Page 13 of I Love You, I Love You, I Love You

‘Sorry, why are you sticking up for my ex? Defending her for cheating on me because she turned thirty? I don’t think so.’ When Jackson is pushed, he shuts down and goes into a silent strop and sulks. We’re in the Red Zone. I have to win him back around.

‘I didn’t mean it like that.’ Even though I do feel there is some truth in my theory. ‘Sorry. That’s horrible,’ I add.

I try to change the subject to something more light-hearted.

‘I can’t believe you liked me though – twenty-five-year-olds are so annoying!’ But I’m doing more damage than good here because I’m still quite annoying, so I stupidly dig further. ‘I can’t imagine fancying one now.’ Which is obviously offensive.

Jackson, instead of biting back, throws it back to me. ‘Why are you so obsessed with age right now? You’re sounding ageist.’ He does that laugh as he says it. The soft laugh he does when he’s saying something contentious.

‘You can’t be ageist against yourself.’

‘It’s just a number, El – get over it. Thirty-five isn’t old, so thirty definitely isn’t.’

I think about the way Aoife, Bianca and I used to cuss out old men who used to chat us up: ‘Ew, no way, you’re like thirty-five!’ That was literally the beginning and end of the entire cuss. And that’s now my appropriate category of men. That’s my genre. That is actually my boyfriend’s age. I want to write all those men an apology.

He adds, ‘If I was a footballer, I’d be washed up by now and I’ve made peace with that.’

‘No! You’d be one of the ex-players in the expensive shiny suits in the studio at half-time saying things like that goal was stunning.’

‘Haha.’ He likes this. ‘Anyway, I’m looking forward to getting older.’ His back to me at the sink.

‘Do you think we should have more … ’ any/some (?!?!) sex, is what I want to say. But I’m not even sure I do want more/any/some sex with Jackson. It’s the rejection/neglect bit that worries me, not the lack of orgasms. Is that bad? I want to be with Jackson. I want to be close to him and do life with him. Course, I’m not going to lie, it’s not ideal to not have sex with my partner, creeping off to bed each night with a Sarah Waters novel under my arm, popping my head round the door like how someone might let their boss know they’re leaving the office for the night. But not everyone has everything. And not everyone has what we have. Companionship. Understanding. We’re a team. We have one another’s backs. It’s someone to sit up with in the dark when you can’t sleep. Someone to root for you. Someone who knows what to order for you from any menu. Someone to face the world with – the bills and bad news. You’re invested, in each other and the big dreams. Each day, we go off on our individual life trails and we meet back up at the end, pockets full of pebbles we’ve collected, and we pour them out on the kitchen table. Look what I found. Look what I did. Listen to what happened to me today. Someone to run weird paranoias past like if I’ve left back door open, or the iron – that I never even use – on. Or if a friend doesn’t reply to my text and I immediately decide they’ve broken up with me.

But I finish my sentence with ‘ … dates?’

‘We’ve just bought the flat,’ he tries. ‘Give us a minute.’

At risk of sounding like a nymphomaniac, I say, ‘You never try it on with me; you never feel me up.’

And he snaps right back, ‘You never try it on with me! You NEVER feel me up!’ Still at the sink, his back still turned.

Can’t really argue with that.

‘Still wouldn’t mind getting shoved against the wall and getting absolutely railed from time to time though.’ I smile.

I’ve got his attention as he turns at this, drying his hands. We both splutter with laughter. He twists his ear. Flirting. He leans against the kitchen counter, folds his arms across his chest, thumbs under his pits in that casual way I like. Tips his head to the side like he’s properly considering shoving me against the wall, like he might actually do it. He’s playing out in his mind what an act like that might look like. His eyes lock onto mine – PING! – a little side smile. There he is. Fit. In the background Absolute Radio plays The Cure and has the nerve to call it ‘new music’. He staggers towards me, ducking down to kiss me, those long arms pulling me in, hands looped around my seated bum. He pulls me closer in the chair; the legs grunt across the wooden floor. Jackson always holds my face in his hands when we kiss. Like in The Notebook. I try to concentrate and be in the moment but can only think of the onlooking houses that can see directly into our kitchen. I found that out the hard way whilst twisting in a forkful of spaghetti only to find I was bolted into awkward eye contact with the choir teacher from across the small garden who was, at the time, eating what looked like a battered sausage.

Jackson bends down before me, his forearms resting across my lap. He butts his forehead into mine with a romantic force. Our faces so close our noses touch, eyes to eyes. He smiles and points out my freckles. They always burst out after the summer. He begins to count, laughs and says, ‘I’ve lost count.’ He dips his nose on the end of mine, nuzzling. Digging his jaw into my neck for what we call nibbles – minutes of teethy animal biting that make me contort tensely and squeal. Jackson’s bites are just the right pressure. Not limp or pathetic. They’re full of intent, accompanied by indistinct murmurs. Strong. He’s like a giant fit lion right now; I’m wanted in his grip.

I love you, he says.

And I love you.

We kiss again.

And that’s it. He’s off on his routine. Oh. I can already hear the electric toothbrush purring. Him spitting in the sink. Returning in his offensive costume change: running stuff. Oh, the betrayal. He plops his exhausted trainers on the floor, sits at the table next to me and rolls trainer socks onto his very long feet. He knows he’s annoying me with his cleanliness and gumption. Smug little shit.

‘Coming?’

‘Do you really want a breathless pug snuffling next to you?’

He laughs. Too loud. And doesn’t even say anything to make me think I’m not a breathless pug. Then he downs his coffee, bangs the empty cup assertively on the table and zips up his windbreaker. With that ‘right’ again, slams his hands on his thighs and stands to leave.

‘Don’t you want to just go to the café and eat a fat breakfast instead?’

‘Nope.’ He pats his belly like just the idea has put half a stone on.

‘Have fun.’ I pour out more cereal.

---