I Unlove You (48 page)

I
haven
’
t seen him cry for a long time, the tears for
his mother dried up many years ago.

“
Joey
…
I
’
m sorry.
”

“
What are you sorry
for?
”
he says, wiping his hand across his eyes.
“
You
’
re the
last person to be sorry. You, brother, are real.
You
’
re true.
”

“
I can
’
t remember the last
time we spoke about your mother
…“

“
Don
’
t,
”
he snaps, standing
up.
“
Don
’
t finish that sentence. I
didn
’
t want to talk about her. I don
’
t want to
think about her, and I
’
ve done well over
the years to block any and all thoughts about
her.
”

“
But maybe you should, Joe. Not
everyone will be like her.
”

“
B
’
s
like
her. I
’
ve let two women into my life and they both
fucked me over. You
’
ve let two women
into your life, and half of them have destroyed you. What does that
tell us?
”

“
We
’
re due a good
one,
”
I
say.

He moves to speak, but holds back.
A slight smile. An almost invisible smirk. The anger within him
rescinds, but the pain remains.

“
Maybe,
”
he sighs.
“
Or maybe
that
’
s how people are.
”

“
My mum isn
’
t like that. Harriet
isn
’
t like that. I know it
’
s hard, and trust
me, I understand you better today than I ever have, but I refuse to
accept this is it. That this feeling of utter shit is it. It
can
’
t be, Joe. It just can
’
t be.
”

“
Don
’
t you see,
that
’
s how I
’
ve felt. That
’
s what I
wanted to refuse, too, and
B
helped me. She helped me push down
far enough that I could dream. I could see a future of maybe. But
what am I supposed to think now? Do you honestly think
you
’
ll be able to trust the next girl?
”

“
I don
’
t
know,
”
I whisper.
“
I don
’
t know anything. A
few hours ago I was on the mend. I felt better about myself, and I
was laughing. We were laughing, but right now, I feel like
I
’
m back to square one. This entire year has been one
horrendous rollercoaster. Maybe it never gets any easier or
happier, but I can
’
t accept that,
because it means I have a lifetime of this to look forward
to,
”
I
say.

“
I look at my parents and see
happiness, love and an easier life. They found it, and if they can,
we can. Maybe not today. Maybe not with
B
. Maybe not with
Harriet. But there has to be something, right? I mean,
what
’
s the point in living for so long if it feels like
this? What
’
s the point if you
drag a boulder behind you each goddamn day?

“
You
’
re a good guy, Joe.
Your mother did the shittiest thing a mother could do. I get it. I
understand why you
’
re afraid. I
don
’
t think I used to, but I do now.
You
’
re too good and brave and strong to bow to her knees,
though. If what you
’
re saying is true,
you
’
ve given up. You don
’
t give up.
You
’
re Joseph-bloody-Johnson. You
’
re the guy that
guys like me look up to.
”

“
Then maybe you should find
someone else to look up to,
”
he says, wiping his face once
more.
“
I
’
m not brave. I have no answers. Every time I
think I do, someone comes along and rips them
up.
”

“
Have you ever tried to look for
answers?
”

“
Like where?
”

“
Like your
mother?
”

He
laughs, a choked cough more than anything.
“
My mother? You mean,
look for her? Try and hunt her down?
”

I nod, wary to mention her name
like I always have.

The
anger in his face melts, sadness replacing it as more tears drip
down his cheek.
“
Not for years. Like I say, I promised myself long ago
I wouldn
’
t let a girl hurt me. That includes her.
She
’
s done it once. She won
’
t do it
again.
”

“
But what if she can
explain?
”

“
And what if she
can
’
t?
”

“
At least it
’
ll create
closure.
”

“
And what if she
doesn
’
t want me? What if, after all these years, she
rejects me again? What would I do? What would you do,
Aus?
”

“
I don
’
t
know,
”
I whisper.
“
I want you to let go of this at some point. I
feel terrible right now, but I want to feel better. I like to think
I
’
ll find happiness somewhere along the line, but
you
…
it
’
s like you
’
re happy
here
…
in this place
…
this place of pain and sadness and darkness.
This place of hate and frustration. You deserve better than this,
Joey.
”

He sinks back into the cushion as
sobs escape him. Years of pent up cries breaking through his mouth
and nose, the squawks and squeals so similar to my own. My own eyes
fail me, and more tears trickle down my cheeks. So many tears of
late. So much reality.

What happened to the dreams? What
happened to the time we fantasised about being anyone and doing
anything. Is this life? Is it one heartache followed by another,
with constant question marks littered in-between?

Placing my hand on his shoulder, I lean into him and
whisper into his ear.
“
It
’
s okay. We
’
ll get through this.
Together.
”

I
hold my best friend as the letter that sparked this sits between
us.
Her
handwriting.
Her
I love yous
and empty words. I refer to
her
like Joey does his
mother. I can
’
t imagine holding on
to hate and frustrations like this for so many years, but maybe
this is how it is.

I
don
’
t know what I think. I don
’
t think I care.
I
’
m too tired to, and all I wish to do is help my best
friend get through this, so he can help me get through it too. At
some point, I must face
B
’
s
letter and choose to
reply or not. Choose to forget, or to cling with tight fingers.
Choose to care if she writes again.

Choose to believe our love was
real, and, if everything else was a lie, that this, at least, was
true.

NOVEMBER 27
^th
- LEEDS
’
TRAIN STATION:

A few months ago, I hated this
place. Open spaced and far too vast, I froze and shivered on the
platform most evenings, desperate to return home. Each morning, I
pushed and forced myself in-between shoulders, bags and rolling
suitcases. Everyone rushed. Everyone had to get to where they were
heading in an instant. I hated this place. I loathed it.

Yet
I
’
m here right now because I can be, and in some weird
and strange way, I miss it.

Even when I lived in Leeds, I knew each platform well, and
each departure time, too, for I always had reason to return home,
if not for my parents, to strum away in the band room. For the
first time in years, I don
’
t need to be here,
and for this reason alone I want to be. I need to be, as I hold
this thin envelope between my fingers, rubbing the stamp she
licked, pressed and prodded.

Maybe
I
’
m here because I
’
ve always found this
station a lonely place. I don
’
t think I can read
this surrounded by others. Hordes of folk pass me by, but no matter
how busy and hectic this bland station is, it remains lifeless and
worthless. It isn
’
t the first time
I
’
ve read one of
B
’
s
letters here, or a
book, or written a letter of my own.

Drowned in echoes, I
’
m a quiet hush in a
sea of shouts. Loud
ding-dongs
as another train fails to arrive on
time; moaning and groaning passengers, sick and tired of the same
old excuse; rattling suitcase wheels, and squeaks of rubber shoes
on concrete floors; gusts of wind trapped under the roof, as they
swirl and hurl their way towards me, under me, through
me.

White noise, the lot of it. Where
I should struggle to focus, I find it easier to lose myself here
than alone in a quiet room. Somewhat peaceful, but not, and the
perfect setting to hate every word she has to say.

Stroking my finger over my name, I
picture her writing on her desk, strands of hair overlapping her
eyes, as she huffs and blows them back into place. Never a quick
writer, but a steady and purposeful one, full of poetic swoops and
consistency.

“
I wish I had your
handwriting,
”
I used to say, frowning at my own messy
attempt.

“
It wouldn
’
t be the
same if you had different handwriting,
”
she
’
d say, acting out a
perfect portrayal of the perfect girl, but how long was this a lie?
Was it ever the truth?

I
close my eyes and grasp the letter, tearing the lip open in an
instantaneous swipe.
“
Just get it over with,
”
I
whisper.

November
25
^th

From the train station

Dear Aus,

I
never assumed this would be easy, but I couldn
’
t imagine
it would be so hard. I know I shouldn
’
t say I miss you
because that isn
’
t fair. But I do. I
do miss you. I do love you. You
’
re still Aus, and
although I presume you haven
’
t done much of it
lately, I picture your smile when I lay alone in bed. Is that
wrong? Maybe I should imagine your scowl instead because I assume
that
’
s the face you pull when you think of me
now.