Being bisexual isn’t a choice; it’s who he is, and what’s to say he wouldn’t stray or struggle in the future. I don’t hate him for what he is; I hate him for not having enough respect to tell me the truth from the beginning. A relationship built upon lies is one doomed to fail, and that’s exactly what has happened.
I don’t know why I thought he would be any different to any other man in my life. Flaky, sketchy and gone. Gone is exactly what I will be, too, by the end of today as Izzy and I pack up our boxes and move out of our room. We’re leaving Leeds behind to head to Manchester for the summer and I cannot wait. The toss-up between facing the mess back home or facing the mess I've gotten myself into here has let me realise that Manchester is the lesser of two evils.
All I can hope now is that all the last minute cramming I did will have paid off. Our last exam was four days ago, and since then, all Izzy and I have done is argue. I know it’s probably me and my constant mood swings, but everything we do just seems to irritate the other one. Maybe having separate space when we get back home might do us some good, because the rate we are going, I’m worried we are heading for a fall out like never before. And she’s all I’ve got left.
I’m pulled from my musings when the door is flung open and I hear, “Happy birthday, Moody Arse!” being hollered at the top of her voice.
“Thanks,” I offer flatly.
“What’s up with you, Goosey Loosey? It’s your birthday! You could at least crack a smile.”
“Sorry, I’m just not in a smiley mood.”
“Here we go again,” she mutters under her breath.
“What?” I snap, forcefully stacking my CDs into a box.
“Nothing at all.” Her lips fall into a flat smile as her brows rise high.
“Don’t lie. I heard you say something.”
She stops dead in her tracks and turns to me and sighs. “Okay, I’ll tell you what I said. I said I’m sick of seeing you with a face like a slapped arse, Goose. I don’t know what the hell has gotten into you lately. I know you’re probably doing your usual fretting thing over moving back in with your mum, but we talked about this. You said it’s what you want and I’m happy to go along with it, but what I’m not happy with is these constant mood swings you seem to be suffering from and me being the one on the receiving end of them.”
“I just can’t win with you, can I? I go out all the time and I’m a dirty stop out, I stay in and I’m a mardy arse. And yes, I said I wanted to go, but it’s a big deal and I think I have a right to be worried.”
“See what I mean? You’re snapping again. I can understand you being worried, but your whiney shite is becoming insufferable. If this is how you get when you're laying off the bedroom activity, don't stop on my account. Please, go spread your legs, grab a coke and a smoke and then crack a damn smile.”
Spread my legs? Grab a smoke?
Without thinking, I grab at a nearby cushion and fling it directly at her head, letting out a frustrated growl. The cheeky bitch! She has no freaking clue what I’m going through, none at all, and if I want to be a ‘whiney shite’, as she so nicely puts it, then I goddamn will be. I’m so fed up of trying to please every fucker else and always being the one that ends up suffering.
“Right, that’s it. You’ve asked for it, Goose.”
The thing about Izzy is she’s bloody quick, not to mention strong. She’s been brought up on Rocky, The Krays and perhaps worst of all, her father. She’s not averse to taking a hit or two and her stamina is scary. There’s a reason she was known as ‘scrawny but brawny’ at school. People might not believe it about us, but we’ve always had this thing for play fighting, so when she decides to launch a full on attack my way, I know I’m in for scrap and half. Her arm is the first thing to get me, swung around my neck, yanking me into a head-lock while she ruffles up my hair with her knuckles.
“Gerroff! I mean it, Mav. Get off,” I shout out loudly, shoving at her side with my hands, nearly choking on my hair as it swishes in my face.
“Nope. Not until you loosen the fuck up.”
“Go Moff yourself,” I choke, wriggling the best I can to break free.
“You always did hit like a princess.” Izzy laughs. She’s goading me and I can feel my anger rising. I know she’s only playing and has my best interests at heart, but my mood just sky rocketed to a whole new level of crankiness, frustrated by the fact that I can’t get free to whack her back. Rightly or wrongly, she leaves me with no choice but to use my words as a form of attack.
“Oh, it’s like that, is it, Is-a-bell-a?”
I regret it the instant her full name leaves my mouth. Her body stills for a few moments as if fending off the low blow I just hit her with. It gives me the split second I need while her defences are down to duck away, launching myself towards my bed to grab for a pillow.
“I can’t believe you just went there, or said that.” She snarls, pouncing onto my back, the full weight of her body driving me into the mattress. She clings to me like a limpet. It’s going to take sheer force to remove her arse from me now. Fuck.
“No, thanks. Your third nipple puts me the fuck off,” I snipe.
She pokes. I thrash.
“It’s a freckle. Unlike your genital wart.”
She nips. I stagger.
“You know full well that’s a beauty spot.” I yelp, trying to fight through the sharp bite of her nails in my side.
It is an all-out brawl, the likes of which we haven’t had for a while, but releasing my pent-up aggression feels bloody good despite who it is aimed at. I know I am full of anger, and for the first time it has made me realise why Izzy regularly takes to a punch bag when she is feeling pissy. There’s something euphoric about screaming like a banshee and punching like Mike Tyson. I can feel some of the tension easing its way from my tightly wound up body, which causes me to chuckle through the array of huffs and puffs.
“You know, I’m gonna start calling you Moffy Balboa.”
Swing, swirl, toss, twirl… I still can’t shake her off.
“I quite like that,” she growls.
“I… Er… Oh, oh, oh.” My leg roundhouses into a couple of boxes stacked on the floor, causing me to lose balance and for us both to scream out in unison “Arghhhhhh!” Crashing to the floor with an almighty thump, I take Izzy with me.
“Shit. Jesus Christ, Paris.”
Rolling onto my side, I reach for my arm with a wince and rub at the part that took the brunt of the fall. I’m just about to ask if she’s okay when Lori bursts through the room, her face covered in what can only be described as green goo. “What the fuck was that noise? What happened?” Her eyes dart out around the room like she’s a woman possessed.
As Izzy rolls herself up to a sitting position, we lock eyes, taking a moment to look at each other before the amusement hits our expressions. We’re both thinking the same thing… What the fuck has she got on her face? Lori in a facemask? That’s when it starts – the uncontrollable, howling laughter from both our beat up arses. And once it starts pouring out, we can’t stop, while Lori just stands there with a confused expression on her face.
“What?” she asks, her eyebrows raising that little bit further with every passing second.
As we lose ourselves to the overwhelming laughter, I realise that even when fighting, I still love the bones of Izzy. In fact, I love both these two girls, and no matter what man comes along or how apprehensive I am about returning back to Manchester, I will always have them both in my life to rely on when shit gets tough. Now that is true friendship and at least I got a laugh at some point on this birthday of mine.
Hoes over bros, baby.
*******
Summer is over in the blink of an eye and it feels so strange being back on Leeds turf. I’ve moved on with my life over the last few weeks, but this place still looks exactly the same as when we left – full of contemporary high-rise buildings, shops, restaurants and bars. At least this year, Izzy, Lori and I get to rent a flat instead of staying i
n halls of residence. No more listening to other students barfing in the hallways or stealing food from the fridge when it’s clearly labelled with your name. We are finally free of the ‘new student’ title and ready to rock year two with a bang. I’m certainly more positive than when I left here three months ago. It’s amazing how a break can clear both the air and your mind. I’ve mastered the art of burying my regret by making myself a tonne of promises.
I promise never to sleep with a tutor again.
I promise never to keep things from Izzy again.
I promise to visit Dad’s grave more regularly.
That last promise springs more from guilt than regret. No matter how much I have tried, I just couldn’t and can’t bring myself to like John. I guess he might be an okay guy but it just doesn’t sit right with me. I feel like I am betraying my dad. It was nice having his graveside close by again. I found myself sitting there many a time, talking to him. Having that outlet to speak freely helped me to put things in perspective. I’m still young, I will still make mistakes and Rob was nothing more than a big life lesson for me.
One thing that was strange was seeing my bike again. I half expected it to be gone when we returned, so it was a nice comfort to know that my mum had kept it for me. Not just mine, but my dad’s, too. I bet that hasn’t gone down well with John, but I couldn’t give a shit. At least it was one less thing for us to argue about. I still couldn’t bring myself to take her out for a spin. I sat on her for a while, deliberating whether or not I was strong enough to withstand the emotion I could possibly be faced with by riding her, but the bottom line is, I’m just not ready for that. I want so badly to be able to enjoy it again. I never feel freer than when I’m out tearing up the streets, but there’s just something missing from it now my dad is gone, and I don’t know what it is. Until I work it out, I won’t ride.
Despite how much my mum nags, and however weird it feels living with John, the break in Manchester was a memorable one. Izzy and I let our hair down – endless nights out, boys here, there and everywhere (actually that was just me), and I even got a tattoo. I was pretty wasted after a gig we had been to. I seriously don’t know what I was thinking, and the pain… Jeez, I’ve never felt anything like it.
“Like you’d get a tattoo, Goose,” she drunkenly snorts.
“Sure I would. I’ve wanted one for ages.” I grit my teeth through a smile and raise my eyebrows at her, insisting she go along with my tale.
“No, you wouldn’t,” she slurs, swinging forward and waving her corona bottle in the air.
Giving the guy I’m draped from a sweet smile before rolling my head to the side, I glare at her. “Yes. I. Would.”
She continues to laugh, stretching forward. “No. You. Wouldn’t.”
“Yes. I. Would!”
Izzy begins to tap the end of the bottle on my nose and grins. “Okay, I king dare your arse.”
And that’s all it ever takes for me. The next morning, I woke up with a bloody giant, blue dolphin positioned in the middle of my stomach and a hazy memory of the night before. There was goading from some guys, and I know there was laughter - lots and lots of loud, heavy, belly aching laughter. But above all else, a new memory, and no matter how much it hurt, it is one thing I am not burying with a promise. It’s a constant reminder of how I have allowed myself to start having fun again.
When faced with darkness, I need to a pick a person who I want to stand by my side to guide me through. I chose Izzy Moffit years ago, and still to this day; she is my guiding light. This summer proved, beyond doubt, how much I can rely on our friendship to help me through the tough times, even when she isn’t aware of it herself. One choice I definitely don’t regret. I just hope I can keep anything else from creating a gap between us. At least in the new place we have our bedrooms now, giving us that little bit of personal space every girl needs.
The one thing that brought us closer together while we were gone was the discovery that the space back in Manchester that we always relied on has gone. The tree house has been vandalised. Some arseholes thought it was funny to start a fire in there, so it is now half burnt, half graffiti and completely unrecognisable as the place Izzy and I once adored. It holds a special place in our hearts for so many reasons from our childhood and we are both devastated to see it in such a mess. We have considered trying to fix it, but what the hell do we know about building a treehouse? Besides, it just wouldn’t be the same. I’ve found things never are when you try to recreate them. That’s why I like fresh starts. It’s a chance to start over, to put all the mistakes behind me and try to pave a different path for myself.
This is a new year at university and a chance for me to start over.
I have a positive mental attitude and a list of promises.
Nothing can stop me now.
Nineteen
Christmas Eve 2001
With term one over and done with, we have finally come home for Christmas. I have managed to get three days off from my new bar job. Given this is one of our busiest periods, I am lucky. I figured the extra cash would stop me from diving into any more of the money Dad left me. The free drinks thrown in are a complete bonus. This is the second Christmas now without Dad and the spark is still gone, which makes me glad we’re only spending three days here. Even more so when I saunter into the kitchen and catch sight of what is lying on the table, causing me to freeze.
“Do you like them, Paris? I made them myself,” Mum asks enthusiastically.
“I… Er… “
As Izzy catches up behind, I hear her shocked remark. “Whoa… “
“Paris? What do you think?” Mum asks again.
“They’re erm. Yeah, they’re, erm…”
They’re the last thing I expected to see this Christmas.
Bloody matching knitted jumpers for the four of us.
I struggle to find the words or comprehend what she must be thinking. She knows full well that is a tradition we shared with Dad and certainly not one I want to start up again with bloody John. I rack my mind for something to say - anything - when Izzy suddenly jumps in to save the day.
“They’re great is what she’s trying to say. Thanks, Lily. We’ll put these on later, won’t we, Goose?” She nudges my shoulder, causing me to stumble forward.
I mumble under my breath, “Like hell we will,” before sighing heavily and putting on a false smile. “Yeah, sure, whatever she says.”
“Paris, if you don’t like it, we don’t have to wear them,” Mum says sadly.
“Nonsense, Lillian. You’ve gone to a lot of trouble to make these. We will all be wearing them, won’t we, Paris?” John says, giving me a glare I haven’t quite seen from him before.
Who does he think he is, talking to me like that? He’s not my dad. And what the hell is Izzy doing agreeing to us wearing them? She knows damn well how I feel about it. Sometimes she just tries too hard to keep the peace.
“Sure, John,” I say through gritted teeth, shoving my balled up fists into my pockets while my mood instantly turns into a shit one. “I’m going to the garage to check my bike over.”
As I turn my back on all three of them, I don’t miss his comment to Mum. “See, Lillian? You just need to be firmer with the girl.”
I shake my head, slamming the internal door to the garage. Once inside, the old scent of diesel helps me to calm a little. It reminds me of my dad instead of that tosser inside his house. He always managed to catch me off guard for a hug when he was covered in the stuff. Those were some of the best hugs I got from him.
“Daaaaaad, get off me,” I screamed.
“You’re never too old for a hug from your old man, Paris.” He squeezed tighter.
“I’m, like, twelve now, Dad. I’m pretty sure I’m too old.”
“Trust me, there are going to be times when you need these and I’ll always be right here waiting.”
“Whatever you say, Dad,” I agreed, defeated, pretending to hate it but secretly loving having him close by, smiling so he cou
ldn’t see me.
I could use one of those smelly, suffocating, but totally satisfying hugs, right now.
That’s when I realise, riding is the one passion our souls shared, our bond between father and daughter – something irreplaceable, unlike a stupid knitted sweater. It’s possible I could feel closer to him if I just got back out there.
Before I know it, the garage door is open, I’m wearing my old gear and I have kick-started the bike to life. The roar of the engine and the anticipation of the thrill trigger the old adrenaline junkie in me. As I get carried away in the excitement of the moment, I can hear my dad whispering to me. “It’s like having a love you can control with a twist of your grip.”
He was right, this is so damn awesome. There’s no other love than the one I have for riding. I’m back in the saddle and I’m in control. I can’t help but push it a little too far, wheel spinning out of the concrete garage and onto the tarmac road. The noise is loud, the vibrations are powerful and the wind in my face wakes me up.
I feel invigorated, like the carefree nineteen-year-old I should be.
I feel alive.
Man, I feel fucking good.
Maybe having the bike back in my life will help to pick me up when I’m down, angry or just missing Dad. I don’t know why I haven’t done this sooner, but as I ride aimlessly around the streets of Manchester on Christmas Eve, I feel alive and free.
To hell with the knitted jumpers!
*******
It’s Christmas Eve, 2002.
The workload at university has become pretty intense in the final year. I’m starting to feel the pressure. I’m still working in a bar but not the same one as last year. I get bored easily so switching it up brings back that buzz. It also gives me a chance to meet new people, or more specifically, new guys. The bike is working out pretty well for me, too. If I have a fight with Izzy or I’m just feeling in a shitty mood, it gives me the escape I need from it all for a few hours while I clear my head. I’ve secretly considered planning a bit of a road trip through Europe next summer, like my Dad used to do. Izzy keeps talking about getting her flat. I’m not sure whether that includes me or not, but I’m just not sure I’m ready to start putting down roots.
Paris Hemsworth's Road to Wonderland (Road to Wonderland Series Book 2) Page 13
