Chapter Thirty-Three
Milo
I hear Jameson in the dark before I see him: a large crunch of an apple. A ‘wakey-wakey, my brother,’ and the sound of electric blinds winding upwards. I’m in my bedroom in Brooklyn, feeling sure it wasn’t just a week ago I was with Allie, but a lifetime ago. Another world. A parallel universe.
‘Get lost, dude,’ I say into my pillow.
I groan. I don’t want to go anywhere. Ever.
We got back from Norway three days ago and I have rotted in my bed ever since. Fermented like an old bell pepper stuck at the back of the refrigerator.
I stayed up the whole night thinking about Allie last night, missing Allie, and running over and over in my head every single mistake I’ve ever made.
I texted my sponsor, Adam. I used to be so snobby about AA and meetings.
Preferred to white-knuckle through it alone.
Something about the tired strangers waiting to go inside, smoking – always smoking – and being too scared to admit I belonged with them, because if I did, my problem was real.
That was until I walked into one in Manhattan one Wednesday morning, sleep-deprived and fresh out of rehab.
A church with a broken window sandwiched between an apartment building and a dental office.
A church full of people who understood me.
Mothers. Teachers. Diplomats. Models. Their nods, their listening ears.
Short, skinny Adam’s warm unexpected hug in the snow outside.
‘You are not who you were, but you are who you are, remember, Milo,’ he texted back, and although I sometimes wonder if he gets his quotes from, like, Karate Kid or something, it helped.
And I know the dude’s telling the truth.
But that moment, with the video from Julia, it sent me hurtling backwards, like I was in one of those centrifuges NASA use to train astronauts.
Because I feel the leak is my fault; that it was me who destroyed what I had with Allie.
Again. And just talking to her could’ve saved it.
I’ve had to work my ass off to keep my thoughts in check, which has taken a lot of energy.
And when I’m not doing that, I’m thinking about Allie.
It feels physically painful to be away from her.
I feel like my chest is filled with cement.
I wonder what she’s doing every hour of every day, if she’s OK, if she hates me.
She wouldn’t even come out of her room to say goodbye.
‘We need to sort you out, bro. Shower. Shave, unless you want to keep this whole beardy, stubble situation. Stylists will be here in an hour. Final measurements for the suit for tomorrow, then—’
‘I haven’t written my speech,’ I say. ‘I haven’t slept, I can’t think of anything to say, I don’t want to talk to anyone.’
Jameson pauses, sits down on the bed. He takes another bite from his apple. ‘Not like you, man,’ he says. ‘Speeches. You like that shit. Can’t normally shut you up. Whether it be through your mouth or keyboard or pen.’
I groan, press a pillow to my face, then stuff it behind my head. Jameson passes me a juice bottle.
‘You’ve got to get a motor on, man. I hear you, I do, but you can’t just stay in bed for days.
I worry about you.’ He means he’s worried I’ll relapse.
It’s hard to explain to someone that you never would.
I’ve really meant it before and still gone back and done it.
But that video – had I seen that video back then, it wouldn’t have been the magazine in the bodega that threw me over the edge into changing – it would’ve been that.
Months before. I keep thinking about it.
Taunting myself with it like scenes from a horror movie.
‘Seriously,’ Jameson carries on. ‘Do you know why I’m here? ’
‘To stop me from dissolving into my bed?’
‘Because you are one of the most beautiful bloody souls I’ve ever known,’ he says. ‘Seriously.’
‘You on shrooms again?’
Jameson laughs, a hard hand landing on my chest. ‘No,’ he says. ‘I’m being serious. For someone always searching, you’ve got so much love in you to give. Do you know that? Like – I knew you’d just accept the whole you-and-Allie-being-in-Norway as a coincidence. You know why?’
‘Why?’
‘Because you wanted to,’ he says, softly. ‘Because you believe in fate, Milo. In all that shit. True love and love at first sight and poetry and – everything. All the romance of that stuff.’
‘I think I’m just a lost cause,’ I say with a dark laugh.
‘No.’ Jameson shakes his head, curls springing around his forehead. ‘It’s just who you are. You’re all love. Like, you wrote to me every week without a hitch when I was at boarding school. You always made sure I had a Christmas gift because you knew my mom hated Christmas . . .’
I smile, despite myself. ‘You’re not about to tell me you’re dying or something, are you?’
Jameson ignores me and carries on. ‘When I bought the farm, you were the one there, first thing moving day, even though you were totally messed up from all the Day Falls stuff, and you’d made me a fruit basket. Somehow. Like. What? Who does that?’
‘It was fruit, Jameson.’
‘Colour co-ordinated fruit, you jackass. And OK – your poem. You wrote me a poem when we were twelve and it was like the first time I’d actually felt like, wow, this poetic guy from New Jersey really likes who I am.’
‘Oh my God, the poem,’ I exclaim, sitting up in bed. ‘I . . . I wrote that poem under my covers at, like, midnight, before your flight home. I remember thinking it was really bad.’
‘It was awesome,’ says Jameson. ‘Still got it.’ Then he looks at me intently.
‘This is what I’m saying. You don’t show people who you are, Milo.
You hide parts, downplay parts, amplify others.
And it’s like, why do you do that? Just – stop.
Allie didn’t let you leave because of who you are. Allie left you because you hid it.’
Outside, somewhere down on the street, a car horn is pressed long and hard. It stops.
‘Go get your award,’ Jameson tells me, bringing his forehead to touch mine. ‘Milo earned that award. Real, talented, weirdo Milo earned it.’ He draws back, ruffles my hair.
Damn. I can’t cry now. He won’t let me forget it.
‘Thanks,’ I tell him, and I slap him on his forearm affectionately. ‘Seriously. I love you, man. Thank you.’
‘Thank me in your speech,’ he says. ‘Which you need to be writing, like, yesterday.’
‘I know. And I used to have a speech. I wrote one, way, way back then, after Day Falls. Part of the Programme. Planning for your future. I kept a list of things I wanted to say . . .’
‘Oh yeah?’
‘On my old phone.’ The old phone. The one I’ve not been able to properly look at since Allie. Since Sierra picked it up from Allie, who proceeded to block me.
Jameson nods, jumping up. ‘Want me to get it? Where is it?’ He smells amazing, the guy. Always does. Bet he’s already showered, gymmed, meditated . . .
‘Sure. Thanks. In that drawer over there. Cord should be in the junk drawer somewhere. Along with all the other mystery cords.’
‘Heard,’ Jameson salutes, and he starts searching.
I leave him in the kitchen, take a shower, and when I come back out, Jameson is slumped on the couch, a laptop balancing on his chest.
‘Looking fresh, Mildred,’ he smiles over at me.
It’s weird, but I feel sad for Jameson too, about this whole movie thing.
It was always a risk, this venture of his, but I can’t help but feel grief for what could’ve been.
The documentary. The love story. The whole thing.
All of us in it together. Me and Allie, Jameson and Iris.
I miss it. I miss Cote Rock. I even miss the salami and Lars making fun of my clothes.
I miss all of it. But I can’t even begin to think about editing that footage . . .
I find the phone plugged in on the kitchen counter. I start the coffee machine, swipe up, punch in the code.
There it is.
The background I had back then – tagliatelle. It was my first proper meal after my first rehab. An old-school New Jersey Italian restaurant. It tasted so amazing with a sober mouth, a sober mind, I wanted to remember it.
The phone tells me there’s no SIM inserted. The notes app should still work, though.
I scroll my apps – I stop on Bunty’s. A smile creeps onto my mouth. Ah, Bunty’s. Allie trying the coffee, sending me a selfie. My drink. Hated by all, except us two.
I scroll more, not looking for my notes now, but just for memories.
My Word! app. This is why I couldn’t take using this phone back then.
It was too painful. Everything reminded me of Allie.
Of when I’d trusted too much, had my ass handed to me on a silver platter.
Plus, once it’d been leaked, it felt weird using it.
This tainted phone, from a stranger’s palm.
A part of me worried for some time after Allie, if it had actually been bugged, but that felt crazy.
I was drunk a lot then. Watering down beer and calling it a win.
I press a thumb to the Word! App. It springs open. ‘Welcome, back, Milo,’ floats onto the screen.
Why am I doing this?
I’m supposed to be finding my notes to help write my speech. But it’s too close, too tantalising. I almost want the sting of the memory. I want to feel the pain of losing her, so I know she was at least real.
There it is. Milo’s word list. I smile. But, equally, I feel like I’ve been kneed in the balls.
Last updated, it says, along with an ellipsis.
I press my thumb against it, wait for a date frozen in time, from two years ago, when we both added words to it every day.
I used to get so excited when the word count increased and I knew she was over in the UK, adding them.
But – huh. Updated . . . three days ago?
Allie added: Denouement.
Seven weeks ago,
Allie added: Harlequin.
Twelve weeks ago,
Allie added: Superfluous.
My heart jump-starts.
Allie has been adding words. For years. For two whole years.
Reams of them – beautiful, unusual, amazing, cool words.
Some that look like art. Some that sound like songs.
She’s added words to my list. My stupid quirk, my hobby, that part of who I am.
Allie’s just been watering it, like a seed.
I didn’t even know. It’s just been here, kept in the dark, where I left it. She never stopped.
‘Jameson?’
Then I stop. No. Jameson was the one who organised me getting to her. This has to be me – something I do on my own. But first.
‘Could you do something for me?’