Page 17 of The Story of Me
“Jesus, Georgia, don’t do that, babe; it feels too good.” He kisses my bare shoulder, next to the thin strap of my vest and then up to my neck. His hand slides up my waist and I tuck my elbows tight into my side, blocking its path to my boob, exactly the way I used to when I was fourteen and Sean first started trying to touch them… Sean, Sean, my boy, my beautiful dead boy…
“I can’t; stop, please stop.” The words rush out of me and Roman stops in an instant. I open my eyes and look at him; his eyes are closed and he’s biting down on his bottom lip. “I’m sorry. I can’t. I’m not ready. I can’t give you more.” He nods and opens his eyes. My stomach aches, really low, low down as I register the desire he has in them while looking at me. I shake my head, pleading for his understanding. “I just can’t.”
He nods again. “I understand, George; we’ll take our time, but we’ll get there.” His eyes wander back to my mouth. “We’ll take it slow but we’ll get there. I want to be the one, Georgia. I want to be the one to help you learn to live again. I want to be the one who makes you realise it’s okay to let it all go. I won’t lie, and I won’t make you promises, apart from promising I won’t sell your secrets to the press.” He winks and smiles as he speaks. “I’m only here till February and then I’ll be gone; just give it till then. Follow me, baby, and I’ll make everything right.” He smiles again, referring to the Uncle Kracker song he sung the night before. “Will you give me that?” He bends his knees slightly so we’re eye to eye. “Will you let me try and do that for you?”
I want him to do so much more than that for me right now. Well, physically, I do at least, but mentally? Mentally, I’m still a married woman, desperately in love with and missing her husband. I need him to go; I need to take a shower and get my thoughts straight.
“Georgia, will you give me that? Will you let me help you?” I nod and he kisses me gently on the mouth. “I’m gonna show you and teach you how to just let it all go. Right now, though, right now, I need to go, coz Iwant to fuck you so bad, so, so bad.” He kisses me once more, then he’s gone, and I’m standing there, alone, my lips feeling bruised and tingly; a delicious ache is between my legs and an all-too-familiar sense of guilt fills my heart.
Chapter Seven
For the next week, Roman does what my mum would call ‘courting’. Basically, we hang out together.
The busy Christmas season is about to start for the town, and there are lots of new staff at Worldies. I sort of feel in the way; they’re all expert at barwork and waiting tables, whereas I’ve never done work like that in my life. I still go in a couple of days, but there’s not really a lot I can do so I spend my time with Roman. We swim, we surf, we go for walks along the nature trails in the surrounding area, and we go for long drives along the coast road on his Harley. During the evening, I usually go with him to whatever pub he plays at and just sit—at the bar or at the side of the stage—and listen.
On more than one occasion, I get a sense of déjà vu. Obviously, I have a ‘type’, it would seem. Sean and Cam are both dark, dark hair, skin and eyes, but personality-wise, they are poles apart. Roman looks nothing like Sean or Cam but has a personality and a love of music, very much like Sean. He’s been sweet this entire week. He’s held my hand; he’s kissed me passionately, but he’s not tried anything more. As much as my body is craving a physical connection, mentally I have no idea where I’m at. I’m a fucking mess to put it bluntly, and I’m really missing having Jim and Ash to talk to.
It’s a Friday night, and Roman has played at Worldies, but I didn’t stay down at the bar to watch for too long; I have a headache and feel like being on my own. Brooke has already left for Sydney, and I’m looking forward to having the place to myself for the weekend. I think I’m feeling a little homesick and despite what I promised Roman, I’m wondering if it’s time for me to head back to England. The only problem is, I don’t want to be there before next Saturday; next Saturday is the first of December, exactly one year since the day that ended my world, and I want to be as far away from all of that as possible. The press, the television shows, the heartbroken fans—I just can’t be around it, and Australia is about as far away from England as I can get. So for now, I will stay put.
I’ve still not decided what to do about Jodie’s invite. She wants us all to go down for the club opening, but it just feels wrong to be doing something like that on the anniversary of my husband’s death. Jax is trying to convince me to go, telling me it’s just another day; the pain, the heartache and loss I feel, will be no more or less on Saturday than on any other day. Plus, going out and being with people is a much healthier option than staying in bed all day and crying, which would be my first choice.
I lay on my bed, alone in the dark, listening to the sounds drifting up from the bar; there was a packed house when I left, and it was really noisy. I didn’t feel like a drink and I didn’t feel like company, so I asked Jackson to tell Roman I wasn’t feeling well and headed up here. It was a humid night so I’d taken a shower and pulled on a pair of sleep shorts and a vest. Now, here I lie, on the top of my bed, the painkillers I took before my shower just starting to work their magic. I reach for my phone and call Jimmie; it would be Friday afternoon in England so she should be about.
“Georgia Rae McCarthy, how the fuck are you, gorgeous?”
“Jamie Louise Layton… I’ve met someone. He’s sweet and he’s kind and he plays guitar in the bar and he rides a Harley and fuck, Jim… I’m so confused.” I had absolutely no intention of telling her any of this when I picked up the phone but the words just sort of jumped out of my big fat gob without asking my brain’s permission. I can’t hear a thing, not a sound, and I wonder if I’ve been disconnected, but my phone screen says otherwise when I look at it.
“Jim?”
“I’m here. I’m here, George.”
“Say something, Jim. Tell me I’m a bad person. Tell me it’s too soon. It’s wrong; just tell me something, Jim.”
“I’m not telling you any of those things, George, coz none of them are true.” She lets out a loud huff. “What’s his name? Is he fit? Is he an Aussie? Oh, my God, does he look like Jackson? Jax is well fucking horny from what I can remember. Does he call ya Sheila? Have you shagged? Oh, my God, George, have you?” This is the sort of conversation I would expect to have with Ashley, not with Jimmie, my sensible sister-in-law and best friend. Before I can answer any of her questions, she shrieks again, “Oh, my fucking God, George, is he gonna be your baby daddy? Am I gonna be carrying his baby in my belly?”
“What? No! For fuck’s sake, Jim, what’s gotten into you? I called for advice from Jamie Lou’s sensible advice surgery, and instead, I’ve gotten Agony Aunt Ashley’s looney line instead.” My headache has returned, and I wish I hadn’t bothered calling her now.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, George. Harley’s got a bug. I had no sleep last night, and I’ve done nothing but cuddle her today because she’s so clingy. She’s finally just gone off to sleep and I think I might be a bit delirious. Ziggy had it at the beginning of the week, and I lost two nights sleep with him throwing up everywhere.” She pauses and the silence seems to stretch on, and I’m so worried about what she must think of me. “What’s his name, George?”
“Roman,” I reply quietly.
“That’s different. I like it. What’s he look like?”
“He’s tall and blond, with the most amazing ice-blue eyes, and he’s just nice, Jim.”
“So, what’s the problem, George? Have ya shagged him?”
“No, no, nothing like that. We’ve just… I don’t know if I’m ready, Jim.”
“George, we spoke about this last week. Please stop feeling guilty; you’re young and beautiful, and you’ve still got needs. There’s nothing wrong with what you’re doing, George, nothing at all.”
“I’m not doing anything, Jim. We’ve kissed… a lot, but that’s it. I’ve told him I’m not ready for more and he’s said he’ll wait, but it just feels wrong.”
“No, it doesn’t, George. After all this time, it probably feels fucking great. It only feels wrong in your head when you let it, when you start over-thinking.”
I have tears running from my eyes now; they’re running into my ears and around the back of my neck. “But it’s not even been a year. It’s too soon.”
“And what, after next Saturday, it’ll be all right? You’re talking bollocks, George, and you know it.” My heart leaps at the mention of next Saturday; all my thoughts, all my memories have started with ‘This time last year…’ but after Saturday that would be gone. All the time it was ‘just’ a year ago, I could justify that moving on was wrong, too soon, but when my thoughts start with ‘This time the year before last’, it sounds like it’s a long time ago. It sounds long enough ago for me to be moving on, to be letting go. A sob comes from within me that I have no control over, then another.
