Page 7 of All the Forbidden Things
“Take the baby, Cal. I’ll try to find something to clean this mess up.”
I open and close my mouth to protest. I’m a fucking adult, I don’t expect anyone to clean up my puke, except, right at this moment, I don’t feel much like an adult or capable of anything.
Jesus. I need to get a grip.
I’m not usually a crier. Obviously, I’m in touch with my emotions; otherwise I wouldn’t be able to write the lyrics I do, but I rarely cry. Right now, though, overwhelmed by tiredness and all of Whitney’s revelations, I can barely breathe through my tears.
Cal pulls tissues from a box on the coffee table and passes me a handful while holding my now sleeping daughter against his chest. “What the fuck happened? Where’s Whit?”
“Why are you here?” I ask, trying to think back to what day it is, and what I should’ve been doing.
“Mel made lunch plans with Whit a couple of days ago. I told her you were worried about her being depressed, so she invited the three of you over. Whit said she wasn’t up to it, but ya know Mel, she couldn’t just leave it and told her we’d come here, and she’d cook.”
“What time is it?” I ask.
“It’s early, only nine-thirty. Mel was gonna try and get Whitney out of the house for a few hours.”
I give a small laugh at that comment and shake my head.
His eyes wander over my face, bare chest, and puke-stained jogging bottoms before he asks again, “What the fuck’s happened? Where’s Whit?”
I feel myself deflate before drawing in a deep breath and answering, “She left.”
“She left?” He frowns, questioning my response.
“She left,” I repeat.
“What? What the fuck? What d’ya mean she left?”
I shrug, my jaw trembles and tears keep falling from my eyes. In an attempt at composing myself, I shudder out a breath as if I’m in physical pain and explain. “She’s been having an affair with Alix Gardener the whole time we’ve been together and yesterday left me, she left.”
Cal’s head jerks back as if I’ve just smacked him in the face. Now it’s my turn to watch him deflate as he comprehends what I’m telling him. His shoulders slump, his brows pull down into a frown, and his mouth hangs open.
We’ve been best mates since our first day at secondary school when we were just eleven-years-old. He sat next to me in our English class. I was scribbling down lyrics to fit a riff I’d had going around in my head for a few days, hoping that getting the words down would help expand the riff into an entire song.
Callum had been watching from his seat next to me before asking, “Are you writing poetry?”
I remember side-eyeing him for a beat before responding, “Lyrics. I’m writing a song. So, yeah, it is poetry, kinda.”
“Cool. I play the guitar. Bass. I got a Fender for Christmas a couple of years ago,” he’d responded.
My eyes had sliced from the piece of paper I’d been writing on back to his face. Grey-blue eyes stared back at me, and a cocky smirk twisted his lips as he’d tilted the chair to rest on its two back legs. Nodding matter-of-factly, he’d added, “Second hand, not new, but it’d been looked after.”
With that, the leg of his chair had given a loudcrack. We’d both stared wide-eyed at each other, suppressing our laughs as Ms Phillips, our fit-as-fuck English teacher started the lesson.
From that encounter, a friendship was born, and a band began to form, the Young and Wild, from which Young Wild and Rong would later be created.
Best friends. Bandmates. Brothers in every way other than biological. We had each other's backs through first loves, lost loves, broken hearts, arrests, and hangovers. We’d held each other up through deaths, births, and marriages. WhenIhurt,hehurt, and with the pity pouring from his stare right now, I know he’s feeling the ocean of hurt I’m currently drowning in.
“Fucking hell, Max.” His eyes dart down to Layla, who’s sleeping soundly against him, and he covers her little ear. “Sorry,” he whispers.
I let out a huff. “Oh, she’s heard much worse than that today, I can assure you.”
“Talk to me. Tell me exactly what’s happened.”
I relay what unfolded between Whitney and me over the past thirty-odd hours and end with, “She wants a paternity test.” I gesture with my chin towards Layla.
Cal frowns. “What? Why?”
