I Unlove You (32 page)

“
I think you should
go,
”
she says.

“
I can
’
t leave like
this,
”
I say, stepping towards her again.
“
Let
’
s make a cup of tea
and talk.
”

“
Aus, I think you
should
—“

“
I can
’
t. I can
’
t leave like
this. I love you and we
’
re having a son
together, and
—“

“
My son,
”
she interrupts.
“
He
’
s my son.
”

“
I know,
B
,
”
I say, rubbing my palms over my
eyes.
“
I
’
ve seen him in your tummy,
remember?
”

“
You don
’
t
understand,
”
she sighs, sitting on her desk and shaking her
head.

“
What don
’
t I
understand?
”

She
looks at me, pursing her lips and taking a deep breath.
“
He
isn
’
t yours.
”

“
That
’
s not funny.
Don
’
t even joke about
—“

“
I
’
m not. It
’
s the truth. I
wasn
’
t going to tell you, but I can
’
t keep doing
this. I can
’
t keep pretending to
be the girl you want me to be. I thought I could, but how can I
when you insist on pushing?
”

“
What the hell are you talking
about?
”
I say, stepping back and moving towards the door. My head
swims, the blood inside painful as it taints me with its
poison.
“
This isn
’
t funny,
B
. What the hell are
you talking about?
”
I yell, my breath short and
stilted.

“
Don
’
t yell at me,
Aus.
”

“
Never mind
don
’
t yell, what the hell are you talking
about?
”

She
sighs again, but doesn
’
t stare at me,
rather through me.
“
You
’
re not the father. He isn
’
t yours.
I think deep down you know you
’
re
not.
”

My
knees buckle as I reach for the door handle to keep me
upright.
“
What the hell does that mean? I
’
m the
father,
B
.
I
’
m his fucking father. I
’
ve no idea why
you
’
re doing this, but
—”

“
I wasn
’
t going to tell
you because we love each other, and I thought we could be
happy.
”

“
Are you insane? What the hell
is happening right now? You can
’
t just tell me
I
’
m not the father. If I
’
m not the father,
who is?
”

“
Does it
matter?
”

“
Of course it
matters,
”
I shout, slamming my hand against the door, my fingers
throbbing as the pain rumbles up my arm.
“
You
’
re acting like this
isn
’
t a big deal, but
—“

“
I told you not to shout. And I
also said you should leave, but would you
listen?
”

Swallowing a breath, I fall silent. So calm, so nonchalant;
so precise and in control of her words, as though everything she
says is true. But this can
’
t be true, for I
know he
’
s my son. I know
B
, not this version
standing before me, but the real
B
. The
B
I love
and have loved ever since I laid eyes on her.

This is a dream, some regretful nightmare
I
’
ll soon wake up from. A terror I
’
ll escape
by rolling over, share with her and watch her laugh as she
reassures me everything
’
s fine; that
everything will always be fine.

“
Think about it,
Aus.
”
She refuses to look at me.
“
You know he
isn
’
t yours.
”

“
Stop it. Stop saying
that,
”
I squeak, my words shaking through my
jaw.

“
Are you telling me you
don
’
t remember our little bet?
”

“
What are you talking
about?
”

“
We didn
’
t have sex for
six weeks.
”

“
So, that was months ago. It has
nothing to do with this.
”

Exhaling, she closes her eyes.
“
Do the math, Aus. You
aren
’
t an idiot. Deep down, you knew, and I love you for
pushing it further down and not focusing on it, but deep
down
…
you knew. You know he isn
’
t
yours.
”

“
No. You
’
re wrong. That
stupid bet was in
—“

“
March and
April.
”

“
No,
”
I yell.
“
It
wasn
’
t. It was earlier. Earlier in the
year.
”

She shakes her head, mumbling
something under her breath.

“
It was,
B
. It was
in
…
January
…
or February
…
but it
wasn
’
t in March
—“

“
Then why is this letter from
you dated March 30
^th
?
”
She tosses a battered envelope at me. Peeking out of the
envelope, paper from my notepad, and my handwriting scratched
across the top.

March 30
^th

On the train home - horny and
wanting you

“
No
…
it was earlier. It
was
…”

“
Just leave,
Aus.
”

“
I can
’
t
…
I
…”
I look at her,
blurred and distorted through my tearful gaze. This
isn
’
t my
B
. This isn
’
t how
it
’
s supposed to be. I
’
m a father-to-be,
and one who
’
s in love with his
son within her tummy. This letter is wrong. What she says is
wrong.

“
Please,
”
I stutter, but into
nothing but silence.

SEPTEMBER 27
^TH
- JOEY
’
S PLACE:

I
awoke this morning in a sweat, pushing my arms forward and twisting
my neck in search of something that wasn
’
t there.
Startled by a bike, I think, I woke up from a deep sleep to a
panicked state in an instant. No stirring. No gentle light. No
soothing few seconds before realisation kicked in. Like a hangover
but worse, everything from last night seemed hazy and
untouchable.

“
He
’
s okay, I
suppose,
”
says Joey, talking on the phone.

He
strides back and forth, behind his sleek kitchen counter. Black and
shiny, it lines one wall and swoops out towards the living room,
resembling a taut sail in the wind. Three spotlights illuminate him
in a glow, the rest of the open-planned room dimmed and darkened.
I
’
m not sure what time it is, or if
it
’
s a day or more since
B
destroyed me. The
light fades, like my heart and hope. The street lights, twenty-some
floors below, twinkle to life. I used to love sitting in his
apartment, watching the evening descend into night. Leeds suits the
darkness, our old university library blossoming in an amber glow in
the distance. I used to sit, beer in hand, and watch the skyline
like some watch TV.

“
I don
’
t know yet.
He
’
s
pretty shook up,
”
he continues, glancing at me.

He
found me a couple of hours ago, sitting outside his impressive
home, a building he
’
d visit whilst the
builders built it, determined to live here one
day.

I
can
’
t remember everything. It
’
s all a haze.
The shouting
…
the crying
…
the knots and tension
consuming my stomach. At some point I left and walked and walked
and walked until I fell asleep, I suppose. Waking up beside the
canal, frozen all over, I sobbed. I don
’
t think
I
’
ve ever cried so much in my life, not even as a
child.

My
mother said how content I was as a baby.
“
I hope he
’
s like
you,
”
she said a few weeks ago.
“
You rarely cried or
grew frustrated. You smiled and laughed and observed
everything.
”

Last night I cried. This morning I cried. Every time I
close my eyes, I see him
…
think of
her
…
long for us
…
and I cry.

“
I
’
ll take care of
him,
”
Joey says, slumped against the black counter.
“
I
’
ll make
sure he calls you later.
”

Placing the phone by his overpriced microwave, he moves
around the counter and picks up his favourite bottle of bourbon.
Void of clutter and utensils, the only items on top of the flawless
countertop are whisky bottles and shot glasses. He upends one and
pours the
good stuff
into it, almost throwing it down his
throat.

“
Drink?
”
he asks.

I
don
’
t reply.

He
picks up the bottle and opens a cupboard, collecting a few glasses.
He walks towards me and the old chair that used to belong to his
grandfather. Out of place next to the black sofas and glass coffee
table, it
’
s one of the few things he brought with him from
home.