Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 8

room.
    His eyes flit over a poster of 5ive on my bedroom wall. They're a cool band, and I've always had a little bit of a thing for J. Take me home, daddy. Paul, I knew, had a crush on Scott, the black-haired, blue-eyed frontman. Him and every other teenager on the planet. Not that he'd admit it because, y'know, boybands just aren't cool. Not at our age. The poster's a hangover from my younger days but I can't bear to take it down. I know mum will, after I leave. She's not the sentimental type: no fear of my room being turned into a mausoleum after I've abandoned her in her empty nest.
    "Shouldn't you be packing?" I ask to break the silence. Tomorrow we're due to start our next big adventure: running away from our hometown to spread our wings in the big, bad city of Manchester. It feels like a whole world away.
    He shakes his head a little too vigorously. "I need to tell you something…" He trails off and won't meet my eyes.
    "Paulie, you're scaring me. What is it, has something happened? Have your parents said you can't go?" The thought of leaving on my own terrifies me. I've never been on my own.
    "Why do you want me to come?" He asks, all arms and legs and nervous twitches. He can't seem to keep still.
    I frown. "You're my best friend. I thought we were doing this together?"
    "Is that all?"
    He looks impossibly sad, and I have no idea why. I stand up and go to him, rubbing my hands down his skinny arms in a gesture that's supposed to be comforting. He's shaking. "What else is there?" I ask, eighteen years old and as dumb as fuck.
    Long lashed lids sweep over deep brown eyes and fan across his high cheekbones. He draws a shuddering breath. "What if I want more?"
    "I thought we both did?" I laugh, surprised. "That's why we're going. Just think of all the cute guys we'll meet–"
    "With you." The words ring through the silence that falls after he blurts them out. He swallows and repeats himself softly. "I want more with you."
    I know that I'm gripping his arms too tight but I've lost all control of my limbs. I freeze, horrified. There's no way on Earth Paulie just said what I think he said… Is there? "What?" I manage to croak, hoping it's all just some horrible nightmare. I want to pinch myself to wake up but I can't move so I pinch him instead. "What?!"
    A fat tear rolls down his cheek unchecked. "I love you," he whispers. I barely hear him, I lip-read the words in dismay. Soulful cow eyes rise and finally look at me, fear and hope and longing and naked, shameless love.
    I shake my head. "This can't be right," I stammer. This isn't happening, not Paulie, not my best friend. I don't want this, I don't want his love, not like that . That love is for other men, men who, I already know, will take what they want and leave me, just like my daddy left my mum all those years ago. That love is a fairytale, a fantasy that never comes true. What Paulie and I have, that's different; special. Friends don't dump each other because they're bored or someone cuter comes along. Friends don't cheat or use or betray each other.
    So why does his admission feel like a betrayal? I look back over the last God-knows-how-long and feel sick. Had he lied to me all that time? I think of sleepovers; the giggling, on-my-part-innocent explorations of each other's bodies; the chaste kisses when we were drunk and dancing and euphoric, and I want to hurl.
    His reluctance to join the dating pool I suddenly understand in a whole new light. My philosophy was simple– pick a man, any man. I barely remember losing my virginity; I was so out of it when it happened. I'd been terrified of it hurting, truth be told. Sober enough to make sure he used a condom, too drunk to remember his name or much of what he looked like afterwards. Paul's not into that and that's okay. He's boyfriend material; you can see it a mile off. Me, I'm the good time guy. So I let him do it his own way– or not, apparently– only teasing him gently for clinging so tenaciously to his V card. I mean, c'mon, we're eighteen and guys, we're supposed to be gagging for it. I guess I just always assumed Paulie was more of a girl in that way: he wanted it to mean something; he wanted it– God help him– to be special.
    He wanted it to be me.
    I think I moan: a horrifyingly weak little sound. Completely girly. He couldn't have wounded me more if he'd stuck his hand through my belly and yanked out my guts.
    For some reason, he thinks that traumatised noise is a good thing. Still in