Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 8

voice. Truth is, one look in his eyes and I was already calm, soft and placid as a kitten.
    His high arched brow furrows slightly as he looks at the hordes around us. It's late, almost closing time, and everyone's drunk and obnoxious. I can see in his eyes that he wants to go home.
    "Come on," I smile, holding out my hand, "let's get you to bed." My breath catches as the old joke rolls off my tongue before I think. God, what that must have done to him when we were teenagers. I suddenly realise how much I must have hurt him, not once but over and over, and I hate myself with an intensity I never knew I was capable of.
    "You okay?" He asks, pulling me to a stop and drawing me close again.
    "Fine," I promise, kissing his cheek for being sweet enough to ask, sweet enough to let me back into his life after the shoddy, careless way I treated him.
    "You sure?" He persists as we step into the night, the frozen winter air hitting our skin like a slap. He keeps hold of my hand as I hail a passing cab and we clamber into the overheated little tin can. I squeeze his fingers and give the cabbie his address.
    We set off with a lurch that tumbles us into each other and we laugh and settle more comfortably across the back seat, pressed together, his head nestled sleepily on my shoulder. He's still holding my hand.
    "I missed you, you know." I address the cab in general.
    "I missed you, too," he admits.
    I think this is the closest we've come to discussing what happened since I came back. Curtis hardly ever leaves us alone if there's a chance we might actually talk. Plus, y'know, we're guys. We don't communicate so good. Not verbally, anyway.
    "You're the best thing that ever happened to me," I tell him, surprising myself. I thought I was done with the deep and meaningful. Vodka says not.
    "I am?" He asks hesitantly.
    "Of course." I look down at him, tipping his chin up with my free hand. "I was an idiot not to realise that earlier. I should have grabbed hold of you when I had the chance and never let you go."
    "So why didn't you?" He asks, plaintive.
    I know the intercom's on and the cabbie's listening but I started this and I can't back out now. Drama queen to the last, maybe I need an audience.
    "I was scared," I admit.
    "Of what?" His beautiful face creases in a frown. "It was me , Jackie. I thought we could tell each other anything."
    "So did I." I reach out and stroke his cheek sadly, thumbing the high arch of his delicate bones. "I was scared I'd lose you."
    "But you did lose me. You ran away." He's eighteen years old all over again, raw pain cracking his voice.
    "I did what we always planned to do. You abandoned me." I know this is my fault but I can't keep the trace of bitterness out of my voice.
    "You said you'd never love me," he rejoins. " Never. " He spits the word.
    I wince. I know what I said, and I know exactly what I'd give to take it all back. "I lied," I confess quietly. I feel his body go rigid in my arms.
    "What are you saying?" His voice is quiet and eerily steady. Suddenly, I'm afraid.
    I never thought that I'd be doing this; I never thought that love was for men like me. I don't mean gay men, I'm not that self-loathing, but men like me : the fucked-up ones. I've never had a boyfriend, rarely even double dip. Love wasn't something that factored in my life, not even as an abstract. Not love like that . Not because I was scared of it, but because I thought it was something I'd always be incapable of feeling. I don't do sentiment. The idea of needing someone so badly that it hurts isn't exactly aspirational. So much can go wrong: most relationships fail. People cheat, they leave, they lie. At least sex is honest.
    I always thought that I was an honest person. Right up to the day I realised I'd been lying to myself all along.
    Admitting the lie was easy. Doing something about it was harder. I thought knowing the truth would take the force out of it, but the feelings only intensified as the years went on. I tried all the usual tricks to numb my aching heart– drink, clubs, sex. I went through lovers like some people change their pants. I moved house half a dozen times, walked out of jobs, went on holidays. Anything that gave me something else to think about when I was lying awake at 4am.
    I look back at the wide, open eyes staring at me, shining orange – black – orange as the cab rumbles through the light and dark of the street outside. I wish I could see him clearly, I wish I knew what he wanted me to say.