Page 31 of I Love You, I Love You, I Love You

He braves a smile. ‘Yeah.’

‘I’d better be going home anyway,’ I admit. ‘It’s late.’

The path ahead through the common looks like the artwork for a new horror film. Jagged and murky, the branches of trees droop like hanging animal bodies. A dirty mist.

‘Here, stand on the pegs,’ Lowe says, reaching for his bike, angling it at me. ‘The pegs, at the back.’

‘I know what they are,’ I hesitate with jest. ‘I just don’t want to … stand on them.’

‘You’ll be fine,’ he says. ‘I’ll take you to the station.’

‘ … Really? Erm … OK?’

It’s the bike or be kidnapped. With my hands on Lowe’s shoulders, the soles of my shoes find the grip of the bars either side of the back wheel.

‘K, hold on tight now.’

‘Don’t go fast,’ I warn.

‘I’m not going to.’

He pulls his hood up over his head, zips it right to his mouth. He’s obviously an expert at putting whatever is on his mind back into its little box.

‘You good?’

‘As good as I can be standing on a bike.’

‘You’re funny.’ He laughs. ‘OK, you can loosen your grip just a tiny bit, so I can, you know, breathe?’

‘Oh my God, sorry.’

And suddenly I’m just on the back of Lowe Archer’s bike, a bike he barely even has to pedal because he’s just one of those people the earth moves for.

In my pocket, I rummage for the same crumpled up train ticket I’ve used for pretty much the entire summer, to flash at an inspector on the unlucky days the barriers are closed. Far too much of my life is spent shivering at empty train stations, waiting, with no money, no snacks, no battery on my Discman and no phone credit. We arrive. The gloomy slices of light seem to beat down like some depressing film noir. I feel sick, alone. We both look up at the Teletext timetable screens – no sign of a train going to mine any time soon.

‘You don’t have to wait with me.’ I release him from the obligation. ‘One will come soon.’

Lowe slinks back on his bike, arms stretched out, his hands clench, lock onto the handlebar which he swerves, rocking playfully from side to side.

‘I’ll take you home.’ He offers so quietly it could definitely be an auditory hallucination.

‘HA!’ I push him gently. ‘Yeah, alright, that’s like … ages for you. You literally live right here.’

‘I know.’ He’s hardly even looking at me, but on his wheels, a tree behind him shakes like it’s laughing at us.

‘You really don’t have to do that.’

‘I know I don’t have to but … ’ He readjusts his cap. ‘ … I want to.’

And my arms are wrapped around his chest, my palms spread over his beating heart; my cheeks are smiling so hard. He needs no direction. He knows the way to mine.

We don’t talk, just ribbon the empty pavement under the arrows of stars. I have the nerve to close my eyes, to feel the mild summer breeze on my face as we blow down the hill, to feel him. Miles away from Dad’s Vespa, I’m like a cool girl on the back of some stud’s motorbike, riding the desert. In this moment, well, I’m like any ridiculous trope of a damsel in distress on horseback, galloped away from danger by some handsome knight in a shining tracksuit. And don’t tell a soul, but I love every single second of it.

When my chariot arrives at 251 Palace Road, my moth-eaten castle, this princess feels the rising soar of love charging through her belly; I’m so elated by the whole thing that I don’t feel embarrassed at all by our falling-down house – it’s not like he’s going to come inside! He lets me off the limousine of his bike; I feel like a movie star stepping on the red carpet. It takes a second to find gravity. Lowe signs off with one of his adorable skids, his face dewy with perspiration and pride. He is still smiling, breathless. He takes out his Ventolin and shakes it before inhaling. Thank God for that little blue plastic thing breathing air into his lungs. My GOSH he is so cute. So hot. And so kind. You know what? He is my guy – that’s what he is. He’s my guy.

Probably because I’m living in some annoying romance scene in my head, I go over and kiss him on the cheek. Lowe glows, presses his head into his neck. ‘Well … that was nice,’ he says. I could be paid a million pounds in this moment not to smile, and I wouldn’t be able to resist.

‘Thank you.’ I beam. ‘And for listening to me moaning too.’

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