixers and ciders. ‘Areyoudone?’

‘Yeah,’ she gasps, hefting the basket up her arm again. ‘Just about. Shop’s about to close anyway. The staff are giving us dirty looks.’

‘They can fucking wait. We’re about to pay their wages for the night.’

‘Such a rich person thing to say.’

I brought my big backpack but Tilda only has one tiny tote, buying some flimsy plastic bags for the rest of it

It’s not a long walk from the supermarket to the ferry terminal but Tilda lags behind. I hear her huffing and puffing, the sound so grating I eventually reach back and grab two of the bags from her.

‘Thanks,’ she mutters.

I shrug. ‘Haz will flip if we don’t get this back to her.’

It’s not late but dark enough out for the others to start the party as soon as we return. I assume they finished their essay, hearing no mention of it as they crowd us for booze. Haz is in her blacks, Elly in pretty much the same but with a plaid shirt over the top. Tilda races upstairs to get ready, a bottle of vodka swinging from her hand. Something unspools in me as soon as she’s out of sight.

They let me DJ—small mercies. I put on some indie rock, mild enough to appease the Swifties and not so bad that my ears will bleed.

I’ve got a message from Skylar telling me she’ll be round soon. Hope she’s not expecting anything. I’m all out after Christmas Day. That girl’s got the sex drive of a fucking bunny.

I’m fiddling with the speakers when Tilda comes back downstairs. I see a swish of red fabric, the top of one cross-hatched thigh, the cuts matching the colour of the velvet like some macabre accessory.

That fucking dress again? I close my eyes, damning all and any gods that might be out there.

‘Ah, the memories with this thing,’ Haz purrs, pulling Tilda close and pointing her eyes straight at her tits. ‘Looking for more of the same tonight?’

‘Dunno,’ Tilda teases, looking over at Elly now. ‘I’m a free agent tonight. Anything could happen.’

Elly raises an eyebrow, something decidedly heated passing between them.

I huff out a breath. They reckon they’re so slick. I guess they are with Haz. She hasn’t noticed a thing, still busy gawping down Tilda’s cleavage. She must have a push-up bra on. Her rack’s not that much bigger than mine.

My mouth fills with saliva at the sight of all that creamy, unblemished flesh. Swallowing, I turn away.

‘Hey, can I see your playlist?’ Tilda asks after she’s escaped Haz’s clutches.

I frown. ‘Why? It’s just some rando one.’

---