I Unlove You (49 page)

There
’
s so much I should
say because you deserve better than silence, but I fear if you know
it
’
ll only make matters worse. We all have secrets, but I
have too many. Too many dark ones. Too many impossible ones. I do
want you to know that I have fewer secrets from you than anyone
else on this planet. I appreciate this more than ever before, and I
realise how lonely my existence is without you.

That
’
s all I do
anymore
…
exist.

I
keep thinking about
him
, and you, and the kind of father
you
’
ll one day be. Knowing I can only manage existence
when he
’
s so close to existing, pains me. You will be a
wonderful father one day, Aus, I promise you. I wanted you to be
his father, and each day I cry because I still want you to be. But
they
’
re lost tears, silly and foolish ones. Maybe in
another life. Maybe if things were different before I met you.
Maybe if we could turn back time somehow
…
But we
can
’
t, and it pains me.

I
’
m fed up with life and its cruel ways, as
you
’
d be the perfect father to him. You
’
d love
him and treasure him, and grow with him, like good men do. I know
what it
’
s like to grow up without a father, and I hate
how he needs to go through this, too. But he has to, because I also
know what it
’
s like to have a
terrible one, so if he can
’
t have you, he
can
’
t have anyone.

If
you knew what I went through you
’
d understand. I need
to protect him, because no matter what happens I cannot turn out
like my mother and obsess over a man so ill-prepared for love and
living. If you knew, you
’
d understand;
I
’
m certain you would, because you
’
re a good
man; a loving one; a genuine one; a one-of-a-kind
one.

These damn secrets drag me down. I should have told you
more and let you in, I know that now. I should have told you about
my father, and how he didn
’
t die when I was too
young to remember. I do remember. For years, he was all I could
remember. I spent so long forgetting him, but now
he
’
s back. Every time I think about you or
him
,
he
’
s there.

I
don
’
t think he
’
s ever truly left
me. Every time I see a father hold a little girl
’
s hand, I
ask myself,
‘
Does she love her daddy, or does she despise him? Does
she fear him? Does she wonder what she did wrong? Does she cry
herself to sleep because she must be broken and worthless, because
why else would he hurt her?
’

I
nearly told you about him once, when you played that one song your
dad taught you. We sat on your bed as you lost yourself in the
guitar
’
s strings, and I lost myself in you. I let go of
the barriers keeping me upright, and from nowhere I began
whispering, stuttering and preparing the whole story. I should have
told you then, but I couldn
’
t because I was
scared. I still am scared. I
’
m scared to let him
out and back into the open, and I know you deserve more, but I
can
’
t
…

You
deserve to know he was a bad man, and that you
’
re
nothing like him. That little boy resting inside me will never have
a man like him, either. I
’
ll never let a man
like him hurt me ever again, and if you knew, I
’
m sure
you
’
d understand. I love you and miss you, but try and
believe me when I say that me leaving is for the
best.

I
never meant to hurt you, and I
’
m not sure how I
ended up doing so. But I did. I know that now.

The girl you used to
love,

B
x

As
soon as I devour the last syllable, I tear the sheet in half and
drop it, watching as it floats to the floor, one sheet swaying left
into the platform
’
s shadows, the other
to the right and towards the track.

“
Why?
”
I say, pinching the
bridge of my nose and shaking my head as tears swell in both
eyes.
“
Why tell me this? Why leave me with nothing but more
questions?
”

I stand up and step away from my
seat, but immediately sit down again, blood coursing through my
body. Nothing but mystery to add to a box already full of it.
Half-truths, with the hope of what? Sympathy? Help?
Understanding?

How
can I help you,
B
, when I don
’
t even know you?
Still no apology. Still no acceptance that you
’
ve
destroyed me, altered me and left me alone in the rubble. You chose
to leave, fine; one day I
’
ll get over it and
forget you because that
’
s what we do. But
why write me and cling on to me, and keep me on your string? You
chose to let me go, so why won
’
t you fucking let me
go?

And
written from this train station,
my
train station. This
isn
’
t yours,
B
. You
’
ve taken everything
else, so the least you can do is leave me this cold, reverberant
hell hole. You can
’
t have it.
It
’
s
mine. It
’
s where I come to read you and hate you, not
wonder if you
’
re sitting on a
bench like this one, or sat on this exact one
yesterday
…
or the day before
…
or sometime last
week.

I close my eyes and stand up, lost
in this blustery station with its consuming white noise. I feel
each crackle and pop of distortion as I bubble with pain and utter
desperation.

“
Excuse me,
”
says a voice to my
right.

It
isn
’
t there. It isn
’
t real. I
’
m alone. I have
to be. I can
’
t be around others,
not now.

“
Excuse me,
son,
”
says the voice again, coarse and husky.
“
Are you okay?
”

I open my eyes, the light bright
and my head dizzy.

“
Come on, let
’
s grab
you a seat,
”
says the man, guiding me down into the mesh-mettled
bench.

“
I
’
m
fine,
”
I say, not looking at him. Not wanting to look at him. Not
wanting to look at anyone.

“
That you should be. Young lad
like you. It
’
s old men like me
who need help into chairs, not the other way
round.
”

I
shrug. I want to be alone, curled up in a corner with my guitar in
hand, away from the world and its unrelenting pressure. Yet I want
to be held and touched, comforted by someone I love, but
who
’
s left? My mother, a woman I haven
’
t hugged
in what seems like years? My father, a man I
haven
’
t spoken to in weeks? Joey, who needs comfort
far more than me? Who else? For years, I
’
ve placed all
my eggs in
B
’
s
basket, forgetting about other people, other circles and
other possibilities.

“
I don
’
t mean to pry,
son, but when I see a young lad like you stand up, mutter to
himself, and tear a piece of paper in half, I feel obliged to offer
a helping hand. We
’
ve all been
there.
”

I choke a laugh, gritting my teeth
as I do.

“
A girl, I presume?
”

I bite my lip and clench my eyes
shut.

“
Oh, yes,
”
says the man, his face still a
mystery.
“
Only women have that sort of power. I know they say we
can
’
t live without them, but we spend most of our lives
doubting this.
”

Arching my chin, I face the track, the
wind
’
s icy chill biting my nose and cheeks.
“
Yeah,
”
I
sigh.

“
I
’
ve been married to
my Sheila for thirty-five years next time around, and there
isn
’
t a day goes by I don
’
t bite my bleeding
lip.
”

I twist and look at him, catching
his face for the first time. His grey, fluffy hair recedes around
his forehead, and his blue eyes hide behind wrinkled
cheeks.

“
Still, compared to the
rest
…”
he trails off, laughing and showcasing his white teeth
stained through a lifetime of living.
“
Now, I presume for you
it isn
’
t a wife we
’
re talking
about?
”

“
No,
”
I sigh, shaking my head again,
trying to rid the last five minutes from it.
“
Spent a long time
thinking she would be, though,
”
I mutter.

“
Well, that
’
s the
problem right there, you see. They make us believe
they
’
re the romantic ones, with their rom-coms and
Valentines and wedding day fantasies, but it
’
s us poor
souls who get carried away and fall head over heels in love with
them. If there
’
s one thing
guaranteed to force a guy into making a stupid decision,
it
’
s spending time with a girl he
loves.

“
We can
’
t handle it.
We
’
re not good at multitasking, you see. We
can
’
t both love and make rational decisions at the same
time. It
’
s one or the other, I
’
m afraid, and
unfortunately for us, it
’
s usually the
former.
”

I
choke a laugh, following his aged neck down to his blue pinstriped
shirt that peeks from under a battered beige fleece top.
“
Sounds
like you
’
ve done okay.
”

“
Why? Because
I
’
ve been married to my Sheila for nearly thirty-five
years?
”

I nod.

“
I
’
m an old man, son. I
didn
’
t meet her until I was nearly thirty-five. I went
through a lot of collateral damage before she came
along.
”

“
So, there
’
s hope
yet then?
”
I say, sinking back into the metal bench.

“
Sure,
”
he says.
“
So long as you accept
a life of biting your lip and questioning your
sanity.
”
He keeps his gaze on mine for a second, a straight-laced
face that can
’
t hide his cheeky
grin.
“
I
’
m kidding. Kind of. Love
’
s hard.
There
’
s never a period where it
’
s easy,
just like having kids isn
’
t. But all the same,
I couldn
’
t imagine a life without it.
”