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Thirty-two

Joah

Ys can’t come see me anymore. That’s what her fuckin’ mate says to me on the phone.

What the fuck?

Take a breath. Jaw goes tight.

“Alright.” Clear me throat. “Why?”

“We’re going out,” Lala tells me. Even though she can’t fuckin’ see it, me eyebrows shoot up. What the fuck’s goin’ on?

“ You’re goin’ out? ” I repeat back, trying to keep it calm.

“Mm-hmm,” Lala hums, like this is no big deal. “Girls’ night,” she says. “Kind of.”

Press me lips together. Fuckin’ girls’ night?

“ Kind of? ” I echo, proper sharp now.

“Yeah,” Lala chirps, light as a bloody feather. “Kind of.”

You ever seen girls get on their fuckin’ high horse? Don’t reckon they even know how annoyin’ they are—overbearin’, nosy as fuck. Lala’s never been a brat till now, but fuck me, she’s gunnin’ for the crown tonight.

“What the fuck does ‘kind of’ mean?”

“I dunno, Jo,” she says, tone turnin’ smug. She ain’t never called me Jo before. Reckon we’re not close enough for it, either. “Use your imagination.”

Then I hear summat—Ys’s voice, I think. Faint in the background. She’s protestin’, like she’s tryna grab the phone off Lala. It’s her. I fuckin’ know it is.

Now I’m fuckin’ fumin’.

“Oi, let me talk to her.”

“No,” Lala says, and I swear I hear a fuckin’ smirk in her voice.

“Yes, Lala,” I growl, teeth gritted. “Fuckin’ now.”

“Mmm—” she hums. “I wouldn’t take that tone with me, boyo. My tolerance for you is crumbling like a fucking McVitie.”

“Put my girlfriend on the fuckin’ phone.”

“No,” she says, proper unfazed. And then the line goes dead.

Can you fuckin’ believe it? She hung up.

Holy shit. I’m fuckin’ ragin’.

Grab me keys, don’t I—? Head straight over. Takes me thirty minutes and then I fuckin’ leg it up to her suite.

Get there—she’s already fuckin’ gone.

And I don’t know where Lala lives—didn’t fuckin’ listen, did I? Somewhere in West London, but what the fuck am I gonna do—Knock on every door from Kensington to Notting Hill till I find her?

Dunno what this is. Don’t know what the fuck’s goin’ on. Last we spoke, me and Ys were golden.

And now—? What the fuck?

Drop meself on the settee in her lounge. Weird feelin’—sick fuckin’ feelin’—like maybe I fucked up, like—?

But how? Don’t even know when. What the fuck did I do, you know what I mean?

The article worked, didn’t it? That was the plan.

And then I get a niggle—which, do you know what—?

Never had one before. Not about relationship shit, anyway.

Don’t reckon I’ve ever cared enough to feel one.

Never loved anyone enough to even notice if I did.

Don’t fuckin’ like that she gives me niggles, man.

Proper wet, soft lad shit, that. But fuck me, this niggle’s gettin’ louder.

Did I fuck up? Was that article selfish? She said aye—that’s not my fault. She fuckin’ said yes. And thank Christ she did, because—shit, it was bleak there for a minute. But the tide turned today. She turned the fuckin’ tide for me.

Because she loves me. She did this for me because she loves me.

And you do right by the people you love. And she did right by me.

You know how waves come in sets, they say? Fuck me, here comes the second one…

Another sick feelin’—but it’s bigger this time, innit? Worse.

Feel a pit grow in me stomach, mouth dry as a fuckin’ Weetabix.

Wonder if— fuck —maybe, I dunno—? Maybe I didn’t do right by her?