Page 32 of I Love You, I Love You, I Love You

‘You didn’t moan.’ He shrugs, smiles sweetly.

‘A little bit?’

‘OK, maybe just a little bit of moaning.’ He measures with his thumb and forefinger a sugar cube of space.

‘K, night.’

‘K, night.’ It’s meant to be a smooth exit, but then he has to watch me fuck about with the latch of the stupid rickety gate.

Then my knight breezes away into the night, wheels around and his bike reared like a horse.

I know what you’re thinking – cycling you home? OK, you’ve bagged this, girlfriend. Oh, he loves you alright. First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes a baby in a bloody carriage. I’m thinking the exact same thing, to be honest. I’ll be strutting into school with a swishy high pony-tail, boasting to everyone that I have a boyfriend. For REAL this time. And not just any boyfriend – Lowe Archer.

Chapter 15

But everything changes.

The whole next week Lowe is distant, different.

Lowe’s ‘not around’, ‘staying in’, ‘not coming out’, ‘busy’.

Is it because I kissed him on the cheek? Did I cross the line? Could he see in my eyes how much I love him, so he knew he had to step back to protect me, to not hurt my feelings? Has he told his friends about my little crush, and they all laughed and said I was ugly and fat and a loser? Maybe it’s the opposite? Maybe the cheek was too cold? Maybe I drew the line? And now he’s backed away? FUCK.

I text: Hey … have I done something to upset you? I don’t know what but whatever it is, I’m sorry. x

No reply.

FUCK. Why did I send that? I’m paranoid, panicky, stressed. I find a frozen cherry pie from Iceland drenched in snow at the back of the freezer and bake it. I eat the whole thing. And then I feel sick. I consider throwing it up in the toilet but I’m too frightened – I’ve heard not so great things about bulimia. So, I just lie there, relying on my stomach acid to break down the beast of a pie, listening to Usher, crying until I fall asleep.

I wake up in the morning to see his message.

hey ella, I’m goin thru sum stuff at home but it’s nuthin 2do wid u or anything u hv done. C u soon. X

(Surely it’s harder to text like that than use the actual English language?)

Going through something? Like what? And why isn’t he telling me? I told him all about my parents breaking up. I fight the urge to press on the matter and simply write back:

k, hope ur OK, miss u x

And he replies straight away with: miss u 2 x

I place my phone on my dressing table and leave for school.

When I get home, Mum is sitting at the kitchen table painting doorknobs with her best friend Jackie, who has a laugh like a gurgling plug-hole because she smokes 10,000 cigarettes a day. Jackie carries a beaten-up biscuit tin of weed around with her like it’s a treasure chest and drinks tea after tea. I still have my school bag koala-clamped to my back.

‘I’m going upstairs.’

‘Your friend Lowe’s called – more than once,’ Mum says.

And I get that same giddy rush I always do when he calls. When I hear his name. Relief.

‘Ooo, who’s Lowe?’ Jackie’s ears prick up. ‘Your boyfriend?’

‘NO!’ I blush. ‘Gross, no.’

Me, in my mind: yes, we are married with three kids etc.

His mobile is dead.

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