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Fic: Only Time to Lose (Skins; Naomi/Emily; R), Part II
Part I
Part II.
But things fall apart. It's not what they planned, but things change; they go to uni, their lives get busier, and with each passing day London and Durham get further and further apart. Plans fall by the wayside. Naomi's meant to go down to London during Freshers Week, before all their work starts, but there are too many people to meet, too many societies to join and never go to again, too many pub crawls to get wasted on—for both of them. Naomi gets a job at the Student Union, and that complicates things further. The visit gets postponed once, then twice, then cancelled completely to be rescheduled at a later date that never seems to arrive. They'll find another time, they say on snatched phonecalls between lectures, but they never do. The universe conspires against them, or maybe they don't conspire against the universe hard enough.
They still talk—sometimes at cross-purposes, but at least they're conversations. One time Naomi talks for at least half an hour about her course, and it's only when she hangs up that she realises she doesn't have the remotest idea what Emily said to her. Other times, they phone but never really talk at all. They try to keep things alive, but it's difficult at a distance. Turns out phone sex is just glorified wanking.
The only way Naomi gets to see Emily is online, but a bunch of blurry photos of Emily drunk in Popstarz doesn't really make Naomi feel any better. Not that she begrudges Emily having fun—and it's not like she doesn't go out and have a good time herself—but she wonders what the point is in fun if it's not something they share.
Eventually they both figure out Skype—it takes Emily a while, either because she's useless at computers or she just keeps putting it off—and that's better. They get to talk and see each other, and even though the video stream is crap and pixellated, Naomi can see things she couldn't see in photos, like that Emily's changed. It's not just that her hair's different (a little shorter; a little redder), but she looks happy and relaxed and free, like now she's out on her own she can finally be her own person. Being away from Katie has been good for her, but even though it's selfish, Naomi can't help but think it would be nice to have a bit more evidence that Emily's being away from Naomi had been bad for her. She says she misses Naomi, and they talk about visiting for real this time, but then Emily's friends call her away—it's someone's birthday, and there are shenanigans to be had.
And that's what it's like, that first term: the timing is never right. Most of the time there's enough going on to distract Naomi, and the weeks slip by fast enough that she's sure Christmas will be upon them in a flash, and then they'll be back in Bristol, together again, no more excuses.
It's November when it happens, an evening like any other. A bunch of them are in the college bar, no epic plans for the night, just a couple of drinks and a few games of pool. She's getting quite good at pool, Naomi, although after two cider and blacks she's a little unsteady and her occasional tendency to miss has become more like a habit. Her phone rings as she's taking a shot and she pockets the white.
"Shit," she says, but when she sees her phone, she brightens. "It's the missus," she says with a smile, and turns to her opponent, her new friend Mark. "Don't think this is over, I'll be back to kick your ass later."
"Like you could," he says. She flips him off and answers the phone, heading outside to be able to hear better. The reception's shit in her room so she settles on one of the steps by the lake (it's more of a pond, really, but college pride deems it a lake), and although it's cold out, the cider and her Durham hoodie keep her warm enough.
"What's up, Ems?" she asks. "How goes it?"
"Hi," Emily says, then hesitates for a bit. "Um, all right, suppose. Well, I mean—how are you?"
Naomi takes a breath and considers. "Got a seventy-two in my International Relations essay, finished all my reading for tomorrow, and now I'm speaking to my lovely girlfriend. Also, a bit drunk. I'd say it's a pretty good day."
"Shit," Emily says. "I mean, that's great. I mean—shit."
"What's up, Ems?" Naomi's starting to get an inkling that something's wrong. "Everything okay?"
"Not really," Emily says, then, quieter, "no."
Naomi's tipsy-happy haze vanishes in an instant. She hasn't heard Emily sound like this, so quiet and defeated, since—God, she doesn't even want to think about it. "Tell me," she says, not even sure what she's preparing for.
There's silence on the line for a bit, but Naomi knows Emily's not gone anywhere. She waits for her to talk, and it takes a while, but eventually she does.
"I can't do this anymore."
"What?" She can't have sobered up after all, because Naomi has no clue what those words mean. She tries to parse the sentence, but she just meets a massive wall. "What are you talking about?"
"Us, Naomi. I can't do us." Emily's voice catches on the last word.
"What?" Apparently it's the only word left in her vocabulary. "I mean—what?"
"I'm sorry, I—"
Naomi finds another word and chokes it out. "Why?"
"It's too hard." Emily sounds small and far away, and Naomi hates that that's exactly what she is. "It's too hard to... to be with you, but not be able to be with you. Eight weeks, it's been. Did you know that?"
"No," Naomi replies, honestly surprised that it's been that long. How has it been that long?
"I can't bear it," Emily says. "It feels like longer."
Naomi's brain kicks into gear as it finally dawns on her what's happening. Fight or flight. Well, that's not a difficult choice to make.
"Tomorrow," she says, "I'll come to London tomorrow. Tonight, even, if I can get a train at this time." It's past nine; she probably can't, but she says it anyway.
"I've got work to do tomorrow."
"And I've got lectures, but who the fuck cares?" She takes a deep breath, "Look, no more excuses, we'll make it happen. We can't—we can't just give up because we're busy."
"But we're always busy, and we're always far away." Emily sounds weary, like she's already made up her mind and has arguments to counter anything Naomi might say. "Even if you do come down, what then? You can't stay."
"No, but I..." She casts around to find a way to finish that sentence, but she finds nothing.
Emily is quiet as well, and after a minute Naomi thinks she can hear her sniffling. Questions start swimming in Naomi's mind, and she hates herself for it, but she has to ask.
"Did you meet someone, is that it? Tell me."
"No," Emily says, "it's not like that. I'm just tired, Naomi. I'm tired of feeling miserable all the time, and I'm tired of feeling guilty if I'm not, if I'm having fun."
"You're allowed to have fun."
"I know, but it's not like having fun with you."
"No." Naomi sighs; she knows what it's like. "It's only three weeks until the holidays. Can't we last until then?"
"But what about after?"
"We'll do better next term. Make a proper effort."
"Will we?"
It feels like Naomi's chest is closing up, like she's been submerged in cold water. Getting words out is nearly impossible, but she manages. "Emily, what about all the promises we made? Did you just... stop loving me? Is that it?"
There's no reply for a moment, and when it finally does come, Naomi can barely hear it over the rushing of blood in her ears.
"I just want a chance to be happy. I can't... I need a clean break. I can't hold on to things from before."
"Breaking up will make you happy?"
"I dunno. But I'm not happy now, and I can't see another way." Emily takes a deep breath. "Can you?"
Naomi pulls the phone away from her ear and looks at it for a long moment, hoping for an answer to that question to dawn on her, but her mind's a great roaring blank. She hangs up; for a while she contemplates throwing the phone into the blackness of the lake, maybe smashing it on the paving slabs beside her, but what the fuck would that achieve? Nothing, just another stupid thing to regret in the morning. She goes back to her room—it takes her ages fumbling with her key, her hands are shaking that much—and when she's inside she goes to her bedside cabinet and digs out an old scrap of paper. It's still crumpled, no matter how many times she's smoothed it out, but the biro hasn't faded. When she climbs into bed she places it on the pillow beside her, and even though it's too dark to read, it's not like she'd ever forget what it says. Emily slept here :-) She wishes it were true.
---
The first thing she thinks when she wakes up is that she should have fought harder, and for a good long while she stares at her phone planning to do exactly that, but she doesn't know what she can possibly say to change things. It obviously wasn't a snap decision for Emily, and if she thought about it that hard, Naomi doesn't know how she could argue themselves back together. She tries to cry—it made her feel better last night, clutching that stupid note and sobbing until it was soaked through and fell apart in her hands, bits of pulp sticking to her face—but the tears won't come now, just a great yawning emptiness like an abyss she'll never reach the bottom of, no matter how long she falls. She rings her mum instead, thinking that maybe it'll help to talk about it, but words of sympathy aren't really what she's looking for and the conversation doesn't last long.
Not wanting either food or company, she skips breakfast, but she attends lectures as usual and even manages to take notes that more or less make sense. It's weird how easy it is, once she's back in the rhythm of university life, to pretend that nothing's happened—because even though there's this quiet sadness slowly gnawing away at her, it's not really that different to before. Just another day without Emily. There's a different quality to the absence now, but factually it's the same: Naomi, alone. When she tells her friends she shrugs it off, and even though they're not that close yet, they know her well enough to not talk about it. She'll deal. What the fuck is new, anyway? Back to normal after a weird eighteen-month deviation from her usual loner status.
She feels a bit vindictive when she changes her Facebook status back to 'single'. A bit upset, too, but Mark's there when she does it, so she doesn't say anything. Definitely doesn't cry. They have a rematch of their game of pool and she's a bit more drunk this time, a bit less co-ordinated. He lets her win.
The next day her mum drives all the way up to Durham just to give her a hug, not even caring about her carbon footprint or anything. Normally Naomi'd be embarrassed by that sort of thing, but they've been getting on a lot better now they don't live under the same roof, and besides, Naomi really needs a hug. Her mum brings wine as well and they get drunk; Naomi tries to rant about that bitch who broke her heart, but she can't get into it and just ends up crying a bit more instead.
By the end of term the pain has dulled a little, but when she gets back to Bristol it returns, sharper than before. Her bedroom holds too many memories. Her bed had become their bed, because it's not like they could ever stay at Emily's house, and her room still smells a bit like Emily, still feels like her too. Some of her things are still there, all mixed up with Naomi's stuff to the point where she doesn't even know what belongs to who.
The first night back, Effy rings. It's been a while.
"I heard you broke up with Emily," she says. "Bummer."
Naomi inhales, manages to say, "Yeah."
"Let's go out and get completely slaughtered."
It's the best invitation she's had in a while.
Pandora's there as well when Naomi goes to meet them outside the club. "Hi," she says when Naomi approaches, and, "Sorry."
Naomi just shrugs; she's had people saying that for three weeks and she's still not sure how to respond.
"Well," Panda carries on, because apparently she still hasn't mastered the art of keeping her mouth shut, "this'll be fun, eh? Go girls! Except—bugger—not all girls, obviously, not the rubbish ones, just—Eff, does this mean we're not friends with Emily anymore?"
"Shut up, Panda," Effy says, not taking her eyes off Naomi.
"You don't have to pick sides, Jesus," Naomi mutters. She's glad university basically split up the group before their breakup did—except, of course, if it weren't for university, there'd be no breakup. And, shit, she's thinking about Emily again.
Panda's still babbling. "Good—that's good, because I mean, Emily's—"
"Shut up, Panda," Effy says again, eyes still on Naomi.
"What about Emily?" Naomi asks.
"Nothing," Effy says, like that's the end of it.
"Right." Panda smiles meekly. "Nothing."
The club's not one Naomi's been to before, and she hates it immediately: too hot and dark and crowded, and not to mention the music's shit. But it's better than staying at home, and if she gets completely off her tits she won't even notice. Effy hands her a pill and she swallows it without even looking. Who the fuck cares what it is, as long as it does the job.
Naomi gets a drink, downs it, gets another, and then she feels numb enough—a different kind of numb to how she's been feeling, the good kind, the kind where she doesn't give a fuck about anything—that she starts dancing. She's uncoordinated and still holding her drink (splashing most of it around, whatever, anyone who cares can go fuck themselves), but this feels good, finally, music pounding so loud it's not even sound any more, just a beat that she feels deep in her bones. People grab her, but she doesn't care—they're not faces, not hands, just something to push against. She's breathless, sweating, spinning on air, until something catches her eye—someone; no, two people; two people never identical, even less so now, but people get mistaken even though Naomi never would—and there it is, the crash, earth.
It's just a profile. Just a profile, one she's studied endlessly, staring at in bed, tracing the lines with fingers, with kisses. She'd never forget, not in three weeks or three years, not in three lifetimes.
She turns before Emily can, stumbling off the dancefloor, and then she sees Effy, two giant eyes staring out of the dark, and something in her snaps, because of course. Effy doesn't protest when Naomi grabs her, does nothing as Naomi drags her to the toilets (nearly empty; a miracle) and slams her into the wall.
"What the fuck?" they both say in unison, and Naomi laughs out of sheer frustration.
"Emily's here," she says, bites out the words.
A beat. "Interesting."
"You planned this, didn't you? Fucking cunt. What gives you the right?"
Effy stares back at her, so calm it's unnerving. "You're still in love with her." It's not a question. Like Effy would ever ask a question; it's the same thing as admitting you don't know.
Her grip on Effy loosens a little. "You don't just stop loving someone because you break up."
"No," Effy says. "I know."
"Fuck off." Anger spills over again. "You were never in love with Freddie in the first place."
Effy looks at her for a long time, until Naomi lets go of her completely. Effy holds out her hand. Naomi hadn't even noticed her reaching for anything, but two pills lie in her palm.
"Take one."
"No," Naomi says, not because she doesn't want one, but because she doesn't want to have to take anything from Effy, maybe ever again.
"Whatever." Effy swallows them both, and when she leaves the toilets she doesn't look back. It's then that Naomi notices a handful of people staring, but she can't bring herself to care. Vaguely she thinks about going home, but sleep seems like years away and once she's back in the club the music takes hold again and she figures that another drink can't hurt.
The crowd at the bar is huge and Naomi's not flashing enough cleavage to bypass the queue. She tries to push through anyway—she really wants another fucking drink—but she ends up elbowing someone and when he turns around she sees that it's JJ.
"Bugger," he says. "I mean, hi, Naomi."
"It's okay, JJ, I know she's here."
"Yes," he says, "she's here. I-I mean, there are lots of shes here, I'd estimate that sixty percent of the patronage is female, which is surprising if you consider—"
She rolls her eyes. "You know I'm talking about Emily."
"Ah," he says. "Yes." He gets that look he always gets when Naomi mentions Emily's name to him, all guilty and embarrassed like he thinks that she still cares that he slept with Emily a million years ago. She doesn't; she did, ages ago, but it didn't take her long to get over it—and, God, that's a skill she still wishes she had.
"It's okay," she repeats, even though she's fairly certain that things will never be okay ever again. "You can be friends with her. This is obviously how it's going to be. Picking sides."
"If it helps," JJ says, "I think she still—"
But at that moment the barman takes Naomi's order, and she's doesn't think vodka's ever been so vital to her existence. JJ's words go unheard; she doubts they were important, anyway.
The time it takes her to down her drink would be embarrassingly short if she were sober enough to have a concept of shame. She finds Effy and Panda's faces in the crowd and heads over, and even though she still sort of hates Effy, she finds herself drawn to them. By this point she's pretty wasted, but the drugs don't seem to be working, not like they are for Effy, because while Effy's dancing, a blissed-out expression on her face, Naomi feels like seven hundred shades of shit.
"Got any more?" she asks, then yells it again over the music, tugging on Effy's arm, but if Effy replies Naomi doesn't hear it, because there's Emily again, closer this time, looking right at her, and something in Naomi breaks. She can't face Emily, can't look at her; she turns away and finds she's still holding onto Effy, and fuck knows why—those eyes aren't anything like Emily's, Emily would never stare like that—but still she kisses Effy in a fury, crashing their mouths together. It's hardly what she wants, but it's something at least, something to feel instead of that swallowing darkness.
It doesn't last long; they pull apart, Effy starts dancing again like she barely even registered it happening, and Emily's gone. She might as well have never been there.
"Fuck," Naomi says, yells it again and it's so loud there that no one hears. She realises how hot it is, how packed, how many writhing bodies are pressed up against her, and she feels sick. Getting out requires effort, pushing past the rising mass of people, but she gets there eventually, finds the door and gasps against the cold shock of air.
The street lurches as she walks—whose bastarding idea was it to wear heels, really?—but she keeps on, shivering and stumbling until she hears a voice behind her, quiet and raspy.
"Naomi."
She doesn't have to look to see who it is, but she turns anyway and faces Emily. She's through with this, through with this bullshit and feeling so fucking wrecked.
"What the fuck do you want from me, Emily?"
Emily looks at her, so small and lost, nothing like the blossoming girl Naomi thought she'd turned into. "Nothing," she says, her voice catching.
"Well then," Naomi says, more venom in the words that she'd expected. Emily ducks her head and doesn't even give Naomi one last glance before she turns away.
---
It's funny how things work out. Naomi spends the rest of the holidays revising for her January exams and making excuses every time someone invites her out (which is less often than they used to). And then she goes back, and uni is almost like a sanctuary because here at least she has good reason not to see Emily, as well as enough going on that she's distracted from her misery most of the time.
Four days she's back before Bristol reinserts itself into her life in the most annoying way possible. Her phone rings, and it takes her a full five seconds to figure out who the hell 'Katie' is, because the fact that Katie fucking Fitch might ring doesn't even enter her head.
Once she answers the phone, though, there's no mistaking her. No one else would speak to Naomi in quite that way.
"What the fuck are you going to do, Naomi?" Katie says, before Naomi can even get in a 'hello'. "Jesus Christ, you'd better fucking sort this out."
"Sort... what? What the fuck are you on about?"
"Jesus fuck, isn't it obvious? Shit, no wonder my sister dumped you, you're such a fucking moron."
For a moment Naomi considers hanging up, because the only upside of being single is no longer having to deal with Katie Fitch, but to be honest the only entertainment she has this evening is fucking Plato, and, well, she's intrigued. Or maybe just a masochist.
"Did you ring me up just to insult me? Or did you actually have something to say?"
She hears Katie take a great exasperated breath, and then when she speaks again she sounds a little calmer.
"I can't believe I'm even saying this, but I need your help. It's all your fucking fault, anyway."
"Again..."
"Christ, I'm getting there, all right? Thing is, Emily is fucking miserable, has been for weeks—moped all through fucking Christmas, it was a nightmare—and you're obviously the only person who can change that. So you'd better fucking get on it."
"You do know that she broke up with me, right?"
"Yeah, so what?"
"So I think that suggests she doesn't actually want to be with me anymore."
"Of course she fucking does, you twat. God knows why, but she does."
Naomi pauses; she doesn't really know what to say. It can't be true, it doesn't make sense. She's thought about it a lot (hasn't stopped thinking about it, truth be told; her friends have all been fed up with her being in a perpetual sulk, telling her that most people don't take this long to get over a break-up) and she thought she had it all figured out. It was an excuse, the distance, just something for Emily to blame because it's kinder than saying she just doesn't care anymore, or it sounds like it's less her fault.
"She's probably upset about something else," Naomi says eventually. "If she still loved me she wouldn't have finished with me."
"You really are dense, you know that?" Katie says, her voice rising again. "She's fucking heartbroken. Didn't you see her face that night at the club?"
Naomi did, of course, but fuck if she can remember; she was more fucked up than she'd thought at the time and now all she has is a vague recollection of yelling at Emily and snogging someone she shouldn't. But she doesn't say that to Katie, instead says, "Did she actually tell you this?"
"She doesn't have to, I'm her sister. I know these things."
"Yeah, you're the fucking expert on Emily Fitch."
"It's not just me, everyone knows." Katie sighs. "Just like everyone knows you're not over her already. It's pretty fucking obvious, Naomi. Boring, as well."
Naomi shrugs, not that Katie can see. "Why aren't you saying all this to her instead?"
"You think I haven't tried? You're my last fucking resort, I wouldn't call you otherwise."
Charming.
"Look, I could talk to her," Naomi says—she doesn't add that she doesn't want to, doesn't think she can put herself through that again—"but it wouldn't do any good. Nothing's changed."
Katie sighs. "Fucking hell, Naomi, are you actually mentally retarded? Then make things change."
"I can't—"
"You'd fucking better, all right? If she's still being a miserable cow when she's home for Easter you'll have me to answer to." With that she hangs up, leaving Naomi to stare into the distance and wonder what the fuck she's supposed to think now. Because it's not like she's come to terms with things as they are, she'd never be able to get used to not having Emily in her life, but she's more or less coping. And this—this is like someone reaching into a wound that has just started stitching together again, and ripping it open. Maybe that was the point, and all Katie was trying to do was hurt her more. Occam's Razor. Katie's always hated her; Naomi'd be amazed if Katie did anything but celebrate when she heard they'd broken up.
Still, it's not that easy to dismiss; the phonecall lingers on Naomi's mind, and maybe it's the stress of the exam period sending her crazy, but it starts to sound almost plausible.
She gets an idea, and it's probably completely fucking mental but she thinks that maybe it's worth a shot. Better than the alternative, anyway, and better than not knowing.
---
The idea is, in measure, really fucking stupid. Naomi decides that when she's on the train, going through with it despite all her misgivings (which are many and varied and very, very vocal, shouting down the tiny little hopeful part of her brain which hasn't quite given up yet). She's talked to Katie a couple of times since that first phonecall to explain her plans, each time reassessing Katie's motivations—with Katie's every encouragement she grew increasingly suspicious, even as things started falling into place—and now Naomi has just about decided that this is all one giant prank.
Except, if this was a prank, wouldn't Katie want to be around to witness it?
She sends Katie a text—it takes a while, there's never any fucking signal on trains—one last time, just to make sure. You sure this is a good idea? She's not got any plans? The response comes quickly: Don't fucking chicken out. She'll be there.
It doesn't really help to assuage Naomi's fears, but fuck it, she's on the train already, she can't exactly turn around now. (She could, a small part of her thinks, she could always get off at Birmingham, get the next train back to Durham and save herself the heartache.) But sometimes it's easier to just keep moving in the same direction, so she stays put. After a while, she texts Katie again. If you're having me on I'll kill you, cunt. It makes her feel a little better.
When the train gets in to King's Cross it's gone eight o'clock. Naomi starts to get nervous; it's too late, surely, she should have skipped her last lecture and got an earlier train. Why does Durham have to be so fucking far away?
The tube is pretty crowded when she gets on, and warm too, even though this year February remembered it was meant to still be winter and it's freezing outside. She ends up standing squished between a bunch of people that have the indecency to be extremely tall and block her view of the tube map. Just as well the journey's simple and she has it all memorised; only two stops along the Victoria line, off at Warren Street. From there it's not far to Ramsay Hall, and she's memorised that journey too thanks to Google Maps—didn't want to leave anything up to chance, because she's too busy freaking the fuck out to be able to deal with getting lost on top of that.
She finds it, thank God. Strange to think that this unfamiliar building is where Emily is now, that she's been living here for the best part of five months and Naomi's never even seen it before. It looks like any other hall of residence, nothing special, but she wonders whether Emily's attached to it, whether she's accidentally called it 'home' yet. Probably has—and that's the worst thought of all, that Emily has this whole new life now and there's no place for Naomi in it.
The door is locked, of course. She knows this, knows from Katie that you need a key fob to get in (Katie's been there before, but not Naomi—how did Katie find the time to visit, when she didn't?). So Naomi lurks and slips in past a student, saying "All right?" to him so he thinks that they must know each other, must have talked at some freshers party and he was too wasted to remember. She has to repeat the trick a couple of times to get through some more internal doors, and then eventually she finds herself on the third floor standing outside room 308, and this is it. Fuck, this is it.
Suddenly it strikes her that maybe she should have bought a present or flowers or whatever, because it's Valentine's Day and that's supposed to mean something. Still, too late now, and it's not like Emily would give a fuck anyway. Not like a stupid bunch of flowers would make a difference.
Taking a deep breath, she knocks, steeling herself for a reply and finding herself lost when one doesn't come. Shit, she thinks, Christ on a fucking bike, Katie was having her on: Emily's out on some romantic date, probably showing some new girl Battersea (she hopes they get hypothermia and die) and Katie is off somewhere imagining this and crying with laughter. Anger floods through her and she knocks again, harder, desperate to make it not true, and when there's still no answer Naomi shouts "Emily!", not caring who the fuck hears her.
"Naomi?"
Naomi spins around and there, standing in the doorway of the room opposite, is Emily. She's holding a huge glass of white wine and behind her in the room are four or five other girls, a pile of make-up spread between them on the bed, obviously getting ready for a night out.
"What are you doing here?" Emily says—she doesn't sound angry or upset, just honestly curious—and when Naomi doesn't say anything in reply, she puts down her wine glass, shuts the door behind her and points to her own room. "Go in, it's open."
Emily's room is about the same size as Naomi's at Van Mildert, but a bit older and shabbier, and with the ugliest carpet Naomi's even seen. Naomi glances at the noticeboard opposite Emily's bed and sees that amongst the posters and photos there's a familiar blueprint, and she feels a flutter of something in her stomach that she can't quite describe, probably because it's been so long. There's not much room to manoeuvre, especially as it's a bit of a mess, so she ends up standing awkwardly by the desk while Emily enters after her, her back to the door. Naomi's not sure if she meant to trap her in, but that's how she suddenly feels, like the air's too close and there's no escape. She still hasn't managed to find any words.
"Why are you here?" Emily asks again. "I mean, I don't mind."
Naomi shrugs. "I thought we should talk. Or, Katie thought we should talk." She tries again. "Katie thought we should talk, and I agreed."
"Do you want to go somewhere?" Emily smiles a little. "We could go back to Battersea. That was pretty cool."
"No," Naomi says. "I mean, it's cold outside. Here is fine."
"All right," Emily says, and they stare at each other for a while. Naomi's spent so long practising what she was going to say, figuring out the exact right words to win Emily back, but it all seems trite and stupid now and she's going to have to wing it—except, with Emily standing right there, she can't think of a single thing to say, can't even function around her.
"You didn't want to talk at Christmas, either," Emily remarks. "I wanted to, you know, but you just fucked off."
"I didn't know you'd be there," Naomi says. "And Effy gave me something, fuck knows what... Plus, you'd broken up with me."
"Right." Emily grimaces. "Sorry."
"You should be," Naomi says, surprising herself. She grips the edge of the desk and finds the words come tumbling out without any thought or order. She only realises how angry she is when the words come spilling out. "You chased me for so long, Em. You chased me, and I was having none of it, which I think we both agree now was fucking stupid of me. So now... now I'm chasing you. It's been, what, months, and I can't get used to this, Emily, I can't. And I don't want to. I don't want to learn how to be without you." She takes a breath and finds that there are tears stinging her eyes; she wipes them away furiously. "You fucking... you made me fall in love with you, you changed me, and then you left. You fucking left, Em. How could you?"
Silence hangs around them, stretching the atmosphere taut. "I didn't want to," Emily says, her voice scratchy like she has to force it out. She looks—Christ, Naomi hates seeing her like this, like she's broken, hates that she had even a part in that, even if this time for once it's Emily's fucking fault.
"But you did."
Emily takes a step forward, but only one; there's still a distance between them, probably always will be. "Maybe things just aren't meant to work out. You know, first love. It's never the same thing as last love, is it? No one stays with their first girlfriend, they just don't."
"That's statistics, Em, it's not a fucking rule. Look, if you don't want to be with me anymore, if you don't love me anymore, fine, just say it. But don't stand there and act like it's inevitable, like there's nothing we can do. You're meant to be the brave one."
"Maybe I'm being the brave one by walking away."
She can hardly bear to look at Emily anymore; she runs a hand through her hair just as an excuse to avert her gaze. "You don't want this, then? You don't want me anymore? Fuck's sake, just say it."
Emily takes another step forward, just a little one. "Naomi, I..."
"Say it."
"You don't get it, do you? I do want you. More than anything. I could never stop... But I can't bear it, Naomi. Being away from you is like—it's like being back at school, pining after you, but never being able to have you the way I wanted to. I—I used to sit behind you in Maths, did you know that? And I used to get there early every day, rush all the way from French or History or wherever, just so I could see you arrive." She shrugs, helpless. "Back then, it was worth it—it wasn't much, but it was enough. But now... I can't go back to getting scraps of you now I know what it's like to have all of you. So I thought that if I can't go back, I'd have to move on."
Naomi nods; it makes a stupid kind of sense, she supposes. (And she did know that Emily sat behind her in Maths; she saw her every fucking day and never had a word to say to her. So many times she's wondered if it would have been different if she'd just turned around and said hello, if they would have had longer, if it would have made them stronger.)
"But it didn't work, did it?" Naomi asks, because that's really all she came here to find out. "You didn't move on?"
Emily shrugs. "What the fuck do you think?"
Naomi opens her mouth to say something, but they're past that point. Words can only go so far until they become superfluous, meaningless, and anyway, they already know, they know. Naomi steps forward, closes the gap between them—smaller than she thought—and kisses Emily, their motion only stopped by the door and Emily flush up against it. God, Naomi's missed this. They return to it like breathing, like there's nothing on Earth more natural and nothing that makes more sense, the whole world beginning and ending with them. Naomi grips Emily tight, because holding on is the only thing she knows how to do, and she's glad for the door, the only thing keeping them upright. Emily's hands tangle in Naomi's hair and she deepens the kiss, pulls Naomi closer and closer until there's nothing between them and Naomi can't breathe, but the last thing she wants to do is stop. She doesn't need air, not when she has this, not when Emily's lips are so soft and her tongue so greedy—and oh, Naomi wants her to take everything, will happily give it all.
And Naomi can't handle it anymore, because at once it's everything but not enough. She wants all of Emily, every inch of her inside and out, and suddenly she's confused about why they're still standing, and why they're still clothed. Reluctantly, just for a second, she backs off.
"No," Emily gasps, and pulls her back like she's starving for her, her mouth so eager. So Naomi keeps kissing, scrabbles at Emily's top until it's mostly hitched up, the smooth expanse of Emily's stomach hers for the taking. Her hands roam up Emily's body and when she feels the flutter of taut stomach muscles under her fingertips she can't help but smile into the kiss. Emily gets the idea and pulls apart for a moment, just once second for them to lock eyes and for Naomi to help her out of her top.
"Hi," Naomi says, and finally she gets to see Emily smile again.
"There's a bed over there," Emily says, before going in for another kiss. Naomi stumbles backwards, not making it far until the back of her knees hit the bed and Emily pushes her down so she's seated. Emily straddles her lap and starts tugging off Naomi's clothes; Naomi shrugs off her jacket and then Emily's hands are on her, pulling her t-shirt over her head, then her other top, and it's all so frustrating that Naomi can't believe she had to wear so many fucking layers.
She kisses Emily again, along her jaw to her neck, sucking on Emily's pulse point until she moans, and then Emily's mouth finds hers, kissing harder this time, and they fall back on the bed, fumbling until the rest of their clothes are off. There's hardly any space to move in this cramped single bed but Naomi manages to roll over until she's on top of Emily without them falling off, and then her mouth's back on Emily, kissing her neck, her collarbone, licking a trail between her tits. Mouth on one breast, palm on the other, she feels Emily's nipples harden; she bites down gently and feels Emily's moan vibrate in her chest.
And it's almost like the first time, even if there's no breeze cooling their sweat or hard ground beneath them, because Naomi feels everything newly, sharply, the same giddy rush she felt back then when everything was a revelation. Except she's bolder now than she ever was back then, because she knows this, knows Emily's body as well as her own—has stopped even thinking of them as separate entities, because there's a synchronicity in this that makes them the same.
She kisses the smooth plane of Emily's stomach and moves lower down, ghosting a breath over Emily's inner thigh that makes her shiver, then Emily's fingers thread through her hair again and she's moaning breathless encouragements.
"Fuck me," Emily gasps, "God," and Naomi's through with teasing; she tastes Emily for the first time in too long—God, she never wants to go that long without this, doesn't know how she lasted a single second—and fuck, Emily's wet, cunt slick with desire, and the way she moans, Jesus. Naomi'd actually forgotten until it all comes flooding back now, every detail of Emily vivid. She slips a finger inside Emily, then another, and it doesn't take long to find the right rhythm for her fingers or her tongue, licking at Emily's clit, sucking, alternating strokes until Emily is breathless, gasping, moaning. She knows when Emily's about to come, can hear it in the pitch of her voice and feel it in the buck of her hips, and if she were feeling cruel she'd stave off the inevitable, tease her until she's screaming in frustration, but not this time, not this time. She tongues Emily's clit, just the right pressure, quickens the thrust of her fingers, and then Emily's coming, clenching hard around the last few strokes of Naomi's fingers until her orgasm subsides. Naomi licks her fingers clean then kisses Emily back to consciousness, feeling her breathing even out.
"Fuck," Emily says, "you—fuck. I've missed this."
"Me too." She traces nonsense patterns on Emily's skin, marvelling at the feeling, and Emily looks at her like it's the first time she's seen her.
"Hi," Emily says, a slight smile tugging at her lips. "I'm glad you're here."
---
When Naomi wakes, it takes her a moment to orient herself. She feels constricted in a way she can't quite puzzle out, and it's only when she blinks her eyes open that she realises where she is. Her back is pushed up against the wall and Emily's still-sleeping form is in her arms, their hands loosely clasped across Emily's stomach. Smiling, she presses a kiss into Emily's shoulder, and then another and another until Emily stirs.
"Morning," she whispers. She can't see Emily's face from this angle but she remembers Emily's sleepy morning smile, the way the corners of her mouth would quirk up as soon as she saw Naomi, before she'd even properly woken up, and she pictures that smile now. It feels like that first summer again, that simple untold bliss, where all that exists is the two of them and that's all that matters.
"I missed you," she says when Emily doesn't speak, but then Emily shifts round awkwardly—there really isn't enough room in this bed—and when she sees Emily's expression, sees that regret, Naomi has to take a breath just to steady herself.
"Naomi," Emily begins, and she sighs like she doesn't know how to continue. "Last night was... You know I missed this too. Missed you. And I want this, more than anything I want this, but I don't see how."
"There's actually more stuff that I meant to say last night," Naomi admits, mouth twisting into a smile. "You know, before I got distracted by all the sex. Stuff that, I dunno, will hopefully make a difference."
"Oh?"
"Yeah, my... circumstances changed. Or, I mean, I changed them."
Emily furrows her brow. "What are you on about?"
"I can't be without you, it's as simple as that. So I've been looking into transferring unis. And, well, LSE must have realised what a heinous mistake they made now they can see how well I'm doing at Durham, because they accepted me. Starting September, obviously."
"You...?" A smile spreads over Emily's face, but it quickly turns back into a frown. "Wait, no. You shouldn't change your plans for me, that's what you told me last year."
"Ems, I hate to break it to you, because I know you think I'm flawless, but on occasion I can actually be a massive fucking idiot."
"I actually knew that already."
"Charming."
Emily gives an awkward half-shrug. "I know it wasn't originally your first choice, but you shouldn't just leave Durham. You love it there."
"Yeah, I do. But rumour has it there's something in London that I love even more."
Emily grins. "You're talking about LSE, I take it."
"Obviously. What else?" Naomi bites her lip. "Look, I know September's a while off and it's not going to fix things straight away, but we can hang in there for a few months, can't we?"
"Yeah. I mean, we've survived worse."
"Exactly." Naomi takes Emily's hand and kisses her palm, then her wrist, feels Emily's pulse quicken under her lips. "No more objections?"
"Suppose not."
"Good, because it's non-negotiable, Ems. You're going to have to put up with me."
Emily leans over and kisses her slowly, like they have all the time in the world. "Well, all right then. I suppose I'll manage."
Part II.
But things fall apart. It's not what they planned, but things change; they go to uni, their lives get busier, and with each passing day London and Durham get further and further apart. Plans fall by the wayside. Naomi's meant to go down to London during Freshers Week, before all their work starts, but there are too many people to meet, too many societies to join and never go to again, too many pub crawls to get wasted on—for both of them. Naomi gets a job at the Student Union, and that complicates things further. The visit gets postponed once, then twice, then cancelled completely to be rescheduled at a later date that never seems to arrive. They'll find another time, they say on snatched phonecalls between lectures, but they never do. The universe conspires against them, or maybe they don't conspire against the universe hard enough.
They still talk—sometimes at cross-purposes, but at least they're conversations. One time Naomi talks for at least half an hour about her course, and it's only when she hangs up that she realises she doesn't have the remotest idea what Emily said to her. Other times, they phone but never really talk at all. They try to keep things alive, but it's difficult at a distance. Turns out phone sex is just glorified wanking.
The only way Naomi gets to see Emily is online, but a bunch of blurry photos of Emily drunk in Popstarz doesn't really make Naomi feel any better. Not that she begrudges Emily having fun—and it's not like she doesn't go out and have a good time herself—but she wonders what the point is in fun if it's not something they share.
Eventually they both figure out Skype—it takes Emily a while, either because she's useless at computers or she just keeps putting it off—and that's better. They get to talk and see each other, and even though the video stream is crap and pixellated, Naomi can see things she couldn't see in photos, like that Emily's changed. It's not just that her hair's different (a little shorter; a little redder), but she looks happy and relaxed and free, like now she's out on her own she can finally be her own person. Being away from Katie has been good for her, but even though it's selfish, Naomi can't help but think it would be nice to have a bit more evidence that Emily's being away from Naomi had been bad for her. She says she misses Naomi, and they talk about visiting for real this time, but then Emily's friends call her away—it's someone's birthday, and there are shenanigans to be had.
And that's what it's like, that first term: the timing is never right. Most of the time there's enough going on to distract Naomi, and the weeks slip by fast enough that she's sure Christmas will be upon them in a flash, and then they'll be back in Bristol, together again, no more excuses.
It's November when it happens, an evening like any other. A bunch of them are in the college bar, no epic plans for the night, just a couple of drinks and a few games of pool. She's getting quite good at pool, Naomi, although after two cider and blacks she's a little unsteady and her occasional tendency to miss has become more like a habit. Her phone rings as she's taking a shot and she pockets the white.
"Shit," she says, but when she sees her phone, she brightens. "It's the missus," she says with a smile, and turns to her opponent, her new friend Mark. "Don't think this is over, I'll be back to kick your ass later."
"Like you could," he says. She flips him off and answers the phone, heading outside to be able to hear better. The reception's shit in her room so she settles on one of the steps by the lake (it's more of a pond, really, but college pride deems it a lake), and although it's cold out, the cider and her Durham hoodie keep her warm enough.
"What's up, Ems?" she asks. "How goes it?"
"Hi," Emily says, then hesitates for a bit. "Um, all right, suppose. Well, I mean—how are you?"
Naomi takes a breath and considers. "Got a seventy-two in my International Relations essay, finished all my reading for tomorrow, and now I'm speaking to my lovely girlfriend. Also, a bit drunk. I'd say it's a pretty good day."
"Shit," Emily says. "I mean, that's great. I mean—shit."
"What's up, Ems?" Naomi's starting to get an inkling that something's wrong. "Everything okay?"
"Not really," Emily says, then, quieter, "no."
Naomi's tipsy-happy haze vanishes in an instant. She hasn't heard Emily sound like this, so quiet and defeated, since—God, she doesn't even want to think about it. "Tell me," she says, not even sure what she's preparing for.
There's silence on the line for a bit, but Naomi knows Emily's not gone anywhere. She waits for her to talk, and it takes a while, but eventually she does.
"I can't do this anymore."
"What?" She can't have sobered up after all, because Naomi has no clue what those words mean. She tries to parse the sentence, but she just meets a massive wall. "What are you talking about?"
"Us, Naomi. I can't do us." Emily's voice catches on the last word.
"What?" Apparently it's the only word left in her vocabulary. "I mean—what?"
"I'm sorry, I—"
Naomi finds another word and chokes it out. "Why?"
"It's too hard." Emily sounds small and far away, and Naomi hates that that's exactly what she is. "It's too hard to... to be with you, but not be able to be with you. Eight weeks, it's been. Did you know that?"
"No," Naomi replies, honestly surprised that it's been that long. How has it been that long?
"I can't bear it," Emily says. "It feels like longer."
Naomi's brain kicks into gear as it finally dawns on her what's happening. Fight or flight. Well, that's not a difficult choice to make.
"Tomorrow," she says, "I'll come to London tomorrow. Tonight, even, if I can get a train at this time." It's past nine; she probably can't, but she says it anyway.
"I've got work to do tomorrow."
"And I've got lectures, but who the fuck cares?" She takes a deep breath, "Look, no more excuses, we'll make it happen. We can't—we can't just give up because we're busy."
"But we're always busy, and we're always far away." Emily sounds weary, like she's already made up her mind and has arguments to counter anything Naomi might say. "Even if you do come down, what then? You can't stay."
"No, but I..." She casts around to find a way to finish that sentence, but she finds nothing.
Emily is quiet as well, and after a minute Naomi thinks she can hear her sniffling. Questions start swimming in Naomi's mind, and she hates herself for it, but she has to ask.
"Did you meet someone, is that it? Tell me."
"No," Emily says, "it's not like that. I'm just tired, Naomi. I'm tired of feeling miserable all the time, and I'm tired of feeling guilty if I'm not, if I'm having fun."
"You're allowed to have fun."
"I know, but it's not like having fun with you."
"No." Naomi sighs; she knows what it's like. "It's only three weeks until the holidays. Can't we last until then?"
"But what about after?"
"We'll do better next term. Make a proper effort."
"Will we?"
It feels like Naomi's chest is closing up, like she's been submerged in cold water. Getting words out is nearly impossible, but she manages. "Emily, what about all the promises we made? Did you just... stop loving me? Is that it?"
There's no reply for a moment, and when it finally does come, Naomi can barely hear it over the rushing of blood in her ears.
"I just want a chance to be happy. I can't... I need a clean break. I can't hold on to things from before."
"Breaking up will make you happy?"
"I dunno. But I'm not happy now, and I can't see another way." Emily takes a deep breath. "Can you?"
Naomi pulls the phone away from her ear and looks at it for a long moment, hoping for an answer to that question to dawn on her, but her mind's a great roaring blank. She hangs up; for a while she contemplates throwing the phone into the blackness of the lake, maybe smashing it on the paving slabs beside her, but what the fuck would that achieve? Nothing, just another stupid thing to regret in the morning. She goes back to her room—it takes her ages fumbling with her key, her hands are shaking that much—and when she's inside she goes to her bedside cabinet and digs out an old scrap of paper. It's still crumpled, no matter how many times she's smoothed it out, but the biro hasn't faded. When she climbs into bed she places it on the pillow beside her, and even though it's too dark to read, it's not like she'd ever forget what it says. Emily slept here :-) She wishes it were true.
---
The first thing she thinks when she wakes up is that she should have fought harder, and for a good long while she stares at her phone planning to do exactly that, but she doesn't know what she can possibly say to change things. It obviously wasn't a snap decision for Emily, and if she thought about it that hard, Naomi doesn't know how she could argue themselves back together. She tries to cry—it made her feel better last night, clutching that stupid note and sobbing until it was soaked through and fell apart in her hands, bits of pulp sticking to her face—but the tears won't come now, just a great yawning emptiness like an abyss she'll never reach the bottom of, no matter how long she falls. She rings her mum instead, thinking that maybe it'll help to talk about it, but words of sympathy aren't really what she's looking for and the conversation doesn't last long.
Not wanting either food or company, she skips breakfast, but she attends lectures as usual and even manages to take notes that more or less make sense. It's weird how easy it is, once she's back in the rhythm of university life, to pretend that nothing's happened—because even though there's this quiet sadness slowly gnawing away at her, it's not really that different to before. Just another day without Emily. There's a different quality to the absence now, but factually it's the same: Naomi, alone. When she tells her friends she shrugs it off, and even though they're not that close yet, they know her well enough to not talk about it. She'll deal. What the fuck is new, anyway? Back to normal after a weird eighteen-month deviation from her usual loner status.
She feels a bit vindictive when she changes her Facebook status back to 'single'. A bit upset, too, but Mark's there when she does it, so she doesn't say anything. Definitely doesn't cry. They have a rematch of their game of pool and she's a bit more drunk this time, a bit less co-ordinated. He lets her win.
The next day her mum drives all the way up to Durham just to give her a hug, not even caring about her carbon footprint or anything. Normally Naomi'd be embarrassed by that sort of thing, but they've been getting on a lot better now they don't live under the same roof, and besides, Naomi really needs a hug. Her mum brings wine as well and they get drunk; Naomi tries to rant about that bitch who broke her heart, but she can't get into it and just ends up crying a bit more instead.
By the end of term the pain has dulled a little, but when she gets back to Bristol it returns, sharper than before. Her bedroom holds too many memories. Her bed had become their bed, because it's not like they could ever stay at Emily's house, and her room still smells a bit like Emily, still feels like her too. Some of her things are still there, all mixed up with Naomi's stuff to the point where she doesn't even know what belongs to who.
The first night back, Effy rings. It's been a while.
"I heard you broke up with Emily," she says. "Bummer."
Naomi inhales, manages to say, "Yeah."
"Let's go out and get completely slaughtered."
It's the best invitation she's had in a while.
Pandora's there as well when Naomi goes to meet them outside the club. "Hi," she says when Naomi approaches, and, "Sorry."
Naomi just shrugs; she's had people saying that for three weeks and she's still not sure how to respond.
"Well," Panda carries on, because apparently she still hasn't mastered the art of keeping her mouth shut, "this'll be fun, eh? Go girls! Except—bugger—not all girls, obviously, not the rubbish ones, just—Eff, does this mean we're not friends with Emily anymore?"
"Shut up, Panda," Effy says, not taking her eyes off Naomi.
"You don't have to pick sides, Jesus," Naomi mutters. She's glad university basically split up the group before their breakup did—except, of course, if it weren't for university, there'd be no breakup. And, shit, she's thinking about Emily again.
Panda's still babbling. "Good—that's good, because I mean, Emily's—"
"Shut up, Panda," Effy says again, eyes still on Naomi.
"What about Emily?" Naomi asks.
"Nothing," Effy says, like that's the end of it.
"Right." Panda smiles meekly. "Nothing."
The club's not one Naomi's been to before, and she hates it immediately: too hot and dark and crowded, and not to mention the music's shit. But it's better than staying at home, and if she gets completely off her tits she won't even notice. Effy hands her a pill and she swallows it without even looking. Who the fuck cares what it is, as long as it does the job.
Naomi gets a drink, downs it, gets another, and then she feels numb enough—a different kind of numb to how she's been feeling, the good kind, the kind where she doesn't give a fuck about anything—that she starts dancing. She's uncoordinated and still holding her drink (splashing most of it around, whatever, anyone who cares can go fuck themselves), but this feels good, finally, music pounding so loud it's not even sound any more, just a beat that she feels deep in her bones. People grab her, but she doesn't care—they're not faces, not hands, just something to push against. She's breathless, sweating, spinning on air, until something catches her eye—someone; no, two people; two people never identical, even less so now, but people get mistaken even though Naomi never would—and there it is, the crash, earth.
It's just a profile. Just a profile, one she's studied endlessly, staring at in bed, tracing the lines with fingers, with kisses. She'd never forget, not in three weeks or three years, not in three lifetimes.
She turns before Emily can, stumbling off the dancefloor, and then she sees Effy, two giant eyes staring out of the dark, and something in her snaps, because of course. Effy doesn't protest when Naomi grabs her, does nothing as Naomi drags her to the toilets (nearly empty; a miracle) and slams her into the wall.
"What the fuck?" they both say in unison, and Naomi laughs out of sheer frustration.
"Emily's here," she says, bites out the words.
A beat. "Interesting."
"You planned this, didn't you? Fucking cunt. What gives you the right?"
Effy stares back at her, so calm it's unnerving. "You're still in love with her." It's not a question. Like Effy would ever ask a question; it's the same thing as admitting you don't know.
Her grip on Effy loosens a little. "You don't just stop loving someone because you break up."
"No," Effy says. "I know."
"Fuck off." Anger spills over again. "You were never in love with Freddie in the first place."
Effy looks at her for a long time, until Naomi lets go of her completely. Effy holds out her hand. Naomi hadn't even noticed her reaching for anything, but two pills lie in her palm.
"Take one."
"No," Naomi says, not because she doesn't want one, but because she doesn't want to have to take anything from Effy, maybe ever again.
"Whatever." Effy swallows them both, and when she leaves the toilets she doesn't look back. It's then that Naomi notices a handful of people staring, but she can't bring herself to care. Vaguely she thinks about going home, but sleep seems like years away and once she's back in the club the music takes hold again and she figures that another drink can't hurt.
The crowd at the bar is huge and Naomi's not flashing enough cleavage to bypass the queue. She tries to push through anyway—she really wants another fucking drink—but she ends up elbowing someone and when he turns around she sees that it's JJ.
"Bugger," he says. "I mean, hi, Naomi."
"It's okay, JJ, I know she's here."
"Yes," he says, "she's here. I-I mean, there are lots of shes here, I'd estimate that sixty percent of the patronage is female, which is surprising if you consider—"
She rolls her eyes. "You know I'm talking about Emily."
"Ah," he says. "Yes." He gets that look he always gets when Naomi mentions Emily's name to him, all guilty and embarrassed like he thinks that she still cares that he slept with Emily a million years ago. She doesn't; she did, ages ago, but it didn't take her long to get over it—and, God, that's a skill she still wishes she had.
"It's okay," she repeats, even though she's fairly certain that things will never be okay ever again. "You can be friends with her. This is obviously how it's going to be. Picking sides."
"If it helps," JJ says, "I think she still—"
But at that moment the barman takes Naomi's order, and she's doesn't think vodka's ever been so vital to her existence. JJ's words go unheard; she doubts they were important, anyway.
The time it takes her to down her drink would be embarrassingly short if she were sober enough to have a concept of shame. She finds Effy and Panda's faces in the crowd and heads over, and even though she still sort of hates Effy, she finds herself drawn to them. By this point she's pretty wasted, but the drugs don't seem to be working, not like they are for Effy, because while Effy's dancing, a blissed-out expression on her face, Naomi feels like seven hundred shades of shit.
"Got any more?" she asks, then yells it again over the music, tugging on Effy's arm, but if Effy replies Naomi doesn't hear it, because there's Emily again, closer this time, looking right at her, and something in Naomi breaks. She can't face Emily, can't look at her; she turns away and finds she's still holding onto Effy, and fuck knows why—those eyes aren't anything like Emily's, Emily would never stare like that—but still she kisses Effy in a fury, crashing their mouths together. It's hardly what she wants, but it's something at least, something to feel instead of that swallowing darkness.
It doesn't last long; they pull apart, Effy starts dancing again like she barely even registered it happening, and Emily's gone. She might as well have never been there.
"Fuck," Naomi says, yells it again and it's so loud there that no one hears. She realises how hot it is, how packed, how many writhing bodies are pressed up against her, and she feels sick. Getting out requires effort, pushing past the rising mass of people, but she gets there eventually, finds the door and gasps against the cold shock of air.
The street lurches as she walks—whose bastarding idea was it to wear heels, really?—but she keeps on, shivering and stumbling until she hears a voice behind her, quiet and raspy.
"Naomi."
She doesn't have to look to see who it is, but she turns anyway and faces Emily. She's through with this, through with this bullshit and feeling so fucking wrecked.
"What the fuck do you want from me, Emily?"
Emily looks at her, so small and lost, nothing like the blossoming girl Naomi thought she'd turned into. "Nothing," she says, her voice catching.
"Well then," Naomi says, more venom in the words that she'd expected. Emily ducks her head and doesn't even give Naomi one last glance before she turns away.
---
It's funny how things work out. Naomi spends the rest of the holidays revising for her January exams and making excuses every time someone invites her out (which is less often than they used to). And then she goes back, and uni is almost like a sanctuary because here at least she has good reason not to see Emily, as well as enough going on that she's distracted from her misery most of the time.
Four days she's back before Bristol reinserts itself into her life in the most annoying way possible. Her phone rings, and it takes her a full five seconds to figure out who the hell 'Katie' is, because the fact that Katie fucking Fitch might ring doesn't even enter her head.
Once she answers the phone, though, there's no mistaking her. No one else would speak to Naomi in quite that way.
"What the fuck are you going to do, Naomi?" Katie says, before Naomi can even get in a 'hello'. "Jesus Christ, you'd better fucking sort this out."
"Sort... what? What the fuck are you on about?"
"Jesus fuck, isn't it obvious? Shit, no wonder my sister dumped you, you're such a fucking moron."
For a moment Naomi considers hanging up, because the only upside of being single is no longer having to deal with Katie Fitch, but to be honest the only entertainment she has this evening is fucking Plato, and, well, she's intrigued. Or maybe just a masochist.
"Did you ring me up just to insult me? Or did you actually have something to say?"
She hears Katie take a great exasperated breath, and then when she speaks again she sounds a little calmer.
"I can't believe I'm even saying this, but I need your help. It's all your fucking fault, anyway."
"Again..."
"Christ, I'm getting there, all right? Thing is, Emily is fucking miserable, has been for weeks—moped all through fucking Christmas, it was a nightmare—and you're obviously the only person who can change that. So you'd better fucking get on it."
"You do know that she broke up with me, right?"
"Yeah, so what?"
"So I think that suggests she doesn't actually want to be with me anymore."
"Of course she fucking does, you twat. God knows why, but she does."
Naomi pauses; she doesn't really know what to say. It can't be true, it doesn't make sense. She's thought about it a lot (hasn't stopped thinking about it, truth be told; her friends have all been fed up with her being in a perpetual sulk, telling her that most people don't take this long to get over a break-up) and she thought she had it all figured out. It was an excuse, the distance, just something for Emily to blame because it's kinder than saying she just doesn't care anymore, or it sounds like it's less her fault.
"She's probably upset about something else," Naomi says eventually. "If she still loved me she wouldn't have finished with me."
"You really are dense, you know that?" Katie says, her voice rising again. "She's fucking heartbroken. Didn't you see her face that night at the club?"
Naomi did, of course, but fuck if she can remember; she was more fucked up than she'd thought at the time and now all she has is a vague recollection of yelling at Emily and snogging someone she shouldn't. But she doesn't say that to Katie, instead says, "Did she actually tell you this?"
"She doesn't have to, I'm her sister. I know these things."
"Yeah, you're the fucking expert on Emily Fitch."
"It's not just me, everyone knows." Katie sighs. "Just like everyone knows you're not over her already. It's pretty fucking obvious, Naomi. Boring, as well."
Naomi shrugs, not that Katie can see. "Why aren't you saying all this to her instead?"
"You think I haven't tried? You're my last fucking resort, I wouldn't call you otherwise."
Charming.
"Look, I could talk to her," Naomi says—she doesn't add that she doesn't want to, doesn't think she can put herself through that again—"but it wouldn't do any good. Nothing's changed."
Katie sighs. "Fucking hell, Naomi, are you actually mentally retarded? Then make things change."
"I can't—"
"You'd fucking better, all right? If she's still being a miserable cow when she's home for Easter you'll have me to answer to." With that she hangs up, leaving Naomi to stare into the distance and wonder what the fuck she's supposed to think now. Because it's not like she's come to terms with things as they are, she'd never be able to get used to not having Emily in her life, but she's more or less coping. And this—this is like someone reaching into a wound that has just started stitching together again, and ripping it open. Maybe that was the point, and all Katie was trying to do was hurt her more. Occam's Razor. Katie's always hated her; Naomi'd be amazed if Katie did anything but celebrate when she heard they'd broken up.
Still, it's not that easy to dismiss; the phonecall lingers on Naomi's mind, and maybe it's the stress of the exam period sending her crazy, but it starts to sound almost plausible.
She gets an idea, and it's probably completely fucking mental but she thinks that maybe it's worth a shot. Better than the alternative, anyway, and better than not knowing.
---
The idea is, in measure, really fucking stupid. Naomi decides that when she's on the train, going through with it despite all her misgivings (which are many and varied and very, very vocal, shouting down the tiny little hopeful part of her brain which hasn't quite given up yet). She's talked to Katie a couple of times since that first phonecall to explain her plans, each time reassessing Katie's motivations—with Katie's every encouragement she grew increasingly suspicious, even as things started falling into place—and now Naomi has just about decided that this is all one giant prank.
Except, if this was a prank, wouldn't Katie want to be around to witness it?
She sends Katie a text—it takes a while, there's never any fucking signal on trains—one last time, just to make sure. You sure this is a good idea? She's not got any plans? The response comes quickly: Don't fucking chicken out. She'll be there.
It doesn't really help to assuage Naomi's fears, but fuck it, she's on the train already, she can't exactly turn around now. (She could, a small part of her thinks, she could always get off at Birmingham, get the next train back to Durham and save herself the heartache.) But sometimes it's easier to just keep moving in the same direction, so she stays put. After a while, she texts Katie again. If you're having me on I'll kill you, cunt. It makes her feel a little better.
When the train gets in to King's Cross it's gone eight o'clock. Naomi starts to get nervous; it's too late, surely, she should have skipped her last lecture and got an earlier train. Why does Durham have to be so fucking far away?
The tube is pretty crowded when she gets on, and warm too, even though this year February remembered it was meant to still be winter and it's freezing outside. She ends up standing squished between a bunch of people that have the indecency to be extremely tall and block her view of the tube map. Just as well the journey's simple and she has it all memorised; only two stops along the Victoria line, off at Warren Street. From there it's not far to Ramsay Hall, and she's memorised that journey too thanks to Google Maps—didn't want to leave anything up to chance, because she's too busy freaking the fuck out to be able to deal with getting lost on top of that.
She finds it, thank God. Strange to think that this unfamiliar building is where Emily is now, that she's been living here for the best part of five months and Naomi's never even seen it before. It looks like any other hall of residence, nothing special, but she wonders whether Emily's attached to it, whether she's accidentally called it 'home' yet. Probably has—and that's the worst thought of all, that Emily has this whole new life now and there's no place for Naomi in it.
The door is locked, of course. She knows this, knows from Katie that you need a key fob to get in (Katie's been there before, but not Naomi—how did Katie find the time to visit, when she didn't?). So Naomi lurks and slips in past a student, saying "All right?" to him so he thinks that they must know each other, must have talked at some freshers party and he was too wasted to remember. She has to repeat the trick a couple of times to get through some more internal doors, and then eventually she finds herself on the third floor standing outside room 308, and this is it. Fuck, this is it.
Suddenly it strikes her that maybe she should have bought a present or flowers or whatever, because it's Valentine's Day and that's supposed to mean something. Still, too late now, and it's not like Emily would give a fuck anyway. Not like a stupid bunch of flowers would make a difference.
Taking a deep breath, she knocks, steeling herself for a reply and finding herself lost when one doesn't come. Shit, she thinks, Christ on a fucking bike, Katie was having her on: Emily's out on some romantic date, probably showing some new girl Battersea (she hopes they get hypothermia and die) and Katie is off somewhere imagining this and crying with laughter. Anger floods through her and she knocks again, harder, desperate to make it not true, and when there's still no answer Naomi shouts "Emily!", not caring who the fuck hears her.
"Naomi?"
Naomi spins around and there, standing in the doorway of the room opposite, is Emily. She's holding a huge glass of white wine and behind her in the room are four or five other girls, a pile of make-up spread between them on the bed, obviously getting ready for a night out.
"What are you doing here?" Emily says—she doesn't sound angry or upset, just honestly curious—and when Naomi doesn't say anything in reply, she puts down her wine glass, shuts the door behind her and points to her own room. "Go in, it's open."
Emily's room is about the same size as Naomi's at Van Mildert, but a bit older and shabbier, and with the ugliest carpet Naomi's even seen. Naomi glances at the noticeboard opposite Emily's bed and sees that amongst the posters and photos there's a familiar blueprint, and she feels a flutter of something in her stomach that she can't quite describe, probably because it's been so long. There's not much room to manoeuvre, especially as it's a bit of a mess, so she ends up standing awkwardly by the desk while Emily enters after her, her back to the door. Naomi's not sure if she meant to trap her in, but that's how she suddenly feels, like the air's too close and there's no escape. She still hasn't managed to find any words.
"Why are you here?" Emily asks again. "I mean, I don't mind."
Naomi shrugs. "I thought we should talk. Or, Katie thought we should talk." She tries again. "Katie thought we should talk, and I agreed."
"Do you want to go somewhere?" Emily smiles a little. "We could go back to Battersea. That was pretty cool."
"No," Naomi says. "I mean, it's cold outside. Here is fine."
"All right," Emily says, and they stare at each other for a while. Naomi's spent so long practising what she was going to say, figuring out the exact right words to win Emily back, but it all seems trite and stupid now and she's going to have to wing it—except, with Emily standing right there, she can't think of a single thing to say, can't even function around her.
"You didn't want to talk at Christmas, either," Emily remarks. "I wanted to, you know, but you just fucked off."
"I didn't know you'd be there," Naomi says. "And Effy gave me something, fuck knows what... Plus, you'd broken up with me."
"Right." Emily grimaces. "Sorry."
"You should be," Naomi says, surprising herself. She grips the edge of the desk and finds the words come tumbling out without any thought or order. She only realises how angry she is when the words come spilling out. "You chased me for so long, Em. You chased me, and I was having none of it, which I think we both agree now was fucking stupid of me. So now... now I'm chasing you. It's been, what, months, and I can't get used to this, Emily, I can't. And I don't want to. I don't want to learn how to be without you." She takes a breath and finds that there are tears stinging her eyes; she wipes them away furiously. "You fucking... you made me fall in love with you, you changed me, and then you left. You fucking left, Em. How could you?"
Silence hangs around them, stretching the atmosphere taut. "I didn't want to," Emily says, her voice scratchy like she has to force it out. She looks—Christ, Naomi hates seeing her like this, like she's broken, hates that she had even a part in that, even if this time for once it's Emily's fucking fault.
"But you did."
Emily takes a step forward, but only one; there's still a distance between them, probably always will be. "Maybe things just aren't meant to work out. You know, first love. It's never the same thing as last love, is it? No one stays with their first girlfriend, they just don't."
"That's statistics, Em, it's not a fucking rule. Look, if you don't want to be with me anymore, if you don't love me anymore, fine, just say it. But don't stand there and act like it's inevitable, like there's nothing we can do. You're meant to be the brave one."
"Maybe I'm being the brave one by walking away."
She can hardly bear to look at Emily anymore; she runs a hand through her hair just as an excuse to avert her gaze. "You don't want this, then? You don't want me anymore? Fuck's sake, just say it."
Emily takes another step forward, just a little one. "Naomi, I..."
"Say it."
"You don't get it, do you? I do want you. More than anything. I could never stop... But I can't bear it, Naomi. Being away from you is like—it's like being back at school, pining after you, but never being able to have you the way I wanted to. I—I used to sit behind you in Maths, did you know that? And I used to get there early every day, rush all the way from French or History or wherever, just so I could see you arrive." She shrugs, helpless. "Back then, it was worth it—it wasn't much, but it was enough. But now... I can't go back to getting scraps of you now I know what it's like to have all of you. So I thought that if I can't go back, I'd have to move on."
Naomi nods; it makes a stupid kind of sense, she supposes. (And she did know that Emily sat behind her in Maths; she saw her every fucking day and never had a word to say to her. So many times she's wondered if it would have been different if she'd just turned around and said hello, if they would have had longer, if it would have made them stronger.)
"But it didn't work, did it?" Naomi asks, because that's really all she came here to find out. "You didn't move on?"
Emily shrugs. "What the fuck do you think?"
Naomi opens her mouth to say something, but they're past that point. Words can only go so far until they become superfluous, meaningless, and anyway, they already know, they know. Naomi steps forward, closes the gap between them—smaller than she thought—and kisses Emily, their motion only stopped by the door and Emily flush up against it. God, Naomi's missed this. They return to it like breathing, like there's nothing on Earth more natural and nothing that makes more sense, the whole world beginning and ending with them. Naomi grips Emily tight, because holding on is the only thing she knows how to do, and she's glad for the door, the only thing keeping them upright. Emily's hands tangle in Naomi's hair and she deepens the kiss, pulls Naomi closer and closer until there's nothing between them and Naomi can't breathe, but the last thing she wants to do is stop. She doesn't need air, not when she has this, not when Emily's lips are so soft and her tongue so greedy—and oh, Naomi wants her to take everything, will happily give it all.
And Naomi can't handle it anymore, because at once it's everything but not enough. She wants all of Emily, every inch of her inside and out, and suddenly she's confused about why they're still standing, and why they're still clothed. Reluctantly, just for a second, she backs off.
"No," Emily gasps, and pulls her back like she's starving for her, her mouth so eager. So Naomi keeps kissing, scrabbles at Emily's top until it's mostly hitched up, the smooth expanse of Emily's stomach hers for the taking. Her hands roam up Emily's body and when she feels the flutter of taut stomach muscles under her fingertips she can't help but smile into the kiss. Emily gets the idea and pulls apart for a moment, just once second for them to lock eyes and for Naomi to help her out of her top.
"Hi," Naomi says, and finally she gets to see Emily smile again.
"There's a bed over there," Emily says, before going in for another kiss. Naomi stumbles backwards, not making it far until the back of her knees hit the bed and Emily pushes her down so she's seated. Emily straddles her lap and starts tugging off Naomi's clothes; Naomi shrugs off her jacket and then Emily's hands are on her, pulling her t-shirt over her head, then her other top, and it's all so frustrating that Naomi can't believe she had to wear so many fucking layers.
She kisses Emily again, along her jaw to her neck, sucking on Emily's pulse point until she moans, and then Emily's mouth finds hers, kissing harder this time, and they fall back on the bed, fumbling until the rest of their clothes are off. There's hardly any space to move in this cramped single bed but Naomi manages to roll over until she's on top of Emily without them falling off, and then her mouth's back on Emily, kissing her neck, her collarbone, licking a trail between her tits. Mouth on one breast, palm on the other, she feels Emily's nipples harden; she bites down gently and feels Emily's moan vibrate in her chest.
And it's almost like the first time, even if there's no breeze cooling their sweat or hard ground beneath them, because Naomi feels everything newly, sharply, the same giddy rush she felt back then when everything was a revelation. Except she's bolder now than she ever was back then, because she knows this, knows Emily's body as well as her own—has stopped even thinking of them as separate entities, because there's a synchronicity in this that makes them the same.
She kisses the smooth plane of Emily's stomach and moves lower down, ghosting a breath over Emily's inner thigh that makes her shiver, then Emily's fingers thread through her hair again and she's moaning breathless encouragements.
"Fuck me," Emily gasps, "God," and Naomi's through with teasing; she tastes Emily for the first time in too long—God, she never wants to go that long without this, doesn't know how she lasted a single second—and fuck, Emily's wet, cunt slick with desire, and the way she moans, Jesus. Naomi'd actually forgotten until it all comes flooding back now, every detail of Emily vivid. She slips a finger inside Emily, then another, and it doesn't take long to find the right rhythm for her fingers or her tongue, licking at Emily's clit, sucking, alternating strokes until Emily is breathless, gasping, moaning. She knows when Emily's about to come, can hear it in the pitch of her voice and feel it in the buck of her hips, and if she were feeling cruel she'd stave off the inevitable, tease her until she's screaming in frustration, but not this time, not this time. She tongues Emily's clit, just the right pressure, quickens the thrust of her fingers, and then Emily's coming, clenching hard around the last few strokes of Naomi's fingers until her orgasm subsides. Naomi licks her fingers clean then kisses Emily back to consciousness, feeling her breathing even out.
"Fuck," Emily says, "you—fuck. I've missed this."
"Me too." She traces nonsense patterns on Emily's skin, marvelling at the feeling, and Emily looks at her like it's the first time she's seen her.
"Hi," Emily says, a slight smile tugging at her lips. "I'm glad you're here."
---
When Naomi wakes, it takes her a moment to orient herself. She feels constricted in a way she can't quite puzzle out, and it's only when she blinks her eyes open that she realises where she is. Her back is pushed up against the wall and Emily's still-sleeping form is in her arms, their hands loosely clasped across Emily's stomach. Smiling, she presses a kiss into Emily's shoulder, and then another and another until Emily stirs.
"Morning," she whispers. She can't see Emily's face from this angle but she remembers Emily's sleepy morning smile, the way the corners of her mouth would quirk up as soon as she saw Naomi, before she'd even properly woken up, and she pictures that smile now. It feels like that first summer again, that simple untold bliss, where all that exists is the two of them and that's all that matters.
"I missed you," she says when Emily doesn't speak, but then Emily shifts round awkwardly—there really isn't enough room in this bed—and when she sees Emily's expression, sees that regret, Naomi has to take a breath just to steady herself.
"Naomi," Emily begins, and she sighs like she doesn't know how to continue. "Last night was... You know I missed this too. Missed you. And I want this, more than anything I want this, but I don't see how."
"There's actually more stuff that I meant to say last night," Naomi admits, mouth twisting into a smile. "You know, before I got distracted by all the sex. Stuff that, I dunno, will hopefully make a difference."
"Oh?"
"Yeah, my... circumstances changed. Or, I mean, I changed them."
Emily furrows her brow. "What are you on about?"
"I can't be without you, it's as simple as that. So I've been looking into transferring unis. And, well, LSE must have realised what a heinous mistake they made now they can see how well I'm doing at Durham, because they accepted me. Starting September, obviously."
"You...?" A smile spreads over Emily's face, but it quickly turns back into a frown. "Wait, no. You shouldn't change your plans for me, that's what you told me last year."
"Ems, I hate to break it to you, because I know you think I'm flawless, but on occasion I can actually be a massive fucking idiot."
"I actually knew that already."
"Charming."
Emily gives an awkward half-shrug. "I know it wasn't originally your first choice, but you shouldn't just leave Durham. You love it there."
"Yeah, I do. But rumour has it there's something in London that I love even more."
Emily grins. "You're talking about LSE, I take it."
"Obviously. What else?" Naomi bites her lip. "Look, I know September's a while off and it's not going to fix things straight away, but we can hang in there for a few months, can't we?"
"Yeah. I mean, we've survived worse."
"Exactly." Naomi takes Emily's hand and kisses her palm, then her wrist, feels Emily's pulse quicken under her lips. "No more objections?"
"Suppose not."
"Good, because it's non-negotiable, Ems. You're going to have to put up with me."
Emily leans over and kisses her slowly, like they have all the time in the world. "Well, all right then. I suppose I'll manage."
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