The Boy With the Cigarettes in his Pocket

8: Arguments

I push a strand of my auburn hair behind my left ear, but say nothing.

"I'm sorry I went off like that. God, that was ridiculously shit."

And for once, I kiss the top of his head instead of him kissing mine. "Thank you,"

"For what?"

"Everything,"

~*~

"When's the next train, then?" I ask, as the train we need to get back to the campsite zooms past us, blowing my hair over my face.

"Not for another 40 minutes,"

"Shit,"

"I know."

I sit down on a dirty bench at the station. It's half two in the afternoon so I'm pretty sure an extra half an hour wouldn't make my parents any less cross. Jamie paces in front of me, feeling guilty about getting me in trouble. I told him it wasn't his fault, but he said it was him who bought the alcohol and decided to go to the beach, so therefore it was his fault. I'm acting calm, but honestly, I'm completely freaking out. I know my parents are going to go mental, and I'm not sure if I'm prepared for it just yet.

"Jamie, for God's sake sit down, pacing isn't going to make the train come any faster." I say, the sound of his footsteps growing irritating.

Jamie gives in and takes the spot next to me on the bench. I place my hand of his to stop it figeting.

"It'll be okay," I tell him, not even believing it myself.

"What will they say?" he asks, talking about my parents.

"I don't know, I really don't."

"Should I be there with you? To help you explain?"

"God no. It's better if you aren't involved. Like, at all."

"Robyn, I already am."

~*~

I stand in front of my caravan. I imagine them inside, pacing frantically, worrying where their daughter is. The one they thought was responsible, but obviously isn't. Has she been kidnapped? Is she hurt? I imagine my mother is even crying, and my dad on the verge of tears, but trying to stay strong.

I wonder what Charlotte's doing. Is she keeping quiet or is she revealing information that I have a boyfriend and like to climb out my window at night to see him? I imagine her sitting on her bed, legs held tight to her body, her loyalties tested.

I feel a light press on my back. "Stop over-thinking, the damage is done. Face them and, if possible, see me later to tell me how it goes, okay?"

I nod and Jamie kisses my forehead and walks away. I walk up the stairs onto the porch and place my hand onto the plastic door handle. Taking a deep breath, I push it down and open the door.

"Where the hell where you?!"

I look at my dad, seeing the disgust in his eyes. I enter with a walk of shame; hair tangled and messy; sunburnt and hungover; and smelling strongly of cigarettes, smoke and alcohol. My mum stands beside him, clutching a tissue, her tear-stained eyes filled with regret - regret that she trusted me so much.

"I'm sorry," I try to say, my voice only coming out in a whisper.

"Sorry? You stay out all night, and come in at half three the next day looking like you've lived in the gutters for a week, and all you say is that you're sorry. In what universe is a 'sorry' acceptable in this situation?" Dad yells.