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Sixteen

Joah

Don’t give me that look, right—? So I got fucked-up in Paris—who hasn’t?

It was fine. No one knows I did, press never found out about it.

Felt a bit rubbish, though—that late-night dander?

When Ys found me at the back of that pub—I was pretty fucked-up when she found me, so I don’t remember a tonne, but how she looked when she said whatever she said about not making her watch me get high, how her face looked—that cut through all the other shite.

That little worried dip in her brow lives in my brain now like a fuckin’ billboard.

Don’t want it there, if I’m honest. It’s fuckin’ annoying, like—Forgot this about being in a relationship, didn’t I?

It’s why me and Pip broke up. Cos I’m fuckin’ selfish.

I know that—don’t like thinkin’ about other people, and you know what?

I’m thinkin’ about someone else right now all the fuckin’ time.

It’s hard. Fuckin’ hard to filter everythin’ I do through the lens of how it might make some girl feel who I just accidentally started to love one day.

And I do love her, not saying I don’t—but it was on accident, and I think that’s key for remembering.

Because I didn’t plan for this. Wasn’t this thing I’ve spent the last few preparing for, it just fuckin’ happened, didn’t it?

You know all that shit about sowing wild oats; I’ve got so many fuckin’ oats to sow, man—and I can’t now, can I—?

Cos I’ve met this girl I fuckin’ love and I don’t wanna hurt, and ya know what’s fuckin’ fucked-up—?

Still hurt her anyway, didn’t I? Without even trying, you know?

Which is fuckin’ hard, and scary, like—

Didn’t know what to do that next morning. Knew we probably should talk about it—not evolved enough to actually know how the fuck to start a conversation like that though, know what I mean?

Stayed in bed next to me the next mornin’, so she did—not like her—barely ever wake up with her still in bed next to me.

Ysolde takes these monster showers in the morning, I reckon in the vicinity of like forty-plus minutes. Likes to make a pot o’ tea and read a Vogue or summat. Don’t like to read it in bed, but. Asked her why once—said it’s because it’s work. Don’t like to bring work into bed or some shit—I dunno.

All I know is the mornin’ after I got high in Paris, she’s in bed when I wake up.

Pretendin’ not to watch me, but 100 fuckin’ percent watchin’ me—can tell by the way she pretends to notice me waking up, like it’s a surprise to her.

Gives me this perfect smile, but it ain’t easy for her. I know what her easy smiles look like—that ain’t one of ’em.

Strained with worry because I’m a piece of shit—which, to be fair to myself, I did fuckin’ warn her about, didn’t I?

Night we met, I told her I was a piece of shit, and I am, aren’t I?

Did fuckin’ lines in bed next to a girl whose mum died of a coke overdose?

Fucked-up. Even I know that. Kinda like I couldn’t help myself, but—know what I mean?

Needed something to take the edge off, shut my mind the fuck up.

She rolls in towards me. That bend in her brow back. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” I nod, like it was nowt—because it fuckin’ was nowt, you get me—? Didn’t actually do owt wrong, did I? Not in the scheme of things.

Objectively, I got fucked-up and didn’t hurt no one. It’s only bad in context of her , like—

Kinda hate that…that I can’t be meself or do what I wanna do because I love some girl now? That’s fuckin’ stupid.

“Are you sure?” she presses.

“Yeah.” I shrug. “I just—the article got into me head, that’s all.”

She nods. “It was a shitty, silly article.” Tilts her head, lookin’ for me eyes. Let her find ’em. “And not remotely true.”

I nod back. Dunno if I believe her actually, but like fuck am I ever admitting that out loud.

So I say instead, “Yeah, I know.”

“Do you really?” she asks, and fuck her for knowin’ me like that. Reckon I don’t fuckin’ like being known.

She swallows, looks a bit nervous again—fuck.

“Then why did you—” she starts but I cut her off.

“Cos I’m a fuckup, Trouble.” Give her a shrug—try to soften it with a smile, but it don’t land. Am a bit sorry about it, I s’pose. Not gonna say that though, am I? “I fucked up. That’s all.”

Shakes her head a lot, don’t she?

“You’re not a fuckup,” she tells me. Says that like I’ve fuckin’ hurt her feelin’s callin’ meself that.

Loves me too much, man. Don’t fuckin’ know what to do with it.

Girls with shit dads, you know how they are—? Usually just a bit of fun. But I like this one too much for her to be just that.

Understatement, that. Tits up in love with her, aren’t I? So then what? What’s left?

The truth of it still fuckin’ stands, don’t it?

I am—without a doubt—an absolute fuckin’ fuckup.

And I’m scared I’m gonna fuck her up too. “Yeah I am, Ys.” I press my mouth into her forehead. “And don’t you fuckin’ forget it.”