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Back Love, Almost Save as PDF
Chapters (52)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. Epigraph
  4. PROLOGUE
  5. 1
  6. 2
  7. 3
  8. 4
  9. 5
  10. 6
  11. 7
  12. 8
  13. 9
  14. 10
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. 18
  23. 19
  24. 20
  25. 21
  26. 22
  27. 23
  28. 24
  29. 25
  30. 26
  31. 27
  32. 28
  33. 29
  34. 30
  35. 31
  36. 32
  37. 33
  38. 34
  39. 35
  40. 36
  41. 37
  42. 38
  43. 39
  44. 40
  45. 41
  46. 42
  47. EPILOGUE
  48. Acknowledgements
  49. Keep Reading …
  50. About the Author
  51. By the same author:
  52. About the Publisher

This is the spot where Jack asked me to move in with him.

The exact spot.

We thought we were witnessing something unique, something that would mark the moment, so we decided to take a leap of faith. I know that’s how Jack’s mind worked, why he said it right here, then.

And the moment is erased now.

I erased it.

It’s all my fault.

Instead of living in ignorant bliss, holding on tight to what he and I believed, I’ve ruined it. The moment; the memory; the answer Jack was looking for. What would I say to him if he were here? ‘Ah, sorry, hun. There’s nothing behind the picture.’ It’s tourist tat. It’s a gimmick. It’s, quite simply, a fella sitting in a fucking trolley.

I call out his name.

‘Jack!’

I don’t mean to, it just happens. I could scream and scream and nobody would notice. But in all these faces, the sea of people passing me by, I wish I could see him. Please. Let him appear. Let him frighten me.

‘Jack!’

I know he’s gone. I know he got hit by a van. I know he’s been cremated. I know he’s never coming back. I’m not crazy, I’m not delusional. But, fuck. I just want to see him again. I want proof he loved me: something solid. He ‘reckoned’ he loved me. That’s what he always said, wasn’t it? But I want to know that he wasn’t an acquaintance I got carried away with. I want to know I mattered. God, how I’d love to have one massive, awful argument with him, right here and now, so I can move on from this hell I’m trapped within. I want it so bad that I’ve come on some sort of insane pilgrimage to, to, to …

… I honestly don’t know.

God. What am I doing?

I fall to my knees, my hands landing on the ground before me. My whole body begins to convulse, so I rock, my loose hair hiding my face, my eyes shut tight.

I don’t know how long I’m there before I feel a hand on my shoulder and someone gently pull me away from the selfie-takers and the mall shoppers. They get me to sit down on a concrete block. It’s part of the mall’s trendy outdoor landscape, fountains splashing up sporadically from grey slits in the floor design. An unopened bottle of water is thrust into my hands; a man urges me to drink it slowly.

‘It’s okay,’ he says, in a calm, deep voice. ‘Take your time.’

19

His name is Justin. He’s Canadian.