I Unlove You (3 page)

More silence. More
coffee.

“
Good. Okay, so
there
’
s this super hush-hush festival planned for
later this summer, and some of the acts are future superstars.
Well, me being my amazing self has managed to get our band added to
the showcase. I
’
m not saying you
should be on your knees bowing to me right now,
but
…”

“
Sounds good. When is
it?
”

Coughing and spluttering, more inaudible white noise fills
my ear.
“
Good? What do you mean, good?
”

“
Well, it sounds good. It sounds
like a great opportunity.
”

“
Exactly!
”
he says, coughing
some more.
“
Great, not good.
”

“
Okay,
”
I say, laughing and looking at my
watch.
“
I
’
m excited, but
…”

“
Then sound like
it,
”
he snaps.

“
I will, but first I have to get
back to work. We don
’
t all get to waste
away our days pretending to own a record label.
”

“
Who
’
s pretending?
Plus, you can come work with me whenever you
like.
”

I
finish off my coffee and place it on the bench.
“
You don
’
t need a
graphic designer.
”

“
It
’
s a good thing
you
’
re not a graphic designer then.
”

I
roll my eyes, continuing to pack my lunch into my ancient leather
satchel.
“
Don
’
t start this again.
”

“
Fine, but only if you meet me
for a drink later. Say, six?
”

“
One drink.
”

“
That
’
s all I ask,
brother.
”

“
Yeah, I
’
ve heard that
before. Anyway, I do have to go.
”

“
Sure thing. Have
fun.
“

Hanging up, I place the phone back
into my pocket and wrap my satchel around my shoulder. Already the
onrush of people has died down. In another ten minutes this area
will be desolate until the end-of-work chaos begins.

I hate speaking on the phone, but
especially to Joey whilst at work. I leave the conversation like
this each time: confused, deflated, longing for something, or
feeling like I should cling to something from the past. Growing up,
we rebelled against a structured life like this. We shared dreams
with one another, although they were always his. I nodded along
because he made them seem so achievable and real.

But
they were never dreams for him, they were promises.
He
’
s free to do as he wishes, and to create and live
life, whereas I catch the same train each day, sit behind the same
desk, and exist instead of live. But I don
’
t think
it
’
s the longing that scares me, rather the fact I
don
’
t hate this existence.

I
should. I should long for more and stride towards the world
he
’
s built, and the one
B
has, too. Yet this longing for more
melts as soon as I think about her, and all those lazy Sundays
we
’
ll share, the family holidays, the normal evenings
that seem boring to everyone else but us.

I
approach the gleaming aluminium door with flawless glass, nudging
it open and sliding into the air-conditioned reception area. I
should hate this. How many buildings like this exist in Leeds? How
many around the country and the world? I don
’
t own new
things, but everything here sparkles.

Lost in a vast, white, soulless area, this single room
defines everything I fought against. I should hate it, but I
don
’
t think I do. I
’
m not sure how I
feel about that.

MAY 6
^TH
- THE PUB:

A
few months ago this commute home was different. The cramped and hot
conditions of the train carriage were welcome. Outside: rain, wind,
an icy chill; some evenings I
’
d huddle my arms
together and contemplate missing my final stop, listening to one
song after another with my eyes closed, forgetting the winter
solace existed at all.

Not
now, surrounded by men in rolled up shirt sleeves and girls
showcasing their legs. As Sowerby Bridge station approaches,
I
’
m already at the door, eager to hop off and eke every
sliver of sunny delight. The rest of the afternoon dragged a tad,
Joey
’
s persistent reminders fading far too slow, but the
end of work shuffle soon arrived and introduced me once more to
this daily commute.

As
the train slows, my feet clench and fingers tighten around the old
metal pole inches from the door. In a somewhat clumsy stop,
I
’
m rocked backwards into the beefy man behind, his
sturdy frame unmoved by my slender weight. Within seconds, the door
opens and I
’
m met by a cooler,
but still lovely, spring breeze.

In this light everything looks
like an old movie, when film was shot in film. That faded, somewhat
washed out style, the greens on the trees teal, the blue in the sky
periwinkle, and the golden yellow from a car striking as it
reflects the sun hovering above a nearby warehouse.

Everyone is in such a rush, just like during lunch. They
practically sprint toward cars waiting to pick them up, down the
hill to food and a
‘
welcome home
’
kiss, or maybe,
like me, to the pub, where a necessary beer awaits after another
humdrum day.

I
can
’
t say I
’
ve ever been one to
rush, and like me,
B
likes to take her time. Why drive when you can
walk? Why run when you can walk? Why sit when you can walk? Growing
up, my father showered me with stories about how he walked
everywhere.
“
I once got so drunk I woke up in a
family
’
s cellar, and walked three miles home in the
snow,
”
he told me after I asked him to drive me to
Joey
’
s.

“
How did you end up in their
cellar?
”
I asked.
“
And what
’
s that got to do
with driving me to Joey
’
s?
”

“
To this day, I have no idea.
They weren
’
t impressed,
though,
”
he said, looking past me and smiling.
“
And if I can wake up
hungover, in a strange family
’
s cellar, and walk
three miles in the snow, you can walk to Joey
’
s.
”

My
father
’
s old stories usually feature
snow.

But where I once fought the
thought of walking, I now embrace it. I love its clarity, and you
cannot treasure this if you dash past, like the woman to my left,
her phone tight to her ear; or the man marching to my right,
flinging his arms like a North Korean soldier.

I
suppose this is why Joey
’
s constant reminder
of yesteryear
’
s dream lingers. How
easy it must be to lose yourself to the rush, the vim, the hectic
nothing. I hate the idea of ending up like them, but maybe
it
’
s already begun. Maybe accepting such a job is when
the chaos takes hold.

Nestled neatly within a valley, Sowerby Bridge loses the
sunlight before most surrounding villages. The gentle slope into
the heart of the place where I grew up already steals light and
warmth. Hazy colour remains, but for us valley folk, darkness
awaits. Passing the local swimming pool on my left, which used to
be a market, and an odds-and-ends shop on my right, which used to
be nothing, I cross the road and pass over the bridge my
hometown
’
s named after.

I
love crossing it on a day like today, as a burst of wind mixes with
my hair and mushes my messy fringe into my forehead.
It
’
s not exactly a trip to the beach, where the sea air
cleanses lungs and skin, but it
’
s as close as
I
’
ll
get. It
’
s amazing how I hate the wind of winter, but
treasure the breeze of spring. They
’
re both the same,
after all, but oh-so-different.

Rounding the final corner, the pub where I spent most my
early adulthood stands in waiting. Mine and Joey
’
s
obsession with this place started long before we were able to
drink. It
’
s where we played our first acoustic gig,
brought in the New Year somewhere other than my house, and plotted
world domination as our two fathers chatted at the
bar.

“
In the future, normal guys like
us will build record labels without the need for big offices and
hierarchies,
”
Joey instructed when we were thirteen.
“
The
internet is all we need, brother. And music. Real music. Music
that
’
s better than sex!
”

Sipping lemonade, I nodded and shrugged.
“
How do you
know what sex feels like?
”

“
What
’
s that got to
do with anything?
”

“
How do you know if music is
better than it, if you
’
ve never had
it?
”

Leaning in and tapping my hand with two fingers, he
said,
“
It doesn
’
t matter what sex
feels like. When music is perfect, nothing in the world comes
close. Not even Harriet Smith.
”
Smiling, he arched his back and
gazed into the distance.
“
One day, brother. One
day we
’
ll rule this world.
”

Opening the heavy wooden door, a wall of chitter-chatter
hits me, groups of colleagues, friends, and couples enjoying
after-work drinks. It may be early in the week, but this pub, at
this time, in this weather, remains popular.
Joey
’
s early, already stood at the bar talking to the
barmaid. Only, she isn
’
t any old barmaid,
but
the
barmaid.
The
girl. Harriet Smith, the one
individual immune to Joseph Johnson's advances.

For
as long as I can remember, he
’
s oozed charm and an
effortless swagger. Where girls call me cute and brother-like, they
swoon over Joey, hanging on his every word. Schoolgirls, teachers,
coaches, parents
…
it
’
s never mattered, he
’
s always had an
aura that
’
s continued to mature with
age.

To all except Harriet Smith, that
is.

“
Aus,
”
he shouts, holding up his arms and
motioning me closer.
“
Harriet doesn
’
t believe me when I
say she looks good tonight. What do you think?
”
Keeping his arms
raised, his rolled sleeves reveal two defined arms flush with
tattoos. From this distance, it
’
s a chaos of ink,
but each line, word, and swoosh provides purpose and
meaning.