Page 2 of Forever Not Yours

I had no idea where we had gone wrong here, because Bastien was a mess, and I was, irrationally, bitchy.

“I’m gonna go,” I said in a voice too loud for my liking.

“Come on, Jakey!” That was Kieron, also drunk with some blonde hanging off his arm despite the long-term girlfriend at home. I’d met her on occasion at parties. And weddings. I shuddered again.

“Why you leaving?” Bastien whined, now draped over my shoulder and wiping his sweaty face on my shirt. “Stay. It’s my stag night.”

He was surprisingly coherent. He didn’t look it.

“Yeah, Jakey, It’s Bash’s stag do. You can’t just leave!”

Yes, Kieron, I can.Bash. Bah. Everyone called him Bash; I was the only one who constantly full-named him. Because I could. Because I was Jake, and he was Bastien, and we were…

No. Wehad been. Now we were grown up, no longer codependent roommates who had shared each other’s lives long past graduation and first jobs and summer holidays.

We no longer did, and never would again.

I turned around and left them both draped over the bar, propped up by the gaggle of girls, who shrieked in delight as Kieron threw out some offhanded comment about me being a party pooper and a goddamn loser.

I didn’t hang around. Instead, I went to the men’s room, which was exactly where you would have expected it to be in a grotty old pub just off Rose Street. Down a dirty set of stairs, a faded Scottish flag tacked to the wall, stalls smelling of weird soap and urine, some kind of air freshener lingering in the thick air that still pulsed with the beat from upstairs.

Quick piss and off to bed.

Unfortunately, I was sharing a bed with Bastien, having booked a cheap budget hotel and all that. They were sold out of twin rooms, so a double it was. Nothing Bastien and I hadn’t done before, as I said. Roommates. Best friends. Survivors of the Great War of University Education.

Me, a physiotherapist. Bastien, your man in finance.

We were adults. Grown-ups. Fully qualified in the thing called life.

I didn’t quite believe my own narrative there, because I was nothing of the sort. I may be able to sort out the lingering aftereffects of a torn ligament. A broken knee, rehabilitation after a hip replacement? Absolutely my jam.

I couldn’t mend a broken heart, even if someone put a gun to my head.

Overdramatic? Me?

Jacob Sawhurst. MCSP HCPC AACP. Too many letters to remember after my name these days. I had qualifications. Skills. Worked far too hard and was, as always, too hard on myself. I wanted perfect results,but dealing with human beings meant that nothing was ever perfect.

I reminded myself of this, over and over again, standing with my hand flat against the filthy tiles, trying to empty my overfilled bladder into the urinal.

At least I was alone down here, my only companion being the music from upstairs with its faint thudding against my brain. I craved quiet alone time. Just a few minutes so I could get myself together and have a good cry or something—some kind of release of all the pent-up frustration that this weekend had brought.

I wanted Bastien back, the way he’d always been. Kind, funny, ridiculous and unpredictable, and mine.

Not this weird propped-up, shiny and artificial version of the man I had—

Fuck, Jake. Get a grip.Bastien had changed. Of course he had. It was all part of growing up and maturing, and now he was getting married, and I was still standing here trying to empty my bladder. I couldn’t even manage that.

“Where’d you go?” And here he was, the man of the moment, leaning against the doorframe, giving me a small smile. Confidence seemingly oozed fromhis pores, but I could read him better than anyone. He was frazzled. Terrified. Messy.

Always messy.

“I’m right here, having a piss,” I deadpanned, washing my hands more carefully than I probably needed, soap and all.

“I don’t want you to go,” he said. Honesty, right there. He usually was honest with me. He knew better than to skirt around the truth.

“I can’t…” I had to stop and breathe. “I can’t do all this bullshit, Bastien. You, your mates, all the drinking and fuck. Look. This is not my thing, at all, and you know it. I’m going.”

“I have your key.”

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