I Unlove You (20 page)

Each time,
B
smiles as I throw up in my mouth. She has to
hate it. She must. Everything seems so forced and fake, and
I
’
m sure they judge and pity us once we move out of
hearing.

“
They
’
re too
young
…
I
can
’
t believe they
’
re so
irresponsible
…
what will they do for money? She
’
s too
good for him,
”
they no doubt whisper.

From our secret into general knowledge in a matter of days.
I don
’
t like it, but in some ways
it
’
s a relief. Secrets are hard, with their guilt and the
constant worry of slipping up. Then again, everyone now knows, so
as I walk through the street I sense eyes and whispers honed in on
me. When I walk into The Pub, people I
’
ve known from a
distance for years give me a slight nod of the head. A nod, I
presume, that translates into,
good luck, you poor son of a bitch
.

It
makes me want to hide away in my room never to leave. In bed,
I
’
m safe with books and music and curtains I can close.
Outside rests reality, ready to pounce on me, but again, people
know, which means no secret to keep me awake at night. Only, I do
lay awake at night.

It
’
s a dance I cannot keep pace with. One day,
I
’
m fine, because everything is fine. Everything will
always be fine, like
B
said herself. My parents know. Everyone knows.
I
’
m with the girl I love, taking the next step with her,
a step I
’
ve dreamed of for oh-so-long. People search a
lifetime for this. It
’
s fine. Everything
is fine. Everything is beyond fine.

Yet
…
the money
…
middle-of-the-night-feeds
…
B
in hospital, pushing a goddamn human being from a place
I
’
ve worshiped since the first time I placed eyes on
it.

Everybody knows. Those two guys do, outside the window
smoking and wondering why she
’
s with me. Pitying
me and thankful they
’
re not me.
Everything is fine, but far from it.
B
sits in the same
chair she always does, but it doesn
’
t feel the same
anymore. She reads and lounges like nothing differs, but it
does.

Picking up my coffee, I lift it to my lips and bite the
rim. With a prolonged inhale, I drift away into the haze of coffee
beans and caffeine. It
’
s too quiet in here
today, too easy to lose myself in my own thoughts. An older couple
sit at a table further back into the coffee shop, but
they
’
re too far away to hear anything above a mumble. Where
are the staff and the coffee-bean-grinding, and the frothing of
milk? Where
’
s the coffee shop
chatter to help keep my wondering mind at bay?
Where
’
s the music and surround-sound of
life?

Shuffling in her seat,
B
disturbs the hush for a brief
second. Curled up, she sits on her legs, her entire frame nestled
on the crumpled green cushion. Her baggy white blouse stands out
against it, as does her thin orange skirt that
’
s almost
transparent as the sun bathes her in light. She remains the
same
B
: same firm legs, same slim and defined arms, same neck,
mouth, nose, and eyes. At some point, I assume
she
’
ll bulge and grow and triple in size, but at the
moment a minimal bump protrudes from her otherwise flat
tummy.

But
it is there. A few weeks ago, I could barely tell, but last night,
as we lay in bed, I couldn
’
t take my eyes off
it.

“
Can you
tell?
”
she asked, stroking her hand up and over the bump, her blue
t-shirt tucked under her chin.

“
Yeah. It
’
s getting
bigger.
”

“
You think?
”

“
Trust me,
”
I said, hovering my hand over it,
wary to touch the fragile home my future offspring lives
in.

“
But it
’
s still small,
isn
’
t it?
”
she said, her tone flat.
“
Don
’
t you think it
should be bigger?
”

“
I
’
m sure
it
’
s as big as it should be right now.
”

“
Yeah. I
’
m sure
it
’
s fine.
”
She grabbed my hand.
“
Here,
”
she said, placing her
palm over mine.
“
Can you believe there
’
s a person in
there?
”

“
Gentle,
”
I said, pulling my hand
back.

“
It
’
s
fine,
”
she whispered.
“
You
won
’
t hurt them.
”

Holding a breath, I nodded and
rested my palm on her bare stomach, keeping it there until she
drifted asleep.

I
’
m not sure when I finally succumbed, but I
couldn
’
t take my eyes off her little bump. Picturing
the little person inside, I imagined if a he or she nestled within.
I wondered if they had my nose or my eyes, or if
they
’
d develop my little quirks, or if
they
’
d remind me of
B
each time I held
them.

I
pictured the three of us in bed, cuddled up under a blanket as we
sang and told stories. The rest of the world would continue to spin
outside, but it wouldn
’
t matter because we
were all we needed. A family, a unity; something I could forever
love and treasure, and for a few minutes I smiled in
peace.

But a new day began. This
day.

It
’
s too quiet in here today, the sound of silence
too much. I try to cling to my feelings from last night, but they
slip from my grasp. I want them back, but the worry refuses, and
this silence
…
this damn silence.

We
haven
’
t spoken to each other for thirty minutes, an
unusual act I used to treasure, and although I assume others
consider it strange, silence between
B
and me is as normal
as it gets. Especially here, in these chairs and by this window.
Once, maybe three years ago, I sat here as she began a six-hour
shift. Midweek sometime, with nothing else to do, I sat and drank
coffee and read
The
Stranger
cover to
cover.

Pouring coffee and serving cakes,
B
dashed around the
room, clearing tables and bringing me fresh cups of fuel. We never
said a word. Not a single one during the entire six hours. One page
after another, and one cup after the other, I read and drank and
drifted off into Albert Camus
’
imagination.

“
You ready to
go?
”
she asked.

“
Huh?
”
I groaned, looking around and
realising we were alone.

“
Let
’
s go home so you can
tell me about this book,
”
she continued, lifting it from my
fingertips.

A
couple, supposedly in love, but one that doesn
’
t say a
word for hours on end. In bed, we read, often in silence before we
both drift off. When we drive, we listen to music, holding hands,
but enjoying the sounds around us. When we walk, we watch and
observe but often leave out words.

It
isn
’
t awkward. It isn
’
t through suffering.
She does her thing, as I do mine, and all is fine because
we
’
re together.

But
this isn
’
t the same. Maybe it is for her, but it
isn
’
t for me.

“
I was speaking to my dad last
night,
”
I blurt, unable to cope with this eerie, haunting silence
any longer.

“
Yeah?
”
she says, still consumed by her
book.
“
What about?
”

“
You know what
he
’
s like. He asked about names and what
we
’
d like them to buy for the baby
’
s room,
and whether you would continue to work or stay at home. It made me
realise how much there is to do.
”

She
looks at me, turning the book over and placing it on her
knees.
“
Yeah, there is. What did you tell him?
”

I
laugh, remembering my father
’
s many questions.
Starting the conversation with so much excitement, he grew more
frustrated and forceful as it went on.
“
Not much. If
I
’
m honest, I didn
’
t really have any
answers. It
’
s like we started
the conversation as equals, but it ended as a father lecturing his
little boy.
”

“
I
’
m sure he
didn
’
t mean to make you feel
—“

“
I know. It just made me realise
how much we have to do.
”

“
Well,
”
she says, propping
her elbows on her knees.
“
We better figure out
some of those answers.
”

“
Yeah.
”

“
Shall we go for a
walk?
”

“
Soon,
”
I say, scooting to
the edge of my chair.
“
I suppose there was one thing he asked that I
nearly had an answer for.
”

“
Yeah?
”

“
Yeah. Something
we
’
ve talked about in the past, but not for a while. It
made me think about when we finished uni, and how much has happened
since. I can
’
t believe
it
’
s a year since we graduated.
”

“
I know. It feels like another
life.
”

I
run my fingers up and down my maroon chinos.
“
He asked where we
would live, and it made me wonder why we were still at home and not
living together. The plan was to save up and find a place, after
all.
”

“
I thought we still were
saving.
”

“
I know. And we are, but
we
’
ve not spoken about it for months.
”

“
Well, we
’
ve had
other things to consider,
”
she says, pointing to her
stomach.

“
Sure, but it
’
s a
reason to start thinking about it again, don
’
t you
think? We need to find a place before the big
day.
”