CHAPTER 14 #2
‘I think we’ll make it on time,’ he confirmed.
‘So, uh, you’re a Swifty, are you?’ ventured Jeremy, as Sam attempted and failed to reach the high note in ‘All Too Well’, warbling like an old cat.
‘I adore her,’ Sam said simply. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever had an emotion that hasn’t been captured in some way by at least one of her songs. I also appreciate that they’re all just absolute bops.’
‘I can’t believe I ever thought you were straight.
’ Jeremy shook his head. ‘She does have some hits. I once cried listening to “22” because I was turning twenty-nine and I could no longer relate to the song. And yes, that was only one year ago. I’m probably more of a pure pop lover myself – Carly Rae, Lady Gaga, Britney … ’
‘That also makes sense.’ Sam nodded. ‘Glad we could be civil about our pop girlies.’
‘I may be wrong, but I believe that’s feminism,’ quipped Jeremy.
There was a moment of silence, and the landscape changed from red roofs and industrial estates into the broader roads leading out of the city.
For the first time in months, Jeremy realised he could see into the distance, unobstructed by buildings and rooms and cars and traffic. He breathed a sigh of relief.
‘You know, she reminds me of you actually,’ Sam said, casting a sideways glance at Jeremy. ‘Taylor Swift.’
‘A beautiful and successful country-pop-fusion phenomenon?’ asked Jeremy.
‘You’re in your Reputation era,’ Sam explained.
‘That’s her most vindictive self. Those songs are about spite and revenge and getting even.
It’s a great era! Some absolute bangers.
It’s also super important because the songs are about being strong and empowered.
People make a lot of jokes about it, assuming it’s all about hate …
but it’s not. And her songs, at heart, are all about wanting love. ’
Jeremy nodded along, knowing Sam was being absolutely fair with this comparison, but still a little stung.
‘Just wait until I tell you my theories about the different eras of Kylie Minogue and how they represent Australia as a nation,’ Sam added.
‘I can’t believe I ever thought you were straight,’ Jeremy repeated.
‘I feel the same way about myself,’ admitted Sam.
‘I like to think you’re right.’ Jeremy leant his head against the window, feeling it vibrating into his skull. ‘That there’s a big love waiting for me, that getting fucked over and doing this whole spite plan will pay off in some way. Not sure if it’s true though.’
Sam shrugged. ‘You deserve to be loved. I think most people do.’
‘Well,’ Jeremy chuckled, ‘considering I can’t even stop a fake boyfriend fucking me over, I might be firmly stuck in my reputation era for a while yet. Do you think I should tack on a revenge plan against Geoffrey after I’m done with Miles?’
Sam didn’t answer, and they drove without speaking for a while, a slower Taylor Swift song Jeremy didn’t recognise playing softly over the silence.
He looked over, noticing the soft yet firm way Sam held the steering wheel, a far cry from the death-grip with which Jeremy used to strangle it on the rare occasions he drove.
Sam’s suit jacket was folded in the back, and his shirt sleeves were rolled back, showing a tanned expanse of thick forearms dusted with auburn hair.
Jeremy found himself imagining himself being held by those arms, steered confidently like a car.
Good lord, he needed a cold shower. Sam glanced his way, looking strangely serious, and he took off his sunglasses to give him a quick, searching look.
‘Look, you don’t have to answer, but speaking of Miles … would you like to tell me what exactly happened between you two? What he … did?’
The question was way more effective than a cold shower. Jeremy realised how small and confined Sam’s car was, how trapped he was. He imagined flinging himself onto the highway like a McDonald’s thickshake.
When he failed to respond, Sam backtracked. ‘Look don’t worry about it. I was just being nosy, and I don’t want to lower the tone when we’re on our way to the happiest occasion anyone can think of – the marriage of two people we do not know.’
‘No, it’s fine,’ said Jeremy, laughing in a non-joyous way. ‘You deserve to know, considering you’ve done so much for me, including driving me to this random heterosexual wedding.’
‘I don’t want to make you uncomfortable though,’ said Sam, looking like he regretted bringing it up.
‘It’s mostly just embarrassing,’ Jeremy admitted.
Sam’s left hand, shockingly warm, was suddenly resting on Jeremy’s leg – comforting and firm. Jeremy sighed, and started talking.
‘I guess you’ve never read Amour No More ?’
Sam shook his head.
‘Good – promise me you never will. It’s Miles Martin’s debut book, technically described as an “autofiction”, which is a wanky term for writing about your own life in a super annoying way and using different names so you can’t get done for defamation.’
‘ Amour No More ?’ repeated Sam derisively.
‘I know. So, picture this – we’d been together for four years.
Met when we were nineteen, in our first year of the writing workshop, and he was this smart, polished, somehow adult-sounding person who everyone was obsessed with.
He was the clear talent of our year – there were only twenty of us, and we were all trying different things with our writing, muddling through different stages and styles.
I had a horrible Bret Easton Ellis period where I was just writing about hot men who murdered people.
But Miles was always so confident and talented. ’
‘Disgusting,’ said Sam.
‘Yeah, but you can imagine how hard I fell when he was interested in me. He was like an ultra-literate Disney prince. I was obsessed with him. In my third year, I won a writing workshop residency thing to go to Rome for three months to study writing … and I didn’t go, because I didn’t want to leave Miles. I was that obsessed.’
Jeremy explained everything in a monotone, staring out the front window as the scenery changed to rolling hills, the hint of the ocean in the distance.
He’d realised things were rocky after they graduated from the workshop.
Miles had stayed on to do postgrad, but Jeremy had immediately started looking for work, deciding he wasn’t interested in the academic side of things.
This had meant they weren’t seeing each other every day, having to commute to different cities.
Jeremy thought the emotional distance was just strain from the physical distance, from the stress of finding a job, from Miles’s postgrad workload.
He’d organised trips together, cooked dinners, travelled late at night after work back to their university town, just to spend a couple of hours with Miles – but things still felt off between them, strained, for no reason he could work out.
Panicking, he’d organised a huge surprise party weeks before Miles’s birthday, hoping it would be a big enough romantic gesture to help patch things up.
The party took a month of preparation – all their friends were coming, some of the cooler teachers from the workshop, even some of Miles’s family.
There’d been a theme (slutty philosophers and sexy doctors, due to Miles being on his way to becoming a Doctor of Philosophy), there was food and bespoke cocktails, a local drag queen set to perform.
When Miles walked into the house he was living in, he’d been appropriately surprised and grateful, even putting on the jury-rigged toga Jeremy had made him.
The next morning he’d broken up with Jeremy, calmly and gently, explaining he’d always love him, but that they were both young and maybe they wanted different things now, and they would always have treasured memories.
Jeremy had been heartbroken, and couldn’t stop blaming himself, but also took Miles at his word.
Jeremy paused in his retelling, taking a deep breath. ‘Imagine if that was what I was so upset about,’ he said, trying to make a joke, but his voice cracked a bit. Sam simply squeezed his knee – his hand was still there.
‘The worst thing was I didn’t expect the bad bit,’ Jeremy continued.
‘After the break-up, I spent almost six months being a chill and good ex-boyfriend. We still shared the same friends – we were still doing workshop-related things. I was even happy for Miles when I saw an announcement that he’d written a book and it was being published later that year. ’
In retrospect, Jeremy should have realised something was off, considering Miles must have written the book – which Jeremy had never heard a single word about – during the time they were together.
He’d sent Miles a profuse congratulatory text, said he was coming to the launch, and got permission to stage a little promotional display at the bookshop he was working at in anticipation of the stock arriving.
At the launch, Miles had looked perfect and handsome and scholarly, cultivating a new pair of cute reading glasses and wearing a pea coat and scarf inside.
After being introduced by one of their gushing lecturers, Miles informed those gathered that he would be reading an excerpt from the book, which, he explained, was an artistic interpretation of his own life.
‘What’s the difference between a diary and fiction?
’ he asked the crowd. ‘It’s about being honest with the audience that the act of writing is the act of creating, and that objective truth is a myth.
However,’ he continued, ‘everything in this book did happen, in one form or another – and I hope some people can forgive me.’ He’d looked into the audience, directly at Jeremy.