The Story of Me (Carnage #2)(22)
It’s a Friday night, and Roman has played at Worldies, but I didn’t stay down at the bar to watch for too long; I have a headache and feel like being on my own. Brooke has already left for Sydney, and I’m looking forward to having the place to myself for the weekend. I think I’m feeling a little homesick and despite what I promised Roman, I’m wondering if it’s time for me to head back to England. The only problem is, I don’t want to be there before next Saturday; next Saturday is the first of December, exactly one year since the day that ended my world, and I want to be as far away from all of that as possible. The press, the television shows, the heartbroken fans—I just can’t be around it, and Australia is about as far away from England as I can get. So for now, I will stay put.
I’ve still not decided what to do about Jodie’s invite. She wants us all to go down for the club opening, but it just feels wrong to be doing something like that on the anniversary of my husband’s death. Jax is trying to convince me to go, telling me it’s just another day; the pain, the heartache and loss I feel, will be no more or less on Saturday than on any other day. Plus, going out and being with people is a much healthier option than staying in bed all day and crying, which would be my first choice.
I lay on my bed, alone in the dark, listening to the sounds drifting up from the bar; there was a packed house when I left, and it was really noisy. I didn’t feel like a drink and I didn’t feel like company, so I asked Jackson to tell Roman I wasn’t feeling well and headed up here. It was a humid night so I’d taken a shower and pulled on a pair of sleep shorts and a vest. Now, here I lie, on the top of my bed, the painkillers I took before my shower just starting to work their magic. I reach for my phone and call Jimmie; it would be Friday afternoon in England so she should be about.
“Georgia Rae McCarthy, how the f*ck are you, gorgeous?”
“Jamie Louise Layton… I’ve met someone. He’s sweet and he’s kind and he plays guitar in the bar and he rides a Harley and f*ck, Jim… I’m so confused.” I had absolutely no intention of telling her any of this when I picked up the phone but the words just sort of jumped out of my big fat gob without asking my brain’s permission. I can’t hear a thing, not a sound, and I wonder if I’ve been disconnected, but my phone screen says otherwise when I look at it.
“Jim?”
“I’m here. I’m here, George.”
“Say something, Jim. Tell me I’m a bad person. Tell me it’s too soon. It’s wrong; just tell me something, Jim.”
“I’m not telling you any of those things, George, coz none of them are true.” She lets out a loud huff. “What’s his name? Is he fit? Is he an Aussie? Oh, my God, does he look like Jackson? Jax is well f*cking horny from what I can remember. Does he call ya Sheila? Have you shagged? Oh, my God, George, have you?” This is the sort of conversation I would expect to have with Ashley, not with Jimmie, my sensible sister-in-law and best friend. Before I can answer any of her questions, she shrieks again, “Oh, my f*cking God, George, is he gonna be your baby daddy? Am I gonna be carrying his baby in my belly?”
“What? No! For f*ck’s sake, Jim, what’s gotten into you? I called for advice from Jamie Lou’s sensible advice surgery, and instead, I’ve gotten Agony Aunt Ashley’s looney line instead.” My headache has returned, and I wish I hadn’t bothered calling her now.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, George. Harley’s got a bug. I had no sleep last night, and I’ve done nothing but cuddle her today because she’s so clingy. She’s finally just gone off to sleep and I think I might be a bit delirious. Ziggy had it at the beginning of the week, and I lost two nights sleep with him throwing up everywhere.” She pauses and the silence seems to stretch on, and I’m so worried about what she must think of me. “What’s his name, George?”
“Roman,” I reply quietly.
“That’s different. I like it. What’s he look like?”
“He’s tall and blond, with the most amazing ice-blue eyes, and he’s just nice, Jim.”
“So, what’s the problem, George? Have ya shagged him?”
“No, no, nothing like that. We’ve just… I don’t know if I’m ready, Jim.”
“George, we spoke about this last week. Please stop feeling guilty; you’re young and beautiful, and you’ve still got needs. There’s nothing wrong with what you’re doing, George, nothing at all.”
“I’m not doing anything, Jim. We’ve kissed… a lot, but that’s it. I’ve told him I’m not ready for more and he’s said he’ll wait, but it just feels wrong.”
“No, it doesn’t, George. After all this time, it probably feels f*cking great. It only feels wrong in your head when you let it, when you start over-thinking.”
I have tears running from my eyes now; they’re running into my ears and around the back of my neck. “But it’s not even been a year. It’s too soon.”
“And what, after next Saturday, it’ll be all right? You’re talking bollocks, George, and you know it.” My heart leaps at the mention of next Saturday; all my thoughts, all my memories have started with ‘This time last year…’ but after Saturday that would be gone. All the time it was ‘just’ a year ago, I could justify that moving on was wrong, too soon, but when my thoughts start with ‘This time the year before last’, it sounds like it’s a long time ago. It sounds long enough ago for me to be moving on, to be letting go. A sob comes from within me that I have no control over, then another.