I Unlove You (39 page)

I nod, unable to look at him as
cold middle-of-the-night memories bombard me.

He
kneels on the filthy floor and plants his hand on my thigh.
“
Despite
everything I just said
…”
He squeezes my leg and puts his
other hand on my knee.
“
You and me
single
…
are you kidding me? We
’
re going to have a
blast, brother. Just you wait, I
’
m going to make sure
you have so much sex.
”

I laugh again.

“
I
’
m serious. So many
girls will want to sleep with you. All they
’
ll be able to
think about is how jealous
B
will be.
”

“
Everyone loves
B
.
”

“
Girls don
’
t love
other girls. They pretend they do, but deep down they want to screw
each other over. From here on in you won
’
t be
Ausdylan, B
’
s boyfriend
. Rather,
Ausdylan, the boy I can sleep with that will make me better
than
B. It
’
s simple
biology.
”

I
swig my beer and shake my head.
“
Here,
”
I say, passing Joey a
small bag.
“
You
’
re better at rolling than I
am.
”

“
This is what
I
’
m talking about,
”
he says, balancing his beer between
his thighs.
“
For the next few months every girl will want a piece
of you. Plus, once they find out what she did
—“

“
No.
”
I snap.
“
I
don
’
t want people to know about any of
this.
”

He
laughs.
“
Are you kidding? In a few months there
’
ll be a
baby and you won
’
t be the father. How
do you plan on keeping it a secret?
”

“
I mean the folder, Joe. Promise
me you won
’
t tell anyone about
it.
”

Narrowing his gaze, he unloads the contents of the bag onto
a thin piece of wispy paper.
“
I
wouldn
’
t do that. I just want to forget about that
fucking folder.
”

“
Forget? I
’
m not sure
it
’
s something you can forget.
“

“
We can try,
”
he blurts, halting
his twisting fingers.
“
We can try. You
’
d be amazed at how
much you can forget, especially with more nights like
this.
”
He points to his lap but stares at me.
“
We need to unload and
be young and free. Life
’
s too short to cling
to the past,
”
he continues through gritted teeth.
“
Besides, I
doubt she
’
ll stick around these parts for
long.
”

“
What do you
mean?
”

He scoffs, muttering under his
breath

“
What have you heard,
Joe?
”

“
Nothing,
”
he says, licking the
strip of paper from left to right.
“
But word will get out,
and once it does maybe her other secrets will, too. She
doesn
’
t have a lot of friends.
”

“
She has loads of
friends.
”

“
No,
”
he says, scoffing again.
“
She knows
a lot of people, but only had two friends. It
’
s easy to
be popular when you
’
re the pretty girl
and nice girl and the cool girl, but who gives you the time of day
when you turn out to be the girl she is? She had two people who
truly cared about her. You and me. That
’
s it. Who
sticks around for a whore like that?
”

“
Don
’
t call her
that,
”
I say, sighing and lowering my head.

“
A whore? Why
not?
”

“
Because
…
just
don
’
t.
”

“
Aus
—“

“
I know, Joey. I know. But
don
’
t. She
’
s still
B
, and
she
’
s still
…”
I look at him but don
’
t
finish.

Sighing, he passes me our joint-in-waiting.
“
Got a
light?
”
he asks.

I
remove the lighter from my pocket and spark the crisp paper to
life.
“
It
’
s going to be a shit few months,
isn
’
t it?
”
I say, the white twisted piece of paper dangling
from my mouth.

Saying nothing, he sips his beer and pulls his
grandfather
’
s pipe from his
pocket.
“
A lot of it will. But it
’
ll get easier.
You
’
ll forget. We both will. And when we do, we can live
life like we used to dream about. Travel and such. Be nomads. Be
vagabonds. Be drifters and searchers. Remember when we used to
dream about that?
”

I nod.

“
And the band.
We
’
re about to explode and now you can be part of
it.
”
He lifts the joint out of my fingers and takes a deep
breath.
“
I know this is shit. I know this hurts, and I know it
always will. But this could end up being the best thing to ever
happen to us. It starts with nights like these, rediscovering who
we are and what we want in life, but it ends wherever we wish it to
end. We can go anywhere. We can do anything. You and me, brother,
tackling the world like we always have.
”

“
I wish I believed that,
Joey.
“

“
You
’
ll see. I promise
you
’
ll see one day. We need to stick together like we
always have. No matter what. Me and you,
”
he says, drifting off
and closing his eyes as he inhales another breath of smoke.
“
Forget
everyone. Forget the past and those bullshit women. Forget
B
and
Harriet, and everyone else who prevents us from being
us
. We
don
’
t need them.
”
He inhales another breath of
smoke.
“
You and me, brother. Just you and me.
”

I
remember our chats from a younger time, Joey imagining faraway
lands and impossible lives. They were his dreams, not mine. I
nodded, and played my role because it was my role to play. But I
don
’
t think I ever felt free, because for so long as I can
recall I
’
ve been part of an
us
.

My
dream was where
B
was. I didn
’
t have my dreams,
rather
our
dreams. How can anyone have freedom
if they
’
re interwoven with another? How can I possibly
foresee travel and adventure if my arms link with someone
else?

Now, I am free. I can foresee travel and adventure because
I
’
m no longer cuffed to my parents or
B
. I
’
m no
longer part of a plural, but a singular man in a world that can
become anything I desire.

My
head spins again, but not because of the substances abusing it,
rather the realisation that here I am, a free man. Only, I feel
more confined now than ever before, because I
’
m unsure
I
’
m ready to let go of her
…
of
us
…
of those plural dreams I
’
ve always
known.

NOVEMBER 12
^TH
- MY DESK AT WORK:

I
stare at the brief, an A4 sheet of paper with words and numbers
sprawled across it. These words form sentences, and the numbers
provide facts. It all comes together to form a job, a task; a
project that will take me a day, week, or month to complete. This
page offers me a purpose for being here, but it just lies there,
staring at me, mocking me.
‘
Read
me
’
it says.
‘
This is your job. This is why you
’
re
here.
Can
’
t you read,
idiot?
”

Maybe I
can
’
t. Maybe I
’
ve forgotten. Maybe
I
’
ve misplaced a part of life I once loved so dear.
It
’
s something else she
’
s stolen from me,
took with her when she left. For months, I struggled to read
because of the burden she unloaded on me; impending fatherhood, and
the many anxieties that come with it, halted my drifting into
fictional worlds. Each page a struggle, just like it is now. She
didn
’
t have to do it to me. She could have told me the
truth from the start, at least that way I
’
d only have
gone through this pain once.

Picking up the piece of paper, I twirl it in my fingers,
trying to determine its gist without committing to the actual art
of reading. An advert, no doubt, for some terrible trade magazine.
Or a web banner aimed at distracting and annoying innocent
bystanders. Or something for a brochure, maybe, the familiar logo
at the top of the page catching my eye. I can
’
t
remember what they do. An accountant, or a solicitor,
or
…
who cares? It
’
s all the same, none
of it matters.

I
drop the page, it floating to join the rest of the paper chaos. I
took such pride in this desk when I started this job. Everything
had a place, each sheet and document in a neat and tidy home. I
don
’
t mind working in the midst of clutter, but it needs
to have purpose. With everything flung across the table, I cannot
focus.
B
used to love clutter. She
’
d design new clothes
in the middle of it, thriving amidst its mess.

I hate how I think of
her.

My desk is a mess. Nothing has a
place anymore. I never liked this job. It was never part of my
dreams or hopes for tomorrow, but in the beginning I had a reason
to be here. I saved for a life I could share with her. I wanted to
create a life together. Ambitions could come later. But now? In the
middle of Red Bull cans and discarded sandwiches? Old projects and
new ones mixed together? No purpose, place or pride.

I
can
’
t focus here, but I can
’
t focus anywhere. I
used to read to escape, but there
’
s no escape from
this. I
’
ve never gone this long without reading an
entire book. I
’
ve had droughts over
the years, but never more than a week. Books never give up on me.
They always forgive me and wait for me. I
’
ve read The
Great Gatsby thirteen times, and devoured it in a single sitting on
each and every occasion. No matter my mood or state of mind, one
page always leads to ten
…
to one
hundred
…
The End.