I Unlove You (30 page)

“
Soup.
”

“
Got it. I
’
ll be
right back.
”

As he walks to the bar, I sit down
and laugh again.

“
You can stop it,
too,
”
she says.

“
He
’
s just trying to
wind you up. Like he always does.
”

“
He
’
s an idiot.
You
’
re both idiots.
”

“
I
’
m
—“

“
No, you
’
re
done.
”
She halts me, holding up her palm.

I
half hide my smile and pick up my glass, consuming the still cool
beer inside. Maybe this is the time for
B
to unload her woes
and worries and all, but it
’
s fine, for
I
’
m here for her, like she
’
s been here for
me.

Glancing outside again, I notice the pitter-patter of rain
against the glass, a further reminder that
summer
’
s no more. Another chapter over, a new season
awaits, and with it, a tomorrow I
’
ve dreamed of, and
which I
’
m finally ready to live.

SEPTEMBER 26
^TH
-
B
’
s
ROOM:

The
smell of incense lingers in the air, my tired eyes fighting to stay
awake. The outside bright, light flows through the window above the
bed. I lay next to
B
, my arm hooked under and around her. The
Tallest Man on Earth plays over the speakers, a playlist we created
in her old dorm-room a few winters ago.

The
strumming and twang soothes me, aligned with the scent, in a bid to
relax my body and mind. I remember falling asleep in this bed
before we were old enough to make the most out of it. Kissing and
cuddling and talking long into the night, our teenage years were
split equally between here and my parents
’
house.

A
familiar home, but never homely. I know her mother, but not in the
sense I know her. Always pleasant and kind, but eager to escape
into her lonesome seclusion. Even this afternoon, she left the room
as soon as I turned my back to pour a drink. I
don
’
t know why she avoids me, although I sense it has
little to do with me. She seems distant around others, more
comfortable in her own thoughts.

I
don
’
t blame her, although I fear
B
does at
times.

I
watch the pair of them talk but not, an awkward daily skit on
repeat for as long as I
’
ve known them. A
true talker, but around her mother
…
she sinks into
herself. Her mother, more so.

Maybe becoming a grandmother will bring her closer to us,
and bridge whatever gap exists between the two of them. Soon, this
won
’
t be a house, but our son
’
s
grandmother
’
s house. A real
home, because it has to be, a place we
’
ll spend
Christmases and birthdays and family gatherings.

I
imagine it was hard for
B
’
s
mother, like it was
for Joey
’
s father, losing the man she loved at a time she
needed him the most. She doesn
’
t show it often, but
I know
B
misses him; to an extent, it affected how she grew up,
without that figure in her life; robbed of something no mother can
replicate. Her mother, pressured into being two when she could only
ever be one.

It
must have strained them, and I struggle seeing
B
and her mother stood
next to each other, sharing so many qualities and features, yet so
different as people. The same hair, same eyes, the way they both
cock out their hips when they cook.

There
’
s a certain
way
B
acts around her: a distant and quiet tone; a different
smile; a wayward stare that darts around the room. Where she hones
in on my eyes she seems unable to lock on her
mother
’
s, but maybe our son will change
this.

Make this house a home. Make our
family whole.

But
this room
…
B
’
s
room
…
our room
…
already feels like home, as much as my own does.
We built it together, adorning the walls with posters of bands;
pictures of me, painted by
B
; and sketches of her,
from my own teenage hand. The marker pen beside her dresser
drawers, celebrating the night we saw Neil Young live; a
hand-holding silhouette in black ink.

We lost our virginity in this bed.
I read Perks of Being a Wallflower to her, cover to cover, as she
rested her head in my lap. She told me she loved me for the first
time, sitting on her desk littered with notebooks and photographs.
I remember her quivering lips like it was yesterday, the way the
words escaped her in a slow hush.

We
probably spent as much time in my room as this one, but it feels
like we grew up here. Maybe our son will sleep here when he stays
with Grandma, or maybe she
’
ll sell it so
another teenage couple can discover themselves.

“
You okay?
”
I ask, stroking her fringe away from
her eyes. I inhale another breath of incense, my eyes heavier
still.

“
Yeah. Are you?
”

“
Sleepy.
”

“
You should take a
nap.
”

“
Just the music, is all. His
voice always chills me out.
”

“
Me too.
”

“
Remember when we created this
playlist?
”

“
Yeah.
”

“
It
’
s strange,
”
I say.
“
In a way it seems like
yesterday. Yet at the same time, long ago.
”

“
Yeah.
”
Pushing up, she slides further along
my chest.
“
At school, time seemed to crawl by so slowly, yet ever
since we left, it
’
s been a blur. As
soon as we went to uni, that was it. The outside world speeds
everything up.
”

“
I know what you mean.
It
’
s hard to recall everything that
’
s
happened these last few years, but growing up in this
room
…
I was just thinking of all the
firsts
we
’
ve experienced
here.
”

She
imparts a gentle, hushed laugh.
“
Oh, yes. If these
walls could talk
…”

“
I
’
ll miss
it.
”
I take another deep breath.
“
I guess
it
’
s time to find a new place to create our next bunch of
firsts.
”

“
Yeah, I
guess.
”

I
tighten my grip and squeeze her into me. Kissing her head, the
smell of incense and
B
intermingle, undertones of coconut and honey
mixed with harsher tastes of cinnamon and all-spice. Looking into
the mirror balanced on the white table I used to write on, and
where
B
draws dresses and the beginnings of future designs, I focus
on the picture stuck to its frame: the two of us at fourteen,
wrapped up in each other
’
s jackets.

That lazy afternoon in the park, Joey stood over us as we
lay on my tartan blanket. Laughing, he wasted an entire roll of
film on
B
’
s
vintage camera, but hidden away in the middle was a single,
perfect shot of us. It seemed to define us. Two people ideal for
one another. Our skin tones and shadows, smiles and eyes;
B
, so much
prettier and picturesque; next to her, I
’
m
alive.

So
long ago. So much that has happened since. Exams and degrees and
pregnancies. I
’
m taller,
she
’
s bigger; we
’
re both more rounded
and less awkward in our bodies. Different hair and matured faces,
but everything the same. I love this picture, always have. I used
to look at it as she put on her makeup, insisting nothing would
ever change. Me and
B
, fourteen forever. Perfect companions. An ideal
contradiction.

“
I love you,
”
I whisper, lips
hovering above her ear.

“
Me too,
”
she
says.

“
I mean it,
”
I continue,
straightening my back against the old bed
’
s frame.
“
Not like we usually
say it. I truly, irrationally, scares-me-to-death, love you. And
I
’
m sorry for putting you through so much this
summer.
”

“
Aus, it
’
s fine.
We
’
ve already talked
—“

“
I mean it. I love you,
B
.
”
Removing my arm from
around her neck, I slide to my knees and face her.
“
I
wasn
’
t there when you needed me the most. I was scared and
didn
’
t know how to react, but I do now.
I
’
m so happy where we are. I just know, together,
we
’
ll be okay. I know I
’
ve not always shown
it, but I
’
m so happy we
’
ll meet our son
soon. Our family. I
’
ve always wanted
this. I just need you to know I love you, and I
’
m
happy.
”
I place my hands in her palms.
“
I promise I
won
’
t let you down. I won
’
t. I promise.
”

She
glances to the mirror and sits up.
“
I know. You
don
’
t have to say all this, I know
already.
”

My stomach tenses, as do the
muscles around my neck and shoulders.

I
remember the time we stayed up all night, talking about art and
books and music. I lay on this bed as she bounced around her room,
picturing herself living other people
’
s lives. Future
versions of us, where anything and everything was
possible.

We
’
re in tomorrow today, and everything
is
possible.

“
I love you,
”
I repeat, tightening
my grip around her hands.
“
So
much.
”

“
I know you
do.
”

“
More than
anything,
”
I continue, kneeling before her knees.

“
Aus, you
’
re
starting to freak me out. Let
’
s just listen to
some music.
”