Part two.

Eleven days, the name of this blog and ironically the amount of time I have left before he comes home. I haven't wrote in a while, probably because my head has been in too much of a mess, moments of clarity followed by days of confusion. I haven't spoken to him since the day after he left, the morning I had to text to apologise for my behaviour the night before. I was out with friends, ended up with my brothers good friend, Richard, who over the years has became like family, and more recently like a best friend to me. We talk, very drunk, about everything in our lives. He tells me all about the woman who he is in love with, who is engaged to another man, but who vows to end it soon so that they can be together. I don't know what I tell him, because I sure as hell can't tell him about this. Yet on this particular Saturday, over our standard treble vodka and Red Bull he turns to me and asks "Who's hand are you holding these days then?" "No-one" I answer I can't tell Richard about him, they are all ex-collegues, friends, interlinked - I would not put him in the position of having to keep something from my brother. "What's going on with him then?" He motions to the bar, I know exactly who he means, even though he is in fact in London and no where near the bar this night. "Who?" I question, smiling. There is no one else for him to mean, the place is filled with old friends, people who have always been in my life and who are more like extended family. "I saw this coming from day one," he continues "the moment you met, I saw it. I told him to stay away, even stood behind him while you talked and told him to stop. He didn't of course, dirty little southerner, knew you were too good for him, but I hated the way he looked at you. He's bad news and you know it." Richard isn't the first person to mention how he looks at me, and it makes me feel a little light headed, I tell him everything.

He tells me why my brother is so against us. Because that is exactly who he was about 5 years ago, handsome, charming, a dick head. I can understand that. I'm told repeatably that night that I am going to look like a fool and I start to believe it. I am no different to anyone else, I admit this. Richard tells me that that is the exact problem, I don't know how good I am, but he does, he can spin it, he can twist it. I tell him that I have stayed there twice, but I have not had sex with him. This makes me happy, and I must admit, takes him back a bit.

By this point I am heavily drunk, I text him, telling him I am no ones mug, that Richard knows about us and I am done. I get no reply. I wake up, gutted about it. I know what I am doing, I am not naive and I am defiantly no ones mug. I go to work, hungover and devastated, mope around for four hours, I check my phone as i leave...'How's the hangover, beautiful?'

I am honestly beginning to hate this kid, but love him more as he is away. I think about him far too much, and wish the days away. So here I am, eleven days from him being back, eleven days away from avoiding him at all costs because my heart can't bare to have him leave again, this time for good.