I Unlove You (11 page)

I glare at him. Because I hate
him.

“‘
Oh
B
, I love how you just
lay there like a dead giraffe,
’”
he says, mimicking
me now, I assume.
“‘
Why, I think I may write a letter about how I
feel about this. I love you so much, and our medicare, and our
uninspiring nights together.
’”

I hate him, but instead of
punching him like I should, I laugh and throw a beer mat at his
head. I miss.

“
Even you find your life pitiful
and hilarious,
”
he says, laughing.

I sigh.
“
Shut
up.
”

“
You love my
stories.
”

“
No. No, I do not. And
besides,
B
and me get up to a lot in the bedroom.
”

“
Pray tell.
”

“
It stays there. Not all of us
feel the need to share our seedy lives.
”

“
How could I keep a night like
that to myself?
”

“
Silence is easy,
Joey.
”

He
smirks and places his pipe back into his mouth, leaning back and
motioning his head towards the door.
“
Well, I suppose we can
ask the woman herself how adventurous you are.
”

With my back turned to the door, I can
’
t see
her, and for once I don
’
t turn round to
watch her glide in my direction. Picking up the nearest beermat, I
twiddle it between my thumbs and pick at each corner. I
wouldn
’
t say chatting to Joey has helped me to forget
or relax, but for the first time in a few days my chest
doesn
’
t throb and ache. But now, as each second brings
her closer, my chest tightens once more. Thick breath and heavy
shoulders. Knotted neck and lead-like arms.

I
can
’
t avoid seeing her, nor can I delay telling Joey or my
parents, or the world, for much longer. I keep telling myself this
is real, and that this isn
’
t some test or
dream. But avoidance, like procrastination, seems to ease the agony
for a little while longer, even it is mere respite. I need respite.
I need a few more minutes
…
a few more
hours
…
a few more days and weeks to figure out how the hell
I
’
m so supposed to be a father and someone stronger than
who I actually am.

“
How are my two favourite
boys?
”
she asks over my shoulder.
“
How are you
doing?
”
she continues in a softer tone, kissing me just below my
ear.

“
I
’
m
fine,
”
I whimper, and as soon as I catch her face I close my eyes
and slip deeper into my heavy heart. I hate feeling like this
towards her. I
’
m angry at my cowardice.
I
’
m frustrated because I long for her, and when I do see
her
…
smell her
…
touch her
…
I
’
m head over heels in love with her. She remains
my girl. She
’
s still my
B
.

Yet
I feel like I
’
ve lost part of her,
or part of me, maybe. Last night, I tried to write down my feelings
like I always have. I wanted to write her a letter and express that
which my lips could not. I can
’
t recall a single
time I
’
ve met a blank page when writing to her. The
words usually spill from me. The chaos within, whatever it may be,
eases.

Last night
…
I couldn
’
t write. I
couldn
’
t calm the mess.

“
What are you two talking
about?
”
she asks. Perfect. Calm. No different to the last time we
all sat at a table together, before everything changed
forever.

“
Well, Aus was telling me how
you love the missionary position.
”

She bites her lip and looks at
me.

“
That
’
s not exactly
how the conversation went,
”
I say.

“
I may have filled in some of
the blanks,
”
Joey
says.
“
But that
’
s the
gist.
”

“
He had rather disturbing sex
last night.
”

“
Say no more,
”
she says, holding up
her hands.

“
Seriously, if you two become
any more prudish, I may hire prostitutes to surprise you throughout
the week. Maybe they could teach you something,
”
he says, standing
up.

Scooting closer to me,
B
grabs my hand.
“
Wait, sit down for a
second,
”
she instructs Joey.

“
But I need a
drink.
”

“
You can get one in a minute. We
have something to tell you first.
”

“
Now?
”
I ask, literally feeling the blood
drain from my cheeks.

Squeezing my hand, she nods. I remember before our first
big gig in Leeds, at the Cockpit, before a hundred-or-so strangers,
she calmed me. I knew once I got on the stage I
’
d be
okay, because as soon as I strum and focus on the music instead of
the bright lights and judging eyes, I slip into a comfortable and
safe place. But this gig wasn
’
t like the ones
before it, and I couldn
’
t calm. I
couldn
’
t settle. As Joey bounced around the room, and
the rest of the guys lounged on couches, I tore beer bottle labels
and sketched in my notebook like an out-of-control
lunatic.

Without saying a word, she grabbed me, framed my face with
her long and pristine fingers, and gazed at me with those rich,
succulent eyes. She didn
’
t speak. She
didn
’
t hug me. She just smiled and stared, but
it
’
s all I needed because the world began to slow, as did
my heart and breath, and nothing else mattered or even existed. Me
and her, void of the chaos and noise; I found peace and stepped on
stage, playing like I always play, and losing myself in the music
like I always do.

Like some mysterious elixir, she soothes my inner turmoil
at times I think are impossible. She rarely makes a sound, simply
stares and smiles. Her eyes, and those lips, and the way she
strokes me with her fingertips
…
I
don
’
t know how she does it but she always has. I hope she
always will, because I
’
m not sure how
I
’
d handle life without her magic.

“
Oh God, you two
aren
’
t getting married are you?
”
Joey asks, sitting
and planting his head in his hands.

I take a deep breath and lock my
eyes on hers, nodding and gritting my teeth.

“
Not exactly,
”
B
says.

I
want to do this. He
’
s my friend.
It
’
s my responsibility to tell him and accept all this is
real. I want to be strong. I want to be brave. I need to do this,
but I can
’
t move my jaw. Dry lips and trembling throat, I
can
’
t do it. I
’
m weak.
I
’
m afraid.

“
Okay, you two are freaking me
out. What
’
s up?
”
he says, slicking his dirty blonde
hair back and to the side.

B
squeezes my hand once more.
“
There
’
s no easy way to say
this, as I
’
m pretty sure
you
’
ll freak out regardless, so I
’
ll just come
out and say it. We
’
re
pregnant.
”

Mouth agape and shoulders slumped,
Joey falls silent. A rarity in its own right, each ticking second
intensifies the moment, his wide-open mouth an eerie clearing in
his bearded forest.

“
You okay?
”
B
asks,
taking his hand with her spare one.

He
remains still.
“
You
’
re pregnant?
”

She nods.

“
Is this
true?
”
he asks, turning to me.

“
Yeah,
”
I whisper.

“
So, in a few months
you
’
re going to be parents?
”

“
Yes, Joseph,
”
B
says.

“
But
…
how?
”

“
I
’
m almost certain you
know the answer to that,
”
she says.

“
But
…
we
’
re twenty-two
years-old. We
’
re too young to be
parents.
”

“
You
’
re not the father,
Joseph. Don
’
t
worry.
”

“
Well, I know that,
but
…
I don
’
t think
we
’
re ready for this.
”

“
Again,
”
she says,
“
you
’
re not the
father.
”

Straightening up, he brushes down his grey
waistcoat.
“
Well, I think I kind of am.
”

Shaking her head, she
sighs.

“
Aus,
”
he says.
“
You
’
re going to be a
dad?
”

“
Yes, mate,
”
I whisper, folding my beer mat in
half.

“
Is this a good
thing?
”

I
freeze, sensing another hue from my already pale cheeks slip into
oblivion. I
’
m not sure
I
’
ve hated the sight of his face as much as this before.
How can he ask me a question like that? Why the hell would he feel
it
’
s a good question to ask right now?
It
’
s an impossible question with no goddamn
answer.

“
Is this a good
thing?
”
I ask him in return, digging my fingers into my
thigh.

He
nods.
“
Yeah.
You
’
re happy about this?
”

Widening my eyes, I imagine
lunging over the table and pulling his head off his shoulders. Am I
happy? What sort of bloody question is that?