I Unlove You (7 page)

“
What
’
s it
called?
”

I close the book and hold it up to
him.

“
V For
Vendetta,
”
he says, moving his face to within an inch of it.
“
Well,
I
’
ll let my son know, although if you want my advice,
I
’
d start reading something more
appropriate
.
”

Digging my nails into my palm, I hold my breath. I sense my
cheeks heating and eyes widening, like they used to at school when
teachers put me on the spot. Even if I knew the answer
I
’
d freeze, eventually spitting out some nonsensical
sentence.

“
The Watchmen graphic novel sold
over one million copies in 2008 alone,
”
I blurt, my lungs
emptying in an instant as I push my book into my
backpack.

“
What are you talking
about?
”
he says.

“
It
’
s a graphic
novel.
”

“
What is?
”

“
Watchmen.
”

“
So?
”

“
Well, it sold over one million
copies in a year. They
’
re popular.
”

He
purses his lips and narrows his stare.
“
Okay. I
’
ll be sure to
tell my son about that one, too.
”

I stand up and divert my eyes,
scuttling down the aisle as the train begins to slow. Reaching into
my satchel, I pull out a small, white bottle that houses pills
designed for such moments. Sliding through the carriage door, I
slip into the cooler, more spacious area of the train where the
toilets, bikes and buggies reside. I place the pill on my tongue
and breathe, my skin cooling and sweat retreating.

I remember the moment the doctor
first placed these in my hands: a daily pill to balance my
emotions, and another set for when I sense a panic attack
near.

“
Does this mean
I
’
m
crazy?
”
I asked my father when we returned home.

“
Of course not, son. They help
you calm down and not feel as you did last week,
”
he said, stroking my
cheek with his palm.
“
Lots of people take medicine like this. Even
your mother does from time to time.
”

“
Really?
”

“
Of course. Nobody likes large
crowds, and some people - like you and your mother - need a little
help to calm down. So long as you take one of these each
morning,
”
he said, pointing to the larger box.
“
And one of these
whenever you feel as you did last week at the festival,
you
’
ll be fine. Can you do that for me?
”

Nodding, I recalled the previous week when my chest and
lungs nearly exploded, all those people
…
all those
noises
…
all those feet and arms and heads. Twelve years-old, and
all of a sudden, a new daily task sandwiched between brushing my
teeth and dressing myself.

“
It
’
s okay,
”
I mumble, a tad
light-headed and dizzy.
“
It
’
s
over.
”
I take a few more deep breaths and lean against the
train
’
s door.
“
Jesus, what the hell
was that all about?
”
I mutter under my breath.

As
the train slows and stutters to a stop, I consider
yesterday
’
s journey home, and how stepping out into the
cool spring evening isn
’
t nearly as
pleasurable now. The sun
’
s lower, already
below the big building in front. Searching the car park, I see the
familiar car and the girl inside who makes times like these
better.

“
You won
’
t believe what
just happened,
”
I say, opening the door and dropping into the seat.
Her smell hits me in an instant, the mixture of floral body wash
and coconut shampoo, soothing. I close my eyes and take a deep
breath, already my angst melting away.
“
This weird middle-aged
man grilled me about reading graphic novels. It
wasn
’
t pleasant,
”
I sigh.

“
Hello, you,
”
she says, leaning
over the gearstick and inviting me in for a kiss.

“
Sorry,
”
I say, obliging her request.
“
Hi.
”

“
And what
’
s this
about a middle-aged man?
”

“
The most surreal and
uncomfortable train journey of my life. He started grilling me
about reading comics, and how I
’
m too old, and asked
me what I do for a job, and
…”
I picture his sullen face and
shiver.
“
I have no idea how it all came about. I
’
m sure I
was just sitting there, minding my own business.
”

Laughing, she strokes my forearm.
“
Oh sweetie,
that
’
s not good. Did the old man bully
you?
”

I
pout and nod, enjoying the picturesque view as the sun creeps out
from behind a few trees and illuminates her face. Shadows draw
across her defined cheekbones, highlighting her eye-lined eyes more
than usual. I presume Joey
’
s right, and that I
shouldn
’
t be so helpless before a girl
I
’
ve known so long, seen so naked, and know so much
about, but even now, after nearly a decade of longing, I discover
new insights, angles and kinks. She, too, makes me anxious, but in
a different, and far more wonderful, manner.

“
I can picture you
now,
”
she says, returning her hand to the wheel.
“
Let me
guess, you blurted out some random fact about
comics?
”

“
You think you know me so well,
don
’
t you?
”

“
Did you?
”
She
smiles.

I sigh.

Laughing, she strokes my upper arm between her long
fingers.
“
I knew it.
”

I flick on the radio, attempting
to ignore her smile, and her eyes - the way these two features join
forces with one another, working in harmony as she laughs and
teases me.

I
used to write short stories in her honour whilst bored at school.
Each time I
’
d try to describe
her, the feelings she rumbled within me, and the way each piece of
her face joined to form a perfect puzzle. I always stumbled into an
obstacle, never able to finish. A word that
doesn
’
t exist. A sentence that never did her
justice.

“
Are you okay, though? You
don
’
t feel an attack coming on, do you?
”
she
asks.

“
No, I
’
m fine. Just weird,
that
’
s all. Anyway, let
’
s change the
subject. How
’
s your day
been?
”
I reply, the sun hiding once more behind houses and
trees.

She
changes the station just in time to catch the end of
The Last Living Boy in New
York
.
“
Pretty damn
good,
”
she says, slapping my thigh with her fingers.
“
I checked
my Etsy account earlier, and so far today I
’
ve sold three
dresses, two blouses, two bags, and four belts.
”
She faces me,
sticking her tongue out of the corner of her mouth.
“
It
’
s the
sunshine. People love to shop and spend money when
it
’
s
sunny.
”

“
Look at you,
”
I say, placing my
hand on her bare thigh.
“
It
’
s starting to pay
off. You
’
ve worked so hard since uni
finished.
”
Sliding my hand further up her leg, I slide my fingers
under her dark blue dress.

I
may have written about her face during my teenage years, but
it
’
s her legs I fantasised over. One of my favourite
classes as a fourteen-year-old was maths; it coinciding with
B
running
cross-country.

Arriving early so I could position myself next to the
window, I
’
d spy and daydream the entire time, waiting for
her to run past and provide me with ten seconds of lust. The
fastest girl in our year by far, she ran as if searching for
something hidden, forcing her long legs wider and wider, pushing
off her toes and tensing each muscle in her calves and
thighs.

She never saw me staring. She
always kept her focus on the path in front, glaring at some
invisible goal just out of her reach. I used to wonder what she ran
towards; what went through her mind whilst she escaped into her own
little world.

She
continues to run whenever she gets the chance, keeping her firm,
tense legs in shape. The few times I
’
ve seen her, she
maintains that same intensity; the same longing for what exists
just out of her grasp.

“
So, what else happened
today?
”
I ask, gliding my fingers up and down her firm
legs.

Hesitating and squinting, she looks at me and wrinkles her
nose before returning her gaze back to the road.
“
Nothing
much.
”

“
You sure?
”

“
Yeah. A lovely sunny day,
that
’
s all.
”

After escaping one rush hour
imprisonment, the road only provides more torture. I love living in
Sowerby Bridge, surrounded by green hillsides and high climbing
trees, but detest driving through it as workers from all directions
trudge along.

“
So, does this mean
you
’
re buying dinner tonight with your new found
riches?
”
I ask, curling my right leg up on the
seat.

Blowing her bangs and stray curls from her face, she
sighs.
“
I was hoping we could go home and cuddle up in front of an
old movie.
”

“
I thought we were having dinner
tonight?
”

“
I know, but
I
’
m tired after my run. Plus, wouldn
’
t you
prefer to sit in the garden? A glass of wine in hand, a
little
Feist
playing in the background
…
Enjoying the final
few moments of sunlight before we head inside and
celebrate?
”
Grabbing my upper arm, she squeezes
it and raises her eyebrows.
“
But if you really want
to go for dinner
…”

“
No, no, if a quiet night is
what you want, a quiet night is what you
’
ll get.
”
I smile and interlock
my fingers around hers.
“
You better feed me,
though. I
’
m a hungry boy.
”