Page 38 of Sad Girl Hours
Because the thing is, yes, Evie is moderately insufferable, but that doesn’t seem to stop straight women being attracted to men. Evie is, objectively, attractive (physically, at least), but I still wanted to scream a little bit when they touched me. I don’t think that’s normal.
I could blame not being allistic, but I actually really like being physically affectionate with people I’m comfortable with. Saffron and I walk arm in arm or sometimes hand in hand, and Jenna and I are notorious snugglers, but this felt different. Loaded. Like the hand on my hipbone was a beginning, rather than an act on its own. And whatever it was the beginning to, the idea of there being a middle and an end to it make me want to – again – scream.Why would I want any of that with a stranger?
The thought comes to my head again, though: lots of people would. Lots of people would be thrilled, even flattered, by attention like that, regardless of whether they knew the person or not. Maybe even most people.
Most people.
Just not me.
Chapter Sixteen
Saffron
It’s my party and I can’t cry, but I’d really quite like to.
“This is a great party, Saff,” Lucille, one of my friends from Athletics Club, is saying to me.
“Thank you so much,” I say. “It’s all the others’ work, though. They’re the real masterminds behind tonight.” I toss a smile to Casper, who smiles back at me with a pastry-laden mouth.
He gulps his sausage roll down, throat bobbing like a cartoon character. “It’s not every day two of your best friends turn twenty. In fact, it’s only one day; I doubt this will ever occur again.”
Everywhere I go there are people wishing me a Happy Birthday or telling me what a great evening it is. I pass out thank yous like party favours, moving between rooms, never staying in one place too long, making sure everyone’s having the nice time they claim they are. When people request songs, I add them to the queue. If someone’s drink is empty, I say I’m going to the kitchen anyway so I’ll get them another.
I’ve never been a particular fan of my birthday; it’s never really been anything special before. I enjoyed this afternoon, just crafting with Nell and trying to pretend like it was only her birthday and not mine too, but the necklace around my neck reminds me otherwise.
I didn’t exactly have a great morning. When I woke up, it was still dark outside and it felt like the darkness was pressing in on me. The cold has finally snapped this week, meaning getting outof bed feels even harder, knowing I’ll be emerging from my bed where I feel safe and warm, out into the rest of the world, which feels like neither. And then, at uni, they gave us the dates for our end-of-term exams and putting them in my planner made me feel thoroughly nauseated.
I missed so much last year. What if I don’t do well again? Things actuallycountthis year. I can’t afford to screw up again.
And then there’s also the card sitting under the key bowl in the hallway, carefully opened, closed again and returned to its place. I recognised my mother’s handwriting immediately. Capital letters. No excessive curls.
I recognised the card from our junk drawer at home, a generic one with a daisy on the front. Inside, it read:Saffron, Happy Birthday. Mum and Dad.That was all. No ‘love from’, not even a ‘to’. No present.
Not that I need presents or I’m not grateful for everything they’ve done for me in the past, but…
I’m wearing a sunflower necklace. My favourite flower. Bought for me byNell’s parents, who’ve met me once and deemed me important enough to go to a shop and pick something out for me – something that I genuinely love.
It’s weird but when I think about the necklace I get the same feeling inside I did when my grandparents died. I’m just not sure what it is I’m grieving this time.
I should be thankful. I should be dancing with these people who’ve come to celebrate me and Nell. I should be laughing and joking.
I feel the all-too-familiar mismatch between the person I know I should be and the person I actually am lunge at me jarringly, trying to jolt tears out of my eyes.
But I’m Saffron Lawrence. Life of the party. I make everyone else feel comfortable, even (especially) when I don’t feel comfortable myself.
I keep trying, I really do. I play a drinking game with some people on the landing, diligently doing a couple of shots and smiling on the outside while internally I think that I deserve to feel the sting of the alcohol catching at my throat.
I excuse myself after my second shot. I don’t like getting drunk. Who knows what would come out if I wasn’t able to keep hold of myself the way I normally do?
I head back downstairs, the music thumping through the building. I dropped off some cupcakes and a note inviting our neighbours on either side to the party and apologising in advance for the noise if they didn’t want to come, but I still worry that we’re disturbing them.
I’m about to go into the lounge to try to sneakily turn the music down a couple of decibels when I see Nell leaving, slipping round people to get to the front door, face determined, but also a little sad.
I’ve never seen Nell like that, eyes softened into sadness, mouth not curved up into a grin or twisted into an expression of righteous indignation or something similar.
I don’tlikeseeing her like that.
I change course from the lounge to the front door and pull it open, stepping out into the night. Nell is leaning against the low brick wall, surrounded by a halo of white light from the street lamp across the road.
