Page 64 of I Love You, I Love You, I Love You

‘I’m so happy that you’re happy,’ I say. ‘Then what will you do?’

‘I wanna look for somewhere to rent on the seafront.’

‘Oh, you’re not coming back to London?’

‘Not right now; we’ll be away on tour anyway so Brighton will just be a nice place to come back to and … ’

Don’t tell me, it’s closer to Heather, but he tails off.

‘ … I just like it there right now so that’s what I’m doing.’

He shuts down like I was about to try and change his mind.

‘Sure.’ I nod. This really is the end, isn’t it?

Why does crying always feel worse when it’s sunny?

Dream career. Girlfriend. New house on the seafront. About to perform his art around the world.

I live at my mum’s. Am single. Work part-time at a hairdressers and the only view I see is someone’s roots getting done. Plus dandruff – heaps of the stuff. But my writing – at least I’ve got that.

‘I’ll still come back to London though,’ he says.

I know this is for me. A little dangling carrot. A patronizing pat-a-cake baked just for me. He does know what he’s doing. That he’s hurting me. But if anything, this allows me to loosen my grip.

We finish the beers and get closer. Lowe lies down sideways beside me, propped up on his elbow. I let my eyes take him in for the last time as he rolls his t-shirt sleeves over his shoulder. The sun drools. The cap on his head to one side – necklace catches the light; sweat beads chase. He pulls at the grass blades and racks them up into neat rows near my leg, like one of those cognitive tests to show me the inside of his brain. I think about the pattern I would make if it was me laying them out, but I don’t want to hurt the grass. I want to tread as gently as possible and not hurt a fly. Not like Lowe, going around breaking hearts and hurting grass.

He takes out his inhaler, presses it against his mouth and chokes, spluttering out a mouthful of filters that have been rolling loosely in his pocket and got trapped in the mouthpiece.

‘What the heck?’ He spits the filter out. ‘Why are you laughing?’

‘Your face!’ Tears begin to run.

‘Could you imagine how ironic that would have been, if I’d died choking on cigarette filters that were pelleted at the back of my throat by my inhaler?’

As the sun goes down, insects muscle in to feast on everyone’s sweet blood (except mine). Lowe goes to buy another pouch of tobacco and a bottle of vodka. God, he must be about to become seriously rich. The light shifts, slanting through the trees in spaceship cone beams. The streetlamps ping on. We take turns fidgeting at the unrecognizable rip-off non-brand label, tearing it off into little rice-shaped shreds, the sky now sweet amaretto. Before we know it, we are two kids under a tent of pitch-black darkness and the open sky is ours and the moon is blushing for us. Even the ducks are quacking, JUST FUCKING KISS HER, MAN!

But we drunkenly practise our stupid handshake instead, for old times’ sake. Clap, clasp, twist, link, thumb to thumb, spiral, spud, punch, hug. Any excuse to touch.

‘I have a free house … if you want to come back?’ I ask. Because this will obviously be the final time we ever hang out ever, ever, ever again.

The night bus rolls us home, back to mine, and we have a headphone each. Every lyric remotely mentioning love clings to me, and, maybe it’s the alcohol, but I find myself latching on like Velcro once again, believing everything is a sign, about us, urging me to take a leap of faith and that – TING! – maybe, instead of saying goodbye, MAYBE I can finally tell him how I feel? Maybe if I wait for him it will never happen? So sick am I of being passive, my bold brain begins to chant, tellhimtellhimtellhim and the vodka spins the lights of London into hazy drunken stars, and sparks crackle and we slide into each other. How can I say goodbye to Lowe when we’re like those jelly alien toys that come in a plastic egg of slime, the ones that were meant to have babies if you pressed their backs together for long enough? When every touch with Lowe is like a vow of some kind. Different from any hand I’ve ever felt.

I have to tell him I love him. Now. It’s got to be now. Before it gets too serious with Heather and then there’s no going back. I might never have a chance like this again. Before it’s too late. I’ve got to. Be brave, Ella – you can do it.

But how the fuck do I begin a sentence like that?

And the bus goes too quick; time just disappears and I don’t want to ruin the moment or our friendship, which I feel like I’ve only just won back. I don’t want him to get off this bus. To change his mind.

Usually this walk down the South London backstreets frightens me but not now. Not when I’m with him. Not when I’m lovestruck. Walking on air. Bouncing on the trampoline of the moon.

I rush in the house first, my key jangling in the front door, vibrating with nerves about actioning my confession. Lowe hangs back to finish smoking on the doorstep. And I am manic. There have been a few renovations on the house – new heating system and a few licks of paint – but I still feel that shadow of embarrassment.

They say people only take actions from a place of love or fear. Well, right now, when it comes to Lowe, I am suffering, severely, with both. We have both drunk more of the horrible vodka by this point – truth serum – and we are doing that thing where you pretend to be drunker than you are. Like a game that if you yourself aren’t playing would definitely be annoying. It’s a balancing act; I want to let my guard down, but I don’t want let myself go completely, be head down in the toilet, crying. And yet I need to have enough alcohol in me for insurance, so I could afford to blame the alcohol if I had to, as an excuse. What did we do last night? And of course, I want to remember every single detail of whatever happens between us so I can dwell the hell out of it for the rest of my days but that’s just it – nothing ever happens, does it?

Adrenaline fights the alcohol anyway, burns like a blue flame over a damp brandy-soaked Christmas pudding. But right now, I cast a magic spell, a placebo to let us do the things we wouldn’t normally do when we are sober.

I find more vodka in the top kitchen cupboard and we fill our glasses, but I’m so giddy I’m not even sure I’m metabolizing it properly. We head up to my messy bedroom. Sit on my bed. I put on music, too giddy to worry if he’ll judge me for it, ‘Heatbeats’ by The Knife, which I’m sure will make me look pretty fucking cool actually.

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