Free I Unlove You by Matthew Turner Page A

picture.
It ’ s still auburn. Still flowy and wavy and a perfect
state of messy. It ’ s still the first
thing she grabs when worried or disappointed, or anxious in some
way.
    Just like in the school office all
those years ago. Just like now.
    Nodding, she remains silent, no doubt tackling her thoughts
and worries that I ’ m sure replicate my
own. A cobbled-together boy made up of my father ’ s bland
appearance and my mother ’ s crippling,
merciless anxiety. Where I mutter random facts, she curls her hair;
we ’ re both unable to hide our emotion, disappointment and
fears when they decide to uproot our foundations.
    “ I ’ m not sure what to
say, ” she replies, her tone soft. “ But your
father ’ s right. A baby is a blessing. Even when they
come as a surprise. ”
    Continuing to curl her hair in tiny circles, she attempts a
smile. But I know she ’ s forcing it, like I
no doubt did when B needed me the most. As I slump under the weight
of her disappointment, I ’ m angry at her but
mainly at myself, because this was me as I gaped at B .
Pretending. Forcing. Too selfish and scared to see past
it.
    I
turn my attention back to my father, her pale and lifeless face too
much to handle. “ Thanks, ” I mutter. “ I know this must be a shock, and I ’ m
sorry —“
    “ Stop right there,
son, ” he says, standing up and straightening the blue tie hiding
beneath his sweater. “ We have a lot to talk about. ” He pauses, and looks
at B . “ All four
of us. As a family. But right now, let ’ s toast to our
future grandchild. ”
    He guides my mother to get up and
join him. She looks at the table for a few seconds before nodding,
forcing and fighting through a smile, a smile borne from fear and
worry, like my own has these last few days.
    My
father and B , so strong and brave. My mother and me, so timid and weak.
I know she ’ ll adjust. I know I
will, too. Soon this will feel normal, and meals like these will be
normal once again. People like my mother and me find strength in
those stronger around us. I just need time. She just needs
time.
    My
father ’ s right, there ’ s much to discuss,
but not now. There are plenty of books to read and details to
learn, but not now. I stand and join my parents, holding B ’ s hand whilst she remains seated. I glance down to her,
staring at the plates and dishes and glasses on the table, a soft
smile spread across her lips.
    “ I think that ’ s a good
idea, ” she says, joining us and lifting her
glass.
    “ Cheers, ” says my
father.
    “ Cheers, ” I say.
    “ Cheers, ” says my mother
softly.
    Then the room settles into
silence.

JUNE 3 RD - THE COFFEE SHOP:
     
    The
rich aroma of coffee saunters around the table and drifts up my
nose. Inhaling a deep breath, I savour every bit of
caffeine-tainted air possible, its strong aftertaste clinging to my
throat. Opposite me, in an old comfy chair that droops nearly to
the floor, B cups her mug of hot chocolate and
pouts.
    “ I miss
coffee, ” she says, sipping from her cup and sliding it on to the
table. “ It smells so good. ”
    I
hesitate, holding my own mug inches from my lips, its taste
practically on my tongue. “ Should I get something
else? ”
    “ No, ” she sighs, settling back into her
favourite chair. “ There ’ s no reason for us
both to suffer. ”
    “ Sure? ”
    She nods.
    “ Thank God, ” I say, going past the
point of no return and licking the stray coffee drops from my
lips.
    Coffee ’ s caffeine no longer
affects me, my unrequited love occurring at too young of an age.
Where Joey dreamed of pubs and sneaking into bars, I longed for
coffee shops and dark corners where I could write and draw. My mind
couldn ’ t comprehend Dylan Thomas sat in a bar with his
notebook before him. Or Hemingway. Or Kerouac. Alcoholics, the lot
of them, but all my imagination conjured was an artisan coffee
shop, a petite cup of espresso, and darkened walls adorned with
wonderful paintings.
    My
addiction