by Sally Rooney
In the shed, Peggy asked where Connell was.
Upstairs, said Marianne. With Teresa, I guess.
Connell has been casually seeing a friend of theirs called Teresa. Marianne has no real problem with Teresa, but finds herself frequently prompting Connell to say bad things about her for no reason, which he always refuses to do.
He wears nice clothes, volunteered Joanna.
Not really, said Peggy. I mean, he has a look, but it’s just tracksuits most of the time. I doubt he even owns a suit.
Joanna sought Marianne’s eye contact again, and this time Marianne returned it. Peggy, watching, took a performatively large mouthful of Cointreau and wiped her lips with the hand she was using to hold the bottle. What? she said.
Well, isn’t he from a fairly working-class background? said Joanna.
That’s so oversensitive, Peggy said. I can’t criticise someone’s dress sense because of their socio-economic status? Come on.
No, that’s not what she meant, said Marianne.
Because you know, we’re all actually very nice to him, said Peggy.
Marianne found she couldn’t look at either of her friends then. Who’s ‘we’? she wanted to say. Instead she took the bottle of Cointreau from Peggy’s hand and swallowed two mouthfuls, lukewarm and repulsively sweet.
Some time around two o’clock in the morning, after she had become extremely drunk and Peggy had convinced her to share a joint with her in the bathroom, she saw Connell on the third-storey landing. No one else was up there. Hey, he said. She leaned against the wall, drunk and wanting his attention. He was at the top of the stairs.
You’ve been off with Teresa, she said.
Have I? he said. That’s interesting. You’re completely out of it, are you?
You smell like perfume.
Teresa’s not here, said Connell. As in, she’s not at the party.
Then Marianne laughed. She felt stupid, but in a good way. Come here, she said. He came over to stand in front of her.
What? he said.
Do you like her better than me? said Marianne.
He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
No, he said. To be fair, I don’t know her very well.
But is she better in bed than I am?
You’re drunk, Marianne. If you were sober you wouldn’t even want to know the answer to that question.
So it’s not the answer I want, she said.
She was engaging in this dialogue in a basically linear fashion, while at the same time trying to unbutton one of Connell’s shirt buttons, not even in a sexy way, but just because she was so drunk and high. Also she hadn’t managed to fully undo the button yet.
No, of course it’s the answer you want, he said.
Then she kissed him. He didn’t recoil like he was horrified, but he did pull away pretty firmly and said: No, come on.
Let’s go upstairs, she said.
Yeah. We actually are upstairs.
I want you to fuck me.
He made a kind of frowning expression, which if she had been sober would have induced her to pretend she had only been joking.
Not tonight, he said. You’re wasted.
Is that the only reason?
He looked down at her. She repressed a comment she had been saving up about the shape of his mouth, how perfect it was, because she wanted him to answer the question.
Yeah, he said. That’s it.
So you otherwise would do it.
You should go to bed.
I’ll give you drugs, she said.
You don’t even— Marianne, you don’t even have drugs. That’s just one level of what’s wrong with what you’re saying. Go to bed.
Just kiss me.
He kissed her. It was a nice kiss, but friendly. Then he said goodnight and went downstairs lightly, with his light sober body walking in straight lines. Marianne went to find a bathroom, where she drank straight from the tap until her head stopped hurting and afterwards fell asleep on the bathroom floor. That’s where she woke up twenty minutes ago when Connell asked one of the girls to find her.
*
Now he’s flipping through the radio stations while they wait at a set of traffic lights. He finds a Van Morrison song and leaves it playing.
Anyway, I’m sorry, says Marianne again. I wasn’t trying to make things weird with Teresa.
She’s not my girlfriend.
Okay. But it was disrespectful of our friendship.
I didn’t realise you were even close with her, he says.
I meant my friendship with you.
He looks around at her. She tightens her arms around her knees and tucks her chin into her shoulder. Lately she and Connell have been seeing a lot of each other. In Dublin they can walk down long stately streets together for the first time, confident that nobody they pass knows or cares who they are. Marianne lives alone in a one-bedroom apartment belonging to her grandmother, and in the evenings she and Connell sit in her living room drinking wine together. He complains to her, seemingly without reservation, about how hard it is to make friends in Trinity. The other day he lay on her couch and rolled the dregs of wine around in his glass and said: People here are such snobs. Even if they liked me I honestly wouldn’t want to be friends with them. He put his glass down and looked at Marianne. That’s why it’s easy for you, by the way, he said. Because you’re from a rich family, that’s why people like you. She frowned and nodded, and then Connell started laughing. I’m messing with you, he said. Their eyes met. She wanted to laugh, but she didn’t know if the joke was on her.
He always comes to her parties, though he says he doesn’t really understand her friendship group. Her female friends like him a lot, and for some reason feel very comfortable sitting on his lap during conversations and tousling his hair fondly. The men have not warmed to him in the same way. He is tolerated through his association with Marianne, but he’s not considered in his own right particularly interesting. He’s not even smart! one of her male friends exclaimed the other night when Connell wasn’t there. He’s smarter than I am, said Marianne. No one knew what to say then. It’s true that Connell is quiet at parties, stubbornly quiet even, and not interested in showing off how many books he has read or how many wars he knows about. But Marianne is aware, deep down, that that’s not why people think he’s stupid.
How was it disrespectful to our friendship? he says.
I think it would be difficult to stay friends if we started sleeping together.
He makes a devilish grinning expression. Confused, she hides her face in her arm.
Would it? he says.
I don’t know.
Well, alright.
*
One night in the basement of Bruxelles, two of Marianne’s friends were playing a clumsy game of pool while the others sat around drinking and watching. After Jamie won he said: Who wants to play the winner? And Connell put his pint down quietly and said: Alright, yeah. Jamie broke but didn’t pot anything. Without engaging in any conversation at all, Connell then potted four of the yellow balls in a row. Marianne started laughing, but Connell was expressionless, just focused-looking. In the short time after his turn he drank silently and watched Jamie send a red ball spinning off the cushion. Then Connell chalked his cue briskly and resumed pocketing the final three yellows. There was something so satisfying about the way he studied the table and lined the shots up, and the quiet kiss of the chalk against the smooth surface of the cue ball. The girls all sat around watching him take shots, watching him lean over the table with his hard, silent face lit by the overhead lamp. It’s like a Diet Coke ad, said Marianne. Everyone laughed then, even Connell did. When it was just the black ball left he pointed at the top right-hand pocket and, gratifyingly, said: Alright, Marianne, are you watching? Then he potted it. Everyone applauded.
Instead of walking home that night, Connell came back to stay at hers. They lay in her bed looking up at the ceiling and talking. Until then they had always avoided discussing what had happe
ned between them the year before, but that night Connell said: Do your friends know about us?
Marianne paused. What about us? she said eventually.
What happened in school and all that.
No, I don’t think so. Maybe they’ve picked up on something but I never told them.
For a few seconds Connell said nothing. She was attuned to his silence in the darkness.
Would you be embarrassed if they found out? he said.
In some ways, yeah.
He turned over then, so he wasn’t looking up at the ceiling anymore but facing her. Why? he said.
Because it was humiliating.
You mean like, the way I treated you.
Well, yeah, she said. And just the fact that I put up with it.
Carefully he felt for her hand under the quilt and she let him hold it. A shiver ran along her jaw and she tried to make her voice sound light and humorous.
Did you ever think about asking me to the Debs? she said. It’s such a stupid thing but I’m curious whether you thought about it.
To be honest, no. I wish I did.
She nodded. She continued looking up at the black ceiling, swallowing, worried that he could make out her expression.
Would you have said yes? he asked.
She nodded again. She tried to roll her eyes at herself but it felt ugly and self-pitying rather than funny.
I’m really sorry, he said. I did the wrong thing there. And you know, apparently people in school kind of knew about us anyway. I don’t know if you heard that.
She sat up on her elbow and stared down at him in the darkness.
Knew what? she said.
That we were seeing each other and all that.
I didn’t tell anyone, Connell, I swear to god.
She could see him wince even in the dark.
No, I know, he said. My point is more that it wouldn’t have mattered even if you did tell people. But I know you didn’t.
Were they horrible about it?
No, no. Eric just mentioned it at the Debs, that people knew. No one cared, really.
There was another short silence between them.
I feel guilty for all the stuff I said to you, Connell added. About how bad it would be if anyone found out. Obviously that was more in my head than anything. I mean, there was no reason why people would care. But I kind of suffer from anxiety with these things. Not that I’m making excuses, but I think I projected some anxiety onto you, if that makes sense. I don’t know. I’m still thinking about it a lot, why I acted in such a fucked-up way.
She squeezed his hand and he squeezed back, so tightly it almost hurt her, and this small gesture of desperation on his part made her smile.
I forgive you, she said.
Thank you. I think I did learn from it. And hopefully I have changed, you know, as a person. But honestly, if I have, it’s because of you.
They kept holding hands underneath the quilt, even after they went to sleep.
*
When they get to her apartment now she asks if he wants to come in. He says he needs to eat something and she says there are breakfast things in the fridge. They go upstairs together. Connell starts looking in the fridge while she goes to take a shower. She strips all her clothes off, turns the water pressure up as high as it goes and showers for nearly twenty minutes. Then she feels better. When she comes out, wrapped in a white bathrobe, her hair towelled dry, Connell has eaten already. His plate is clean and he’s checking his email. The room smells like coffee and frying. She goes towards him and he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, as if he’s nervous suddenly. She stands at his chair and, looking up at her, he undoes the sash of her bathrobe. It’s been nearly a year. He touches his lips to her skin and she feels holy, like a shrine. Come to bed, then, she says. He goes with her.
Afterwards she switches on the hairdryer and he gets in the shower. Then she lies down again, listening to the sound of the pipes. She’s smiling. When Connell comes out he lies beside her, they face one another, and he touches her. Hm, she says. They have sex again, not speaking very much. After that she feels peaceful and wants to sleep. He kisses her closed eyelids. It’s not like this with other people, she says. Yeah, he says. I know. She senses there are things he isn’t saying to her. She can’t tell whether he’s holding back a desire to pull away from her, or a desire to make himself more vulnerable somehow. He kisses her neck. Her eyes are getting heavy. I think we’ll be fine, he says. She doesn’t know or can’t remember what he’s talking about. She falls asleep.
Two Months Later
(APRIL 2012)
He’s just come back from the library. Marianne has had friends over but they’re heading off when he arrives, taking their jackets from the hooks in the hallway. Peggy is the only one still sitting at the table, draining a bottle of rosé into a huge glass. Marianne is wiping down the countertop with a wet cloth. The window over the kitchen sink shows an oblong of sky, denim-blue. Connell sits at the table and Marianne takes a beer out of the fridge and opens it for him. She asks if he’s hungry and he says no. It’s warm out and the cool of the bottle feels good. Their exams are starting soon, and he usually stays in the library now until the man comes around ringing the bell to say it’s closing.
Can I just ask something? says Peggy.
He can tell she’s drunk and that Marianne would like her to leave. He would like her to leave too.
Sure, says Marianne.
You guys are fucking each other, right? Peggy says. Like, you sleep together.
Connell says nothing. He runs his thumb over the label on the beer bottle, feeling for a corner to peel off. He has no idea what Marianne will come up with: something funny, he thinks, something that will make Peggy laugh and forget the question. Instead, unexpectedly, Marianne says: Oh, yeah. He starts smiling to himself. The corner of the beer label comes away from the glass under his thumb.
Peggy laughs. Okay, she says. Good to know. Everyone is speculating, by the way.
Well, yeah, says Marianne. But it’s not a new thing, we used to hook up in school.
Oh really? Peggy says.
Marianne is pouring herself a glass of water. When she turns around, holding the glass, she looks at Connell.
I hope you don’t mind me saying that now, she says.
He shrugs, but he’s smiling at her, and she smiles back. They don’t advertise the relationship, but his friends know about it. He doesn’t like public displays, that’s all. Marianne asked him once if he was ‘ashamed’ of her but she was just joking. That’s funny, he said. Niall thinks I brag about you too much. She loved that. He doesn’t really brag about her as such, though as it happens she is very popular and a lot of other men want to sleep with her. He might brag about her occasionally, but only in a tasteful way.
You actually make a very cute couple, says Peggy.
Thanks, Connell says.
I didn’t say couple, says Marianne.
Oh, says Peggy. You mean like, you’re not exclusive? That’s cool. I wanted to try an open-relationship thing with Lorcan but he was really against it.
Marianne drags a chair back from the table and sits down. Men can be possessive, she says.
I know! says Peggy. It’s crazy. You’d think they would jump at the idea of multiple partners.
Generally I find men are a lot more concerned with limiting the freedoms of women than exercising personal freedom for themselves, says Marianne.
Is that true? Peggy says to Connell.
He looks at Marianne with a little nod, preferring her to continue. He has come to know Peggy as the loud friend who interrupts all the time. Marianne has other, preferable friends, but they never stay as late or talk as much.
I mean, when you look at the lives men are really living, it’s sad, Marianne says. They control the whole social system and this is the best they can come up with for themselves? They’re not even having fun.
Peggy laughs. Are you having fun, Connell? she says.
H
m, he says. A reasonable amount, I would say. But I agree with the point.
Would you rather live under a matriarchy? says Peggy.
Difficult to know. I’d give it a go anyway, see what it was like.
Peggy keeps laughing, as if Connell is being unbelievably witty. Don’t you enjoy your male privilege? she says.
It’s like Marianne was saying, he replies. It’s not that enjoyable to have. I mean, it is what it is, I don’t get much fun out of it.
Peggy gives a toothy grin. If I were a man, she says, I would have as many as three girlfriends. If not more.
The last corner of the label peels off Connell’s beer bottle now. It comes off more easily when the bottle is very cold, because the condensation dissolves the glue. He puts the beer on the table and starts to fold the label up into a small square. Peggy goes on talking but it doesn’t seem important to listen to her.
Things are pretty good between him and Marianne at the moment. After the library closes in the evening he walks back to her apartment, maybe picking up some food or a four-euro bottle of wine on the way. When the weather is good, the sky feels miles away, and birds wheel through limitless air and light overhead. When it rains, the city closes in, gathers around with mists; cars move slower, their headlights glowing darkly, and the faces that pass are pink with cold. Marianne cooks dinner, spaghetti or risotto, and then he washes up and tidies the kitchen. He wipes crumbs out from under the toaster and she reads him jokes from Twitter. After that they go to bed. He likes to get very deep inside her, slowly, until her breathing is loud and hard and she clutches at the pillowcase with one hand. Her body feels so small then and so open. Like this? he says. And she’s nodding her head and maybe punching her hand on the pillow, making little gasps whenever he moves.
The conversations that follow are gratifying for Connell, often taking unexpected turns and prompting him to express ideas he had never consciously formulated before. They talk about the novels he’s reading, the research she studies, the precise historical moment that they are currently living in, the difficulty of observing such a moment in process. At times he has the sensation that he and Marianne are like figure-skaters, improvising their discussions so adeptly and in such perfect synchronisation that it surprises them both. She tosses herself gracefully into the air, and each time, without knowing how he’s going to do it, he catches her. Knowing that they’ll probably have sex again before they sleep probably makes the talking more pleasurable, and he suspects that the intimacy of their discussions, often moving back and forth from the conceptual to the personal, also makes the sex feel better. Last Friday, when they were lying there afterwards, she said: That was intense, wasn’t it? He told her he always found it pretty intense. But I mean practically romantic, said Marianne. I think I was starting to have feelings for you there at one point. He smiled at the ceiling. You just have to repress all that stuff, Marianne, he said. That’s what I do.