I Unlove You (51 page)

A few feet in front of me rests a
piece of paper, and on it are words from a girl I once
loved.

DECEMBER 13
^th
- JOEY
’
S PLACE:

Jerry Douglas plays over the
speakers, his festive-esque tones mixing with the twinkling lights
on our fake Christmas tree. Joey refuses to play mainstream
Christmas music at any time, in any place, under any circumstance.
Each song goes through a strict process of validation, with the
hint of a Christmas number one thrust into the cold
night.

Each year I shake my head as I
discover the money he turns down for DJ gigs and party
sets.

“
It doesn
’
t matter
what the venue is, or how cool the people who go are - once you get
past December 10
^th
,
people lose their minds,
”
he said a few days ago, his friend
John confused as to why he would turn down over a thousand
pounds.
“
After a certain point in the night, people request Cliff
Richard and shit like that. The venue owners want it, too, because
people drink more, buy more, and lose more of their goddamn
minds.
”

It
’
s hard to argue with his reasoning, especially
considering I hate the majority of Christmas songs
too.

“
I can
’
t wait until
tomorrow night,
”
Joey says, sitting beside me with a bottle of beer in
hand.
“
You sure you
’
re okay to
play?
”

“
As far as I know I
haven
’
t forgotten how to play the
bass.
”

“
You sure about
that?
”
he says, pushing his bottle into my arm.
“
You were
never that good to begin with.
”

“
Is that so?
”

“
Yep. I foresee you failing on
epic levels.
”

“
That
’
s one way to
build my self-esteem. Good job.
”

Laughing, he wraps his ape-like hand around my
thigh.
“
You know I love you. I
’
m serious though, I
can
’
t wait for this gig. I never want to go so long
without playing alongside you again.
”

“
Oh, stop,
you
’
ll make me blush.
”

“
I
’
m serious. Playing
without you sucked. That Dean kid was plain
awful.
”

“
Dean
’
s an amazing
bassist.
”

“
The hell he
is,
”
he says, slurring his words.
“
He
doesn
’
t hold a patch on Ausdylan Elvis
Ashford.
”

“
Cheers to
that,
”
I say, raising my bottle and taking a
sip.

It
’
s strange to consider normality becoming normal
once again, but each day seems to bring it closer. My chance
encounter on platform 10B opened my eyes, and I wish I could thank
the old man with the cheeky smile. I at least wish I knew his name,
for his words did help. Although I
’
m not sure
I
’
ll ever get over
B
or forget about this period in my
life. How could I?

I
loved her for so long and built so much of my hopes and dreams
around a life we would spend together. She gave me a son before
taking him away, and I still dream about him. Just a few nights
ago, I woke up on this very couch, sweating, panting and shivering
all over. I held him and kissed him, but I can
’
t
remember what he looks like.

I
hate thinking about him, and it
’
s him I fear
I
’
ll be unable to let go of. Maybe time will heal my
wounds and help me forget about
B
, but for a short
period I was a father. How can you forget that? How can you let go?
Why would I want to?

An
innate part of me, one I sense I
’
ll never have
control over, loves him and wishes to see him
…
needs to hold him. Yet
I fear I
’
ll never be able to let go of his conception,
and how he
’
s borne of lies and
deceit. I
’
d gaze at him with love and longing, but part of
me would hate him. I
’
d blame
him.

I
don
’
t know what happened with her father, or if
it
’
s even true. Whether it is or isn
’
t,
I
’
d hate to make an innocent little boy feel anything
other than perfect. I couldn
’
t stand becoming
that man, but how could I not if every time I saw him, I saw
her
…
her dishonesty
…
the fact that whatever happens with the rest of
my life, she put me through this pain.

She
gave me a son, forced me to fall in love with him and need him, and
all the while knew one day she
’
d take him away from
me; she knew he was never mine to begin with.

“
I shouldn
’
t get
drunk tonight,
”
says Joey.
“
I have a busy morning
tomorrow.
”

“
Don
’
t get drunk
then.
”

“
But there are beers in the
fridge with our names on them.
”

“
There are about thirty beers in
there. We can
’
t drink them
all.
”

“
Yes, we can.
”

“
We can finish them tomorrow
night.
”

“
Nope. They have a best-before
date.
”

“
Yeah, in like three
years
’
time.
”

“
That is your opinion. In my
opinion, they go bad as soon as we give into sleep
tonight.
”

I laugh, still a strange sensation
that feels foreign in my throat.

“
Anyway, I can
’
t drink tomorrow
night,
”
he continues.
“
I have a date.
”

“
Oh, yeah? Who
with?
”

“
None of your
business.
”

“
None of my
business?
”
I say, placing my bottle between my legs.
“
Since when
do you hide your love life from me? Even when I beg you not to, you
share.
”

“
I
’
m a changed
man.
”

“
Since when?
”

“
Since this
beer,
”
he says, grinning at his empty bottle.
“
Speaking of which, I
need another one.
”
He stumbles towards the kitchen.
“
What
’
s
that?
”
he continues, pointing towards the door.

“
I don
’
t
know.
”

“
It looks like an
envelope.
”

“
Really? By a door? How
shocking.
”

“
Well, don
’
t you
think it
’
s a tad late for them to do a mail
drop?
”

Shrugging, I rest my head on the pillow and stare out of
the window. Leeds blinks below, twinkling lights fluttering in the
wind. Darkness hides so much of its features, but
it
’
s a city I know at street level.

“
Aus?
”
says Joey, his voice softer and
quieter now.

“
Yeah?
”

“
I think you should take a look
at this,
”
he says, walking towards me.

I
focus on his hands and the envelope he holds.
“
No,
”
I say, shaking my
head.
“
I
’
m not reading any more of her fucking letters.
No way. Throw it away.
”

He
smiles, sitting on the arm of the couch.
“
You
sure?
”

“
I
’
m sure.
I
’
m not doing it anymore. She just writes them to feel
better about herself, but what
’
s the point? She
doesn
’
t apologise. She doesn
’
t explain
anything. In two weeks
’
time
it
’
ll be a new year, and with it, a new
life.
”
I glance at the letter again, her handwriting no longer as
lovely.

“
I
’
m proud of you,
brother,
”
he says, rising to his feet and walking back into the
kitchen.
“
And to mark this occasion, let
’
s burn the damn
thing and open a new bottle of the good stuff. What do you
say?
”

“
Fine by me.
”

Slamming the letter on the granite counter, he sparks the
oven to life.
“
Hold on a second,
”
he says, picking it back up.
“
There
’
s no
stamp.
”

“
I don
’
t care. Burn
it.
”

“
But there
’
s no
stamp.
”

“
So what, Joe. I
don
’
t care. I
’
m not reading
another one of her pointless letters. End of
story.
”

“
But if there
’
s no
stamp, that means she was here. And recently. There was no letter
on the floor when I came in an hour ago.
”

My
shoulders and neck immediately tense, like they have so often in
recent months. The thought of her puts my body on edge, another
unrelenting barrage of pain, questions and never-ending
wonderment.
“
It doesn
’
t matter,
”
I mutter.
“
I
don
’
t care. Besides, she could have had someone else drop
it off.
”

“
Like who?
She
’
s a ghost. Nobody
’
s seen her for
months.
”

I shrug, curling my knees up on
the couch and wrapping my arms around them.

“
And look at
this,
”
he says, bringing the letter back to me.
“
The
handwriting
’
s all
smudged.
”