Page 69 of I Love You, I Love You, I Love You

‘But – I just had to finally tell you that I love you.’

YOU’VE ONLY SAID THAT TWENTY-FIVE TIMES.

‘And so … if there’s any chance – then … then please tell me … ’

Chapter 28

We sleep in Mum’s big brass bed.

Well, he sleeps. I toss and turn.

I see the sky turn from midnight black to some other denseness through Mum’s self-made skylight – don’t ask – that makes me feel horribly alone even though Lowe’s right there.

I should feel relieved, but I don’t. I wish I could take it back. There is a Before and an After now, and this is After.

In my head there is a storm. Regret thunderbolts crackle. Shame rains. The scene replaying in lightning silver shocks, so cringe they are blinding. Guilt, a fog I can’t seem to clear. WHY DID I SAY IT? WHY DID I SAY IT LIKE THAT? WHY IS HE STILL HERE? How does he have the capacity to just say nothing back? How does he have such a tolerance for silence. How can he just sleep as though it’s nothing?

Maybe he’s thinking on it?

Sleeping on it.

Dreaming on it?

Tomorrow is Sunday. I don’t start at the hairdressers until midday. Maybe in the morning it will be better? Maybe Lowe will have clarity and we can go for breakfast before I start work. Maybe we’ll get lucky and the café with the individual toasters on each table will have space for us for once and we can talk about our lovely future. I’ll order a Cappuccino, and he’ll be impressed. And I’ll go off to work and Lowe will call this mystery Heather whilst I’m earning £45 for us towards our life together (maybe more if I get tips) and say …

I really like you, ‘Hev’, you’re very striking (well, let’s see what comes out in the moment) but you see, there’s been a huge misunderstanding – well, many, there’s been many misunderstandings but this I know to be true: Ella and I are in love. We’ve been in love since we were kids. In fact. I think it’s fair to say this is TRUE LOVE. The kind of love people wait for. And I’m sure that as a human being yourself, you can understand that anybody in their right mind wouldn’t let a thing like that go.

And she’ll be upset but she’ll say …

… Of course, I understand, Lowe; I am new on the scene and I always knew there was something magical between you and Ella. I’m disappointed, but I understand; who would turn the love of a lifetime down? Go get ’em, tiger.

And then it happens.

Out of nowhere, in the darkness, I feel his hands on my body, wrapping around me, not sneaky but definite, deliberate. He presses his body into mine, I suppose like a spoon, if a spoon had hands – maybe a pasta spoon? I’m not sure if he’s holding me to say sorry. Or that he feels bad. Or guilty. Or that he doesn’t want to lose me because of everything we’ve been through together. I let him hold me. It’s not unlike us to hug in bed, but never like this. Then, as a lover would, he breathes me in and I realize he’s trying to begin something. I say his name, ‘Lowe?’ to see if he’s asleep. He doesn’t reply, just spasms out of sleep – OK, he’s drunk. But then here he is again, closer this time, so tender and gentle, yet clumsy. I hear him deep breathing … Is he asleep?

I want something to happen but not like this, not when he still hasn’t told me how he feels. I don’t want him to cheat with me behind Heather’s back. Or allow something to happen only to wish it never did, go back to Heather and never talk to me again?

All I know is, he knows that this isn’t me or something I would do.

Maybe he’s flattering me, smoothing it over? Maybe he’s that fucking arrogant, thinks I’m that desperate that I’ll take a pity fuck? Maybe he’s just horny and I’m the only girl within arm’s reach? Maybe he’s just like that now, got a bit famous, plucks girls like grapes and spits out the pips? Maybe he’s willing to trade our friendship off for one awkward night? Maybe he really isn’t who I thought he was? Maybe I don’t know him at all? Maybe he quite simply doesn’t care about me or Heather or anyone? Maybe he thinks I’m Heather?

And so no, in the sternest barbed voice, I say, firmly, ‘No, Lowe, don’t.’

And his wandering hands snatch away like they’ve been stung.

In the morning we don’t talk about it; we communicate through murmured mumblings, no eye contact and pure friction. 251 is colder than ever. I can’t look at my favourite face. We make Mum’s bed together, hoisting the sheets up and over, either side of the gulf between us that is the lavender throw. The air rotten and stiff. Lowe is clearly hungover – his sunken eyes sorrowful, his mouth dry. I can see his cracked lips but he doesn’t ask for water; he asks for nothing.

We’re both too confused. We can’t come back from this. We’re too young to know how to make it right. The damage is done.

There’s no mention of the café with the toasters. Fluorescent with regret, in the flurry of it, I see him shiver, teeth chattering with nerves and fear. I silently offer him Dad’s turquoise hoody. This will annoy me for years because Dad doesn’t live with us any more and I wear it when I want to feel small and cosy and safe in his ‘Dad’ arms but it’s the first warm, clean and big enough thing I see and I want this to be over.

And now Lowe has it.

And will probably lend it to Heather to wear when she’s cold.

Chapter 29

Aoife reads the line-up for FEVER FEST down the phone on the three-way call.

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