Postscript (P.S. I Love You #2)(91)

I could have died yesterday, it could have been decades ago. You could be putting your teeth in a glass beside your bed at night, I’m sorry I didn’t get to grow old with you. I don’t know who you are in your world right now, but here in my world, at the time of writing this, I’m still me, you’re still you and we’re still us.

Let me take you back there.

I’m sure you’re still beautiful. I’m sure you’re still kind.

You’ll always be loved, from here and away, from near and from far.

I have experience in loving you from afar, remember? It took me a year to ask you to go out with me.

I’ve no doubt it will ever change, all I know is that the less life I have in me, the more I love you, as if love is filling the spaces. When I’m gone, I think I’ll be filled with nothing but love, made of nothing but love for you.

But on the off chance I do hook up with somebody on the other side, please don’t get mad, I’ll drop her as soon as you arrive. If you’re not looking or waiting for someone else.

Good luck with your new adventure, whatever it is.

I love you, beautiful, and I’m still glad you said yes.

Gerry

PS – I’ll see you later?

Inside the envelope is a note that, despite it sitting in an envelope for eight years, has a crumpled, wrinkled appearance. I smooth it out on the desk and, seeing the handwriting, I realise it’s the first letter Gerry wrote to me when we were fourteen years old.

His words bring me back in time and take me forward with renewed hope for my future; they plant me in the earth, grounding me in reality, and they lift me up so that I feel like I’m floating.

His letter gives me roots and wings.

Tuesday morning. I hate Tuesdays because they’re worse than Mondays. I’ve already been through a Monday and the week still isn’t even half over. My school day begins with double Maths with Mr Murphy, who hates me as much as I hate Maths, which is a lot of hate in one room on a Tuesday. I’ve been moved right up to the front row in front of Mr Murphy’s desk so he can keep an eye on me. I’m quiet as a mouse, but I can’t keep up.

It’s lashing rain outside, my socks are still wet from the walk from the bus stop to school. I’m freezing cold and to add to it Mr Murphy has opened all the windows to wake us up because one person yawned. The boys are lucky, they get to wear trousers, my legs are goose-pimpled and I can feel the hairs standing up. I shaved them up to my knee but cut my shin and it’s stinging through my grey woollen uniform sock. I probably shouldn’t have used Richard’s razor but last time I asked for my own razor, Mum said I’m too young to shave my legs and I can’t be bothered going through the mortification of asking her again.

I hate Tuesdays. I hate school. I hate Maths. I hate hairy legs.

The bell rings at the end of the first period and I should feel relief as the halls outside are flooded with students going to their next class, but I know we’ve another forty minutes to get through. Sharon is out sick and so the seat beside me is empty. I hate when she’s not beside me, it means I can’t copy her answers. She was moved beside me because she kept laughing, but she’s good at Maths so I can copy her. I can see the hallways through the glass panel beside the door. Denise waits until Mr Murphy isn’t looking and she presses her face up against the glass, opening her mouth and pressing her nose up like a pig. I grin and look away. Some people in the class laugh, but by the time Mr Murphy looks over, she’s gone.

Mr Murphy leaves the classroom for ten minutes. We’ve to finish a problem he gave us. I know I won’t reach the solution because I don’t even understand the question. X and Y can kiss my arse. He’ll come back into the class stinking of smoke like he always does, and sit in front of me with a banana and a knife, looking at us all in a menacing way like he’s a badass. Someone slides into the seat beside me. John. I feel my face go red with embarrassment. Confused, I look over my right shoulder to the wall where he normally sits, with Gerry. Gerry looks away and down at his copybook.

‘What are you doing?’ I whisper, even though everybody else is talking, probably finished their work. Even if they’re not finished, it won’t matter, Mr Murphy will always ask me.

‘Me mate wants to know if you’ll go out with him,’ John says.

My heart thuds and I feel my mouth dry up.

‘Which mate?’

‘Gerry. Who’d you think?’

Thump, thump.

‘Is this a joke?’ I ask, annoyed and mortified at the same time.

‘I’m serious. Yes or no?’

I roll my eyes. Gerry is the most gorgeous guy in class – correction, in the year. He can have anyone he wants and this is most likely a joke.

‘John, it’s not funny.’

‘I’m serious!’

I’m afraid to turn around and look at Gerry again. My face is full on flaming red. I much preferred sitting in the back row where I could always stare at Gerry whenever I wanted. Everyone likes him, and he’s gorgeous, even with his new train tracks, and he always smells nice. Of course I fancy Gerry, most girls – and Peter – do. But me and Gerry? I didn’t think he even knew I was here.

‘Holly, I’m serious,’ John says. ‘Smurf will be back in a minute. Yes or no?’

I swallow hard. If I say yes and it’s a joke then I’ll be mortified. But if I say no and it’s not a joke, I’ll never forgive myself.