Loveless(57)

Relief washed over me.

Wait, no.

I couldn’t give up that easily, could I?

Fuck.

Why was this so fucking hard?

Rooney had said it just happened. But if I didn’t do anything, nothing would happen. If I didn’t try, I’d be like this forever.

Jason finished making his tea. We’d decided to go chill in his room for a bit with a movie – it was a late Sunday afternoon and that felt like the thing to do.

But just as I went to pull open the door, someone on the other side pushed it towards me so fast that I tripped backwards over my own feet and fell on to Jason and his boiling mug of tea.

We didn’t go down, but the tea went everywhere.

The person who’d opened the door backed away immediately with an apologetic ‘Sorry, I’ll come back in a bit.’ I was only lightly splashed, and I was still wearing my coat anyway. I turned to Jason, who had sat down on a nearby chair, to survey the damage.

His jumper was soaked. But that didn’t seem to bother him – he was staring, alarmed, at his left hand, which had also been covered in tea. Fresh, boiling tea.

‘Oh fuck,’ I said.

‘Yeah,’ he said, just staring at his hand.

‘Does that hurt?’

‘Er … slightly.’

‘Cold water,’ I said immediately. I grabbed his wrist, pulled him over towards the sink, turned on the cold tap, and held his hand under the water.

Jason just stared, dumbfounded. We waited, letting the icy water do its work.

After a moment, he said, ‘I was looking forward to that tea.’

I let out a sigh of relief. If he was making jokes, it probably wasn’t too bad.

‘Does tea wash out?’ He looked down at the stained fabric, and then just chuckled. ‘I’ll look it up.’

‘I’m really sorry,’ I blurted out, realising that this was probably my fault.

Jason nudged me with his elbow.

We were standing very close in front of the sink.

‘It wasn’t your fault. That guy who came in, he’s in my corridor. I swear he never looks where he’s going. I’ve bumped into him like five times.’

‘Are you – is it OK? We don’t need to go to A&E or anything?’

‘I think it’s fine. I should probably just stand here for a few minutes, though.’

We fell into silence again, listening to the sound of running water.

Then Jason said, ‘Er, you don’t have to hold my hand if you don’t want to.’

I was still holding his wrist, keeping his hand under the tap. I quickly let go, but then realised that maybe that had been a sort-of-flirty line, and he wanted me to keep holding his hand … or maybe he didn’t and it didn’t mean anything? I wasn’t sure. It was too late.

I turned my head to find him staring down at me. He quickly looked away, but almost immediately turned back again so that we were holding each other’s gaze.

It was like a siren suddenly going off everywhere around me.

Like a burglar alarm that wakes you up so hard you can’t stop shaking for half an hour.

Looking back, it was almost hilarious.

Whenever someone tried to kiss me, I went headfirst into a fight or flight response.

His eyes focused on my lips, then darted back up. He wasn’t like Tommy. He was trying very hard to work out whether this was something I wanted. He was looking for the signals. Had I been giving off the signals? Maybe it would have been easier for him to just ask, but how do people phrase that in a non-cheesy way? And to be honest, I was glad he didn’t ask, because what would I have said?

No. I would have said no, because it turned out I just couldn’t lie to anyone except myself.

As he moved towards me, only a fraction of an inch, I imagined the Countdown timer music starting to play.

I wanted to try.

I wanted to want to kiss him.

But I didn’t actually want to kiss him.

But maybe I should do it anyway.

But I didn’t want to.

But maybe I wouldn’t know until I tried.

But I knew that I already knew.

I already knew what I felt.

And Jason could tell.

He moved back again, clearly embarrassed. ‘Uh … sorry. Wrong moment.’

‘No,’ I found myself saying. ‘Go on.’

I wanted him to just do it. I wanted him to rip the plaster off. Yank the bone back into shape. Fix me.

But I already knew there was nothing to fix.

I was always going to be like this.

He met my eyes, questioning. Then he leant in and pressed his lips to mine.





My first kiss was with Jason Farley-Shaw in the November of my first year of university, standing in front of a college kitchen sink.

As much of a romantic as I was, I hadn’t given much thought to what my first kiss would be like. Looking back, that probably should have been an indicator of me not really wanting to kiss anyone, but years of films, music, TV, peer pressure, and my own craving for a big love story had brainwashed me into believing this was going to be something amazing, as long as I gave it a shot.

It was not amazing.

In fact, I hated it. I think I would have felt less uncomfortable if someone had dared me to start singing on public transport.

It was not Jason’s fault that it was not amazing. I didn’t have anyone to compare him to, obviously, but objectively, he was perfectly fine at kissing. He didn’t do it too deep or forcefully. There were no teeth incidents, or, God forbid, tongue.