Read Online Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 8 by Various Authors - Free Book Online
Authors: Various Authors
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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. It's taken me six months to regain his trust: the last thing I want is to lose him all over again. I don't think I'd survive.
"It was always you…" I stammer.
"It was never me," he hisses. "Everyone else, but never me."
"Not true," I answer sharply. "Not in here." I tap my chest.
He pulls back to look at me, eyes narrowing. "Why are you telling me this? Why now?"
I shrug helplessly.
"Can't bear to see me with someone else, is that it? You don't want me, but you don't want anyone else to have me either?"
"It's not like that," I protest, but weakly. A part of me wonders if he's right. Maybe I am that selfish, maybe I'm just so used to the idea of Paul being mine, loving me , that the rest of me is exaggerating how I feel about him out of spite.
I remember all the nights I've lain awake and cried over him and my heart slams high in my chest. If I'm lying to myself, it's body and soul. Even in the darkest days when I thought it was hopeless, when I truly believed that I'd never see him again, I tore myself apart with grief. That's gotta be the most fucked-up version of selfish I ever heard. I wasn't jealous, I was devastated.
"I didn't know," I confess.
"I fucking told you." His face is twisted, snarling. Something primal in him rises to the surface. I know it's defensive, I know he's only trying to protect himself by shutting me out, but my inner caveman wants to rise to the challenge, claw and fight like animals, beat him into submission and drag him back to my den for a hot, rough claiming.
I don't. Instead I crumple on the seat, boneless, spineless. "About me," I clarify. "I didn't know about me." I don't expect him to understand.
He blinks, disarmed. "But now you do?"
I nod sadly.
"What do you know?"
I look at him. He wants me to say the words. Actually say them out loud. My throat rasps like sandpaper and I swallow with difficulty. Knowing is one thing. What I'll admit to myself and what I'll admit out loud to my best friend and a curious cabbie are two
"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. It's taken me six months to regain his trust: the last thing I want is to lose him all over again. I don't think I'd survive.
"It was always you…" I stammer.
"It was never me," he hisses. "Everyone else, but never me."
"Not true," I answer sharply. "Not in here." I tap my chest.
He pulls back to look at me, eyes narrowing. "Why are you telling me this? Why now?"
I shrug helplessly.
"Can't bear to see me with someone else, is that it? You don't want me, but you don't want anyone else to have me either?"
"It's not like that," I protest, but weakly. A part of me wonders if he's right. Maybe I am that selfish, maybe I'm just so used to the idea of Paul being mine, loving me , that the rest of me is exaggerating how I feel about him out of spite.
I remember all the nights I've lain awake and cried over him and my heart slams high in my chest. If I'm lying to myself, it's body and soul. Even in the darkest days when I thought it was hopeless, when I truly believed that I'd never see him again, I tore myself apart with grief. That's gotta be the most fucked-up version of selfish I ever heard. I wasn't jealous, I was devastated.
"I didn't know," I confess.
"I fucking told you." His face is twisted, snarling. Something primal in him rises to the surface. I know it's defensive, I know he's only trying to protect himself by shutting me out, but my inner caveman wants to rise to the challenge, claw and fight like animals, beat him into submission and drag him back to my den for a hot, rough claiming.
I don't. Instead I crumple on the seat, boneless, spineless. "About me," I clarify. "I didn't know about me." I don't expect him to understand.
He blinks, disarmed. "But now you do?"
I nod sadly.
"What do you know?"
I look at him. He wants me to say the words. Actually say them out loud. My throat rasps like sandpaper and I swallow with difficulty. Knowing is one thing. What I'll admit to myself and what I'll admit out loud to my best friend and a curious cabbie are two
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