by Sally Rooney
Thanks, says Marianne. You’re a good friend. Bye.
Marianne makes her way to the self-service checkout, picking up a bottle of iced tea on the way and carrying the dried apples. When she reaches the row of self-service machines, she sees Lorraine unloading a basket of various groceries. Lorraine stops when she sees Marianne and says: Hello there! Marianne clutches the dried fruit against her ribcage and says hi.
How are you getting on? says Lorraine.
Good, thanks. And you?
Connell tells me you’re top of your class. Winning prizes and all kinds of things. Doesn’t surprise me, of course.
Marianne smiles. Her smile feels gummy and childish. She squeezes the package of dried fruit, feels it crackle under her damp grip, and scans it on the machine. The supermarket lights are chlorine-white and she’s not wearing any make-up.
Oh, she says. Nothing major.
Connell comes around the corner, of course he does. He’s carrying a six-pack of crisps, salt and vinegar flavour. He’s wearing a white T-shirt and those sweatpants with the stripes down the side. His shoulders seem bigger now. And he looks at her. He’s been in the supermarket the whole time; maybe he even saw her in the freezer aisle and walked past quickly to avoid making eye contact. Maybe he heard her talking on the phone.
Hello, says Marianne.
Oh, hey. I didn’t know you were in town.
He glances at his mother, and then scans the crisps and puts them in the bagging area. His surprise at seeing Marianne seems genuine, or at least his reluctance to look at or speak to her does.
I hear you’re very popular up there in Dublin, Lorraine says. See, I get all the gossip from Trinity now.
Connell doesn’t look up. He’s scanning the other items from the trolley: a box of teabags, a loaf of sliced pan.
Your son’s just being kind, I’m sure, says Marianne.
She takes her purse out and pays for her items, which cost three euro eighty-nine. Lorraine and Connell are packing their groceries into reusable plastic bags.
Can we offer you a lift home? Lorraine says.
Oh, no, says Marianne. I’ll walk. But thank you.
Walk! says Lorraine. Out to Blackfort Road? Do not. We’ll give you a lift.
Connell takes both the plastic bags in his arms and cocks his head towards the door.
Come on, he says.
Marianne hasn’t seen him since May. He moved home after the exams and she stayed in Dublin. He said he wanted to see other people and she said: Okay. Now, because she was never really his girlfriend, she’s not even his ex-girlfriend. She’s nothing. They all get in the car together, Marianne sitting in the back seat, while Connell and Lorraine have a conversation about someone they know who has died, but an elderly person so it’s not that sad. Marianne stares out the window.
Well, I’m delighted we bumped into you, says Lorraine. It’s great to see you looking so well.
Oh, thank you.
How long are you in town for?
Just the weekend, says Marianne.
Eventually Connell indicates at the entrance to the Foxfield estate and pulls in outside his house. Lorraine gets out. Connell glances at Marianne in the rear-view mirror and says: Here, get in the front, will you? I’m not a taxi driver. Wordlessly Marianne complies. Lorraine opens the boot and Connell twists around in his seat. Leave the bags, he says. I’ll bring them in when I’m back. She puts up her hands in surrender, shuts the boot and then waves them off.
It’s a short drive from Connell’s house to Marianne’s. He takes a left out of the estate, towards the roundabout. Only a few months ago he and Marianne used to stay up all night together talking and having sex. He used to pull the blankets off her in the morning and get on top of her with this little smiling expression like: Oh hey, hello. They were best friends. He told her that, when she asked him who his best friend was. You, he said. Then at the end of May he told her he was moving home for the summer.
How are things, anyway? he says.
Fine, thanks. How are you?
I’m alright, yeah.
He changes gears with a domineering gesture of his hand.
Are you still working in the garage? she asks.
No, no. You mean where I used to work? That place is closed now.
Is it?
Yeah, he says. No, I’ve been working in the Bistro. Actually your mam was in the other night with her, uh. Her boyfriend or whatever it is.
Marianne nods. They are driving past the football grounds now. A thin veil of rain begins to fall on the windshield, and Connell turns the wipers on, so they scrape out a mechanical rhythm on their voyage from side to side.
*
When Connell went home for Reading Week in the spring, he asked Marianne if she would send him naked pictures of herself. I’ll delete them whenever you want obviously, he said. You can supervise. This suggested to Marianne a whole erotic ritual she had never heard of. Why would I want you to delete them? she said. They were talking on the phone, Connell at home in Foxfield and Marianne lying on her bed in Merrion Square. He explained briefly the politics of naked pictures, not showing them to people, deleting them on request, and so on.
Do you get these photos from a lot of girls? she asked him.
Well, I don’t have any now. And I’ve never actually asked for any before, but sometimes you do get sent them.
She asked if he would send her back photographs of himself in return, and he made a ‘hm’ noise.
I don’t know, he said. Would you really want a picture of my dick?
Comically, she felt the inside of her mouth get wet.
Yes, she said. But if you sent one I would honestly never delete it, so you probably shouldn’t.
He laughed then. No, I don’t care whether you delete it, he said.
She uncrossed her ankles. I mean I’ll take it to my grave, she said. Like I will look at it probably every day until I die.
He was really laughing then. Marianne, he said, I’m not a religious person but I do sometimes think God made you for me.
*
The sports centre flashes past the driver’s-side window through the blur of rainfall. Connell looks at Marianne again, then back at the road.
And you’re with this guy Jamie now, aren’t you? he says. So I hear.
Yeah.
He’s not a bad-looking guy.
Oh, she says. Well, okay. Thanks.
She and Jamie have been together for a few weeks now. He has certain proclivities. They have certain shared proclivities. Sometimes in the middle of the day she remembers something Jamie has said or done to her, and all her energy leaves her completely, so her body feels like a carcass, something immensely heavy and awful that she has to carry around.
Yeah, says Connell. I actually beat him in a game of pool once. You probably don’t remember.
I do.
Connell nods and adds: He always liked you. Marianne stares out the windshield at the car ahead. It’s true, Jamie always liked her. He sent her a text once implying that Connell wasn’t serious about her. She showed Connell the text and they laughed about it. They were in bed together at the time, Connell’s face illuminated by the lit display on her phone screen. You should be with someone who takes you seriously, the message read.
What about you, are you seeing anyone? she says.
Not really. Nothing serious.
Embracing the single lifestyle.
You know me, he says.
I did once.
He frowns. That’s a bit philosophical, he says. I haven’t changed much in the last few months.
Neither have I. Actually, yeah. I haven’t changed at all.
*
One night in May, Marianne’s friend Sophie threw a house party to celebrate the end of the exams. Her parents were in Sicily or somewhere like that. Connell still had an exam left at the time, but he wasn’t worried about it, so he came along too. All their friends were there, partly because Sophie had a heated swimming pool in her basem
ent. They spent most of the night in their swimsuits, dipping in and out of the water, drinking and talking. Marianne sat at the side with a plastic cup of wine, while some of the others played a game in the pool. It seemed to involve people sitting on other people’s shoulders and trying to knock each other into the water. Sophie got up onto Connell’s shoulders for the second match, and said appreciatively: That’s a nice solid torso you have. Marianne looked on, slightly drunk, admiring the way Sophie and Connell looked together, his hands on her smooth brown shins, and feeling a strange sense of nostalgia for a moment that was already in the process of happening. Sophie looked over at her then.
No need to worry, Marianne, she called. I’m not going to steal him away.
Marianne thought Connell would gaze off into the water, pretending not to hear, but instead he looked around at her and smiled.
She’s not worried, he said.
She didn’t know what that meant, really, but she smiled, and then the game began. She felt happy to be surrounded by people she liked, who liked her. She knew that if she wanted to speak, everyone would probably turn around and listen out of sincere interest, and that made her happy too, although she had nothing at all to say.
After the game was finished Connell came over to her, standing in the water where her legs were dangling. She looked down at him benignly. I was admiring you, she said. He pushed his wet hair back from his forehead. You’re always admiring me, he said. She kicked her leg at him gently and he put his hand around her ankle and stroked it with his fingers. You and Sophie make an athletic team, she said. He kept stroking her leg under the water. It felt very nice. The others were calling him back to the deeper end then, they wanted to have another game. You’re alright, he said. I’m having a break for this round. Then he hopped up onto the side of the pool, beside her. His body was glistening wet. He put his hand flat on the tiles behind her to steady himself.
Come here, he said.
He put his arm around her waist. He had never, ever touched her in front of anyone else before. Their friends had never seen them together like this, no one had. In the pool the others were still splashing and yelling.
That’s nice, she said.
He turned his head and kissed her bare shoulder. She laughed again, shocked and gratified. He glanced back out at the water and then looked at her.
You’re happy now, he said. You’re smiling.
You’re right, I am happy.
He nodded towards the pool, where Peggy had just fallen into the water, and people were laughing.
Is this what life is like? Connell said.
She looked at his face, but she couldn’t tell from his expression if he was pleased or miserable. What do you mean? she said. But he only shrugged. A few days later he told her he was leaving Dublin for the summer.
*
You didn’t tell me you were in town, he says now.
She nods slowly, like she’s thinking about it, like it just now occurs to her that in fact she did not tell Connell she was in town, and it’s an interesting thought.
So what, are we not friends anymore? he says.
Of course we are.
You don’t reply to my messages very much.
Admittedly she has been ignoring him. She had to tell people what had happened between them, that he had broken up with her and moved away, and it mortified her. She was the one who had introduced Connell to everyone, who had told them all what great company he was, how sensitive and intelligent, and he had repaid her by staying in her apartment almost every night for three months, drinking the beer she bought for him, and then abruptly dumping her. It made her look like such a fool. Peggy laughed it off, of course, saying men were all the same. Joanna didn’t seem to think the situation was funny at all, but puzzling, and sad. She kept asking what each of them had specifically said during the break-up, and then she would go quiet, as if she was re-enacting the scene in her mind to try and make sense of it.
Joanna wanted to know if Connell knew about Marianne’s family. Everyone in Carricklea knows each other, Marianne said. Joanna shook her head and said: But I mean, does he know what they’re like? Marianne couldn’t answer that. She feels that even she doesn’t know what her family are like, that she’s never adequate in her attempts to describe them, that she oscillates between exaggerating their behaviour, which makes her feel guilty, or downplaying it, which also makes her feel guilty, but a different guilt, more inwardly directed. Joanna believes that she knows what Marianne’s family are like, but how can she, how can anyone, when Marianne herself doesn’t? Of course Connell can’t. He’s a well-adjusted person raised in a loving home. He just assumes the best of everyone and knows nothing.
I thought you would at least text me if you were coming home, he says. It’s kind of weird running into you when I didn’t know you were around.
At this moment she remembers leaving a flask in Connell’s car the day they drove to Howth in April, and she never got the flask back. It might still be in his glovebox. She eyes the glovebox but doesn’t feel she can open it, because he would ask what she was doing and she would have to bring up the trip to Howth. They went swimming in the sea that day and then parked his car somewhere out of sight and had sex in the back seat. It would be shameless to remind him of that day now that they’re once again in the car together, even though she would really like her flask back, or maybe it’s not about the flask, maybe she just wants to remind him he once fucked her in the back seat of the car they’re now sitting in, she knows it would make him blush, and maybe she wants to force him to blush as a sadistic display of power, but that wouldn’t be like her, so she says nothing.
What are you doing in town anyway? he says. Just visiting your family?
It’s my father’s anniversary Mass.
Oh, he says. He glances over at her, then back out the windshield. Sorry, he adds. I didn’t realise. When is that, tomorrow morning?
She nods. Half ten, she says.
Sorry about that, Marianne. That was stupid of me.
It’s alright. I didn’t really want to come home for it but my mother kind of insists. I’m not a big Mass person.
No, he says. Yeah.
He coughs. She stares out the windshield. They’re at the top of her street now. She and Connell have never spoken much about her father, or about his.
Do you want me to come? Connell says. Obviously if you don’t want me there I won’t go. But I wouldn’t mind going, if you want.
She looks at him, and feels a certain weakening in her body.
Thank you for offering, she says. That’s kind of you.
I don’t mind.
You really don’t have to.
It’s no bother, he says. I’d like to go, to be honest.
He indicates and pulls into her gravel driveway. Her mother’s car isn’t there, she’s not at home. The huge white facade of the house glares down at them. Something about the arrangement of windows gives Marianne’s house a disapproving expression. Connell switches the engine off.
Sorry I was ignoring your messages, says Marianne. It was childish.
It’s alright. Look, if you don’t want to be friends anymore, we don’t have to be.
Of course I want to be friends.
He nods, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. His body is so big and gentle, like a Labrador. She wants to tell him things. But it’s too late now, and anyway it has never done her any good to tell anyone.
Alright, says Connell. I’ll see you tomorrow morning at the church, then, will I?
She swallows. Do you want to come inside for a bit? she says. We could have a cup of tea or something.
Oh, I would, but there’s ice cream in the boot.
Marianne looks around, remembering the shopping bags, and feels disorientated suddenly.
Lorraine would kill me, he says.
Sure. Of course.
She gets out of the car then. He waves out the window. And he will come, tomorrow morning, and he will be wearing a navy
sweatshirt with a white Oxford shirt underneath, looking innocent as a lamb, and he will stand with her in the vestibule afterwards, not saying very much but catching her eye supportively. Smiles will be exchanged, relieved smiles. And they will be friends again.
Six Weeks Later
(SEPTEMBER 2012)
He’s late to meet her. The bus was caught in traffic because of some rally in town and now he’s eight minutes late and he doesn’t know where the cafe is. He has never met Marianne ‘for coffee’ before. The weather is too warm today, a scratchy and unseasonal heat. He finds the cafe on Capel Street and walks past the cashier towards the door at the back, checking his phone. It’s nine minutes past three. Outside the back door Marianne is sitting in the smoking garden drinking her coffee already. No one else is out there, the place is quiet. She doesn’t get up when she sees him.
Sorry I’m late, he says. There was some protest on so the bus was delayed.
He sits down opposite her. He hasn’t ordered anything yet.
Don’t worry about it, she says. What was the protest? It wasn’t abortion or anything, was it?
He feels ashamed now that he didn’t notice. No, I don’t think so, he says. The household tax or something.
Well, best of luck to them. May the revolution be swift and brutal.
He hasn’t seen her in person since July, when she came home for her father’s Mass. Her lips look pale now and slightly chapped, and she has dark circles under her eyes. Although he takes pleasure in seeing her look good, he feels a special sympathy with her when she looks ill or her skin is bad, like when someone who’s usually very good at sports has a poor game. It makes her seem nicer somehow. She’s wearing a very elegant black blouse, her wrists look slender and white, and her hair is twisted back loosely at her neck.
Yeah, he says. I would have a bit more energy for protesting if it was more on the brutal side, to be honest.
You want to get beaten up by the Gardaí.
There are worse things than getting beaten up.
Marianne is taking a sip of coffee when he says this, and she seems to pause for a moment with the cup at her lips. He can’t tell how he identifies this pause as distinct from the natural motion of her drinking, but he sees it. Then she replaces the cup on the saucer.