Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 104138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 521(@200wpm)___ 417(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 521(@200wpm)___ 417(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
“It’s only a one bedroom though, right?” I say as we slide into my car.
“She’ll have to put a bed in the living room or something. She’s annoying as shit to sleep with. She kicks, snores, and talks.”
I smile, but it’s filled with sadness. I’ve often wondered what it would be like to have a best friend, someone who you can share everything with, someone who loves you for who you are without the added complication of screwing them.
Theodore calls Tess while I drive. I’m taking him to my house in Alderley Edge, though I don’t think he knows that. I consider it my home, my private space. I’ve never taken another man there before, but Theodore isn’t just another man. He’s a first for me in so many ways, and no matter what happens between us tonight, he’ll be the last.
“Fuck me, this place is huge,” Theodore says, standing in the centre of my open plan ground floor. “How many bedrooms is it?”
“Five.”
“Don’t you get lonely having all this space to yourself?”
Like you wouldn’t believe. “Not really.”
Theodore strolls slowly around the living room, analysing the artwork on the walls, the books on my shelves. “Wait,” he says, stopping abruptly and staring at me. “Have you brought me here to have sex? Because the ban hasn’t been lifted.”
“No, Theodore. I brought you here to show you who I am.”
“Rich? Because I sorta guessed that already.”
I laugh, but it’s forced. He thinks he’s getting to know me but he has no idea who I really am and a rack of guilt lies heavy in my chest. “Can I get you a drink?”
“Let’s just talk,” he suggests, taking a seat on the burgundy leather couch and patting the spot next to him.
Shrugging out of my jacket, I hang it up on the rack by the door and then join him. “What do you want to talk about?”
“Anything. Everything.” He falls silent for a moment, chewing his lip while he ponders. “School. What were you like in school?”
Depressed. Lonely. “Boring,” I say with a fake smile. It’s amazing how powerful a smile can be, even a forced one. It’s all it takes to fool people into believing you’re not falling apart inside. “I pretty much kept to myself.”
“Did you like it though?”
“No.”
His expression twists into surprise. I think he’s going to ask me to elaborate but he doesn’t. “Good grades?”
“In the subjects I was interested in, yes. The others, I didn’t even bother turning up for the exams.”
“And what were your favourite subjects?”
“English language and literature, history, and art. I got A stars in each of those.”
“So you were a boffin, eh? The type that was too busy revising to hang out with friends.”
“I didn’t revise.” I didn’t socialise either. “I have what I think they call a photographic memory. Once something’s in there…” I tap on the side of my head. “It never leaves.”
“Wow. Lucky bastard.”
It’s more like a curse, I think to myself. If it were an option, I would pay to erase some of my memories. To have a mind which remembers everything so vividly, feels everything so deeply, can be agonising.
“I know you dropped out of college. Why?” Again, he looks surprised.
“It was too much like school. I thought with higher education being optional I’d have more freedom. I was wrong. I don’t deal very well with authority.”
“Now that doesn’t surprise me.” He grins and it’s stunning.
Reaching out, I run my fingers through his short hair and settle them on the base of his neck.
“What was your favourite food as a kid?” he asks.
“Beans on crumpets.”
“Your favourite toy?”
“Hmm. Either my Discman or my Tamagotchi.”
“You had a Tamagotchi?”
“Didn’t everyone?”
“I didn’t. My mum got me a cheapo version from the market and it broke after two days. What’s your best Christmas memory?”
A knot twists around my stomach. “I didn’t like Christmas.”
“What the hell? All kids like Christmas. What’s wrong with you?” He’s joking, but his smile fails to infect me.
Everything is wrong with me.
Christmas. It’s such a happy time. Excitement, laughter, everywhere. At least that’s how it’s supposed to be. For me, it served as an amplifier for the sadness rooted deep inside my mind. One Christmas stands out in particular. I don’t know why. It was Christmas Day, 1996, and I was thirteen years old.
As always, my grandparents were staying with us. Presents were open, dinner was over, and we sat in the living room swapping cracker jokes, with Top of the Pops playing on the square TV next to the tree. My nanna was slightly drunk, my granddad was checking out the TV listings in the bumper Christmas edition of the Radio Times, and my parents were digging through the annual tub of Cadbury’s Roses.
Everyone looked so happy, chatting, laughing, and wearing their paper hats. Except Max, who was too old and cool to join in with the festivities, choosing instead to sit in the corner playing with his first ever mobile phone. That was a huge deal back then and he couldn’t wait to tell all his friends at school, seeing as it was too expensive to text them.
I tried to emulate their joy, but I felt like I was dying inside and I didn’t even know why.
I told everyone I was going to my room to play my new Now 35 cassette. Laughing, my mum called me a miserable sod and when I left the room I heard my dad tell her I was just a regular, antisocial teenager. My mum was right, maybe not in the playful way she meant, but I was miserable. I was breaking right in front of them and nobody knew.
When I reached my room, I switched on my small TV and lay down on my bed. As everyone predicted, 2 Become 1 by the Spice Girls made Christmas number one and I remember that video as if I’d watched it just an hour ago. Silent tears ran down my cheeks as Emma Bunton twirled around in her burgundy coat and purple boots, her blonde hair piled into a bun on the top of her head.