I Unlove You (44 page)

The room goes quiet, the wind
attacking each window with blows and slaps.

“
It
’
s been a tough few
months,
”
Joey says, walking over to his high-rise balcony
doors.
“
And I won
’
t lie,
you
’
re right. You shouldn
’
t have taken that
job. You
’
ve made a lot of decisions over the last couple
of years I
’
ve found hard to
accept, but that doesn
’
t make you weak.
We
’
re still kids, brother. I know we
’
re in the
real world now, but what the hell are we supposed to know? Who the
hell are we?

“
I hated the fact you took that
job, but I respected you for it. You knew what you wanted and made
decisions based on it. All you
’
ve ever wanted is to
live a happy life with her, and I
’
ve never understood
it, but it gave me hope that one day I may feel like that. Maybe
one day
I
’
ll
take that boring, shitty job, because it allows me to
settle down and have a family.

“
It
’
s not your
fault
B
bailed on that idea. You both wanted it. I was there,
remember? I
’
ve been there
alongside you both whilst you talked about the future. The future
involved both of you, and she
’
s the one who gave
into fear. Not you. You would have done anything for that girl,
including putting your own dreams on hold. That
isn
’
t weak. That
’
s brave. I love you
for that, and I think that makes you the best of
us.

“
So, yeah
…
you now need to think
about you again, and I agree, you
’
re better than a
shitty job like that. You
’
re above a normal
life of nine-to-five, and you should be out there travelling and
creating, and being the best you can be. But don
’
t hate
yourself for taking a chance on her.
”

Planting another heavy hand on my shoulder, he walks back
towards the kitchen as my still tingling skin warms slowly with the
room. I
’
m tired and beaten and unsure what comes next,
but whatever does, can
’
t be as bad as
waking up half-naked on a grim bathroom floor, like the one this
morning.

NOVEMBER 22
^nd
- THE BAND ROOM:

One
week. Seven Days. One-hundred-and-sixty-eight hours.
Ten-thousand-and-eighty minutes. Six-hundred-four-thousand
and-eight-hundred seconds. I don
’
t think
I
’
ve ever done so little during an entire week, and
one
’
s never crawled by so slow. I
’
ve felt every
tick, suffered through each tock, contemplated and dwelled on each
thought.

It
’
s a lot of time to think. It
’
s a lot
of time to question every damn thing. It
’
s a lot of time
to hate.

I
don
’
t think I
’
ve hated someone or
something before. It takes too much passion and energy, and
it
’
s far too exhausting to live with hate on your mind. I
miss the easy-going, worry free times of love and affection. Love
is easy but hate is hard. Hate requires energy and dedication; a
guy like Joey, who I sense hates a lot, has reason to
hate.

Maybe we all need hate. Maybe a person requires hate to
drive them towards something that matters, and away from those
moments that don
’
t. The truth is, I
don
’
t know what to think anymore, so many twisty-and-turny
thoughts swarm my mind. Although I do know that, of all the
emotions I
’
ve felt and suffered
through these last six months, I hate hate the
most.

Sitting on the ancient couch, I
’
m alone in the
band room that
’
s become my home. I
suppose, technically, I still live with my parents, but I
haven
’
t spent a night there in over six weeks. I
suppose I
’
m also a temporary squatter at
Joey
’
s, but I haven
’
t slept there for
the past three nights. Growing up, I dreamt of a nomadic existence,
falling in love with its romantic freedom. On The Road taught me
about travel, and Huck Finn about hustle. It all seemed so free,
yet in reality, freedom
’
s the most confining
prison of all.

Damien Rice hums to my mood, part of a mixed CD I made a
decade ago. I used to smile as he sang, his hurt and pain somehow
soothing. These days, it intensifies my lethargy, although I feel
better today than I have done in weeks. Each day does get easier.
I
’
m sad and lost, but the heaviness feels lighter than
it was. My chest isn
’
t as hindered, my
limbs not as restricted. I still feel lost. I remain jobless and
loveless and, all in all, hopeless. But it is easier today than it
was yesterday.

A
strange hope creeps through the horizon, a purpose of sorts, and
one that edges nearer. I can
’
t yet grasp it. I
can
’
t yet see it. I don
’
t know why I know
it
’
s there, but I do.

“
It
’
s strange,
”
Joey said last
night.
“
This feels normal. Sitting in the band room, drinking,
laughing, plotting
…
We
’
ve been here before, brother.
”

“
What are you trying to say? I
no longer depress you?
”
I said.

“
I think it
’
s because
you don
’
t depress yourself.
”

“
I
’
m still
depressed.
”

“
You were always a little
depressed. You have a rather depressing face.
”

“
Maybe it
’
s because you
depress me.
”

“
I
’
m the life of the
party. Don
’
t you forget
it.
”

“
Then why are you here with me
on a Friday night? Shouldn
’
t you be out DJ-ing?
Or corrupting some innocent young girl?
”

“
No girl is
innocent.
”

“
Not after they spend a night
with you.
”

“
Hell, yeah,
”
he said,
smiling.
“
And besides, I
’
m here for you. And
for us. I miss this. Normal life got in the way of the life we had
planned.
”

“
No worry of that
anymore.
”

“
Silver linings, Ausdylan Elvis
Ashford. What would we do without them?
”

Damien Rice fades into Connor Oberst, the faulty light
above flickering in tandem. I thought I knew every inch of this
room, but over the past week I
’
ve uncovered several
hidden quirks. Like the way the faulty light flickers six times
each and every time; no more, no less. Or how, when it rains, a
small damp patch forms in the left corner by the door. Or how, at
night, mice scuttle back and forth behind the walls, and sneak
under the floorboards.

Sitting, staring and waiting for nothing, I watch the room
and sip warm lager. I couldn
’
t face alcohol for a
few days, and may never attempt whisky again. But
there
’
s something soothing about
lager
’
s taste. It mixes well with my mood and drowns
my mind of too much thought about her.

Because when I think of her, I hate. And when I hate, I
think of everything: her
…
this
…
him.

Such a long week, and so much of it painful. Such a long
six months, and almost all of it painful. Life, on the whole,
painful. Joey
’
s said it for years,
too wary to believe in happiness
’
hype. Maybe
he
’
s right, maybe not. Like I say, I
’
m unsure
what I think anymore. I think too much, but of little in
all.

“
Brother, oh brother, tonight we
escape this wonderful room,
”
Joey says, charging through the door
as it smacks against the wall.
“
And before you say no,
you don
’
t have a choice. There
’
s an impromptu
gig we
’
re going to, and because I cannot miss it, you
cannot miss it. There
’
s no way
I
’
m leaving you here on your own, so
before
—”

“
Okay,
”
I say, wrapping my right leg under
my left, and twisting to face him.

“
Okay? Just like
that?
”
he says, folding his arms.
“
No
arguments?
”

Somewhat surprised myself, I
nod.

“
Are you sure? Because I have a
list. I actually wrote them down,
”
he continues, pulling a sheet of
crinkled paper from his pocket.

“
Do you want to read it to
me?
”

He
sighs, sitting beside me.
“
No, I guess
not.
”
Picking up a beer from the half empty crate, he leans
back.
“
This is weird.
”

“
All I said was
okay.
”

“
I know, but I
hadn
’
t planned on you saying yes. I figured
you
…
would fight it.
”

“
Do you want to
go?
”
I
ask.

“
Of course I
do.
”

“
Well then, just go with
it.
”

Sipping, and eyeing me up and down, he shrugs.
“
If you say
so.
”

I
can
’
t figure out my mood. I hate, and
don
’
t want to, but in some ways, I do. Each day I remind
myself I should continue to mourn and be angry, be sad and full of
regret. I don
’
t want to hate, but
I need it, surely? She did this to me. She took away my son. She
forced me to love a life I wasn
’
t ready for, only to
push it out of my reach.

I
shouldn
’
t want to see a band or say yes to anything.
This lager shouldn
’
t taste sweet,
because the whisky from a few weeks ago didn
’
t.
I
’
m not ready to let go of the pain and rebuild, so why
do I feel better? Why do I feel lighter? Why don
’
t I think
about her as much, and when I do, why I don
’
t I clench my
fists and wish I knew more about her secret
existence?