I Unlove You by Matthew Turner Page B

need to share our seedy lives. ”
    “ How could I keep a night like
that to myself? ”
    “ Silence is easy,
Joey. ”
    He
smirks and places his pipe back into his mouth, leaning back and
motioning his head towards the door. “ Well, I suppose we can
ask the woman herself how adventurous you are. ”
    With my back turned to the door, I can ’ t see
her, and for once I don ’ t turn round to
watch her glide in my direction. Picking up the nearest beermat, I
twiddle it between my thumbs and pick at each corner. I
wouldn ’ t say chatting to Joey has helped me to forget
or relax, but for the first time in a few days my chest
doesn ’ t throb and ache. But now, as each second brings
her closer, my chest tightens once more. Thick breath and heavy
shoulders. Knotted neck and lead-like arms.
    I
can ’ t avoid seeing her, nor can I delay telling Joey or my
parents, or the world, for much longer. I keep telling myself this
is real, and that this isn ’ t some test or
dream. But avoidance, like procrastination, seems to ease the agony
for a little while longer, even it is mere respite. I need respite.
I need a few more minutes … a few more
hours … a few more days and weeks to figure out how the hell
I ’ m so supposed to be a father and someone stronger than
who I actually am.
    “ How are my two favourite
boys? ” she asks over my shoulder. “ How are you
doing? ” she continues in a softer tone, kissing me just below my
ear.
    “ I ’ m
fine, ” I whimper, and as soon as I catch her face I close my eyes
and slip deeper into my heavy heart. I hate feeling like this
towards her. I ’ m angry at my cowardice.
I ’ m frustrated because I long for her, and when I do see
her … smell her … touch her … I ’ m head over heels in love with her. She remains
my girl. She ’ s still my B .
    Yet
I feel like I ’ ve lost part of her,
or part of me, maybe. Last night, I tried to write down my feelings
like I always have. I wanted to write her a letter and express that
which my lips could not. I can ’ t recall a single
time I ’ ve met a blank page when writing to her. The
words usually spill from me. The chaos within, whatever it may be,
eases.
    Last night … I couldn ’ t write. I
couldn ’ t calm the mess.
    “ What are you two talking
about? ” she asks. Perfect. Calm. No different to the last time we
all sat at a table together, before everything changed
forever.
    “ Well, Aus was telling me how
you love the missionary position. ”
    She bites her lip and looks at
me.
    “ That ’ s not exactly
how the conversation went, ” I say.
    “ I may have filled in some of
the blanks, ” Joey
says. “ But that ’ s the
gist. ”
    “ He had rather disturbing sex
last night. ”
    “ Say no more, ” she says, holding up
her hands.
    “ Seriously, if you two become
any more prudish, I may hire prostitutes to surprise you throughout
the week. Maybe they could teach you something, ” he says, standing
up.
    Scooting closer to me, B grabs my hand. “ Wait, sit down for a
second, ” she instructs Joey.
    “ But I need a
drink. ”
    “ You can get one in a minute. We
have something to tell you first. ”
    “ Now? ” I ask, literally feeling the blood
drain from my cheeks.
    Squeezing my hand, she nods. I remember before our first
big gig in Leeds, at the Cockpit, before a hundred-or-so strangers,
she calmed me. I knew once I got on the stage I ’ d be
okay, because as soon as I strum and focus on the music instead of
the bright lights and judging eyes, I slip into a comfortable and
safe place. But this gig wasn ’ t like the ones
before it, and I couldn ’ t calm. I
couldn ’ t settle. As Joey bounced around the room, and
the rest of the guys lounged on couches, I tore beer bottle labels
and sketched in my notebook like an out-of-control
lunatic.
    Without saying a word, she grabbed me, framed my face with
her long and pristine fingers, and gazed at me with those rich,
succulent eyes. She didn ’ t speak.