There are moments when I'm certain I hate her.

A hate so fierce and violent that it shakes my whole body. I want her to hurt. Like I hurt. But then I realise that the idea of her hurting makes me feel physically ill and so I know I can't possibly hate her. It's just that I want to. Things would be a lot fucking easier if I hated her. And since the line between love and hate are apparently so close together you'd think there would be something I could grab hold of to pull me over the fucking line.

I want to rip my heart out and toss it in the fucking bin. But then I remember she'd done that already. Three days ago.

She loved her husband. Of course she did.

I'm exhausted. Every single bit of me is fucking exhausted. It feels like my whole life I've been holding on hard to something whilst being pulled by a strong current. Then three days ago it was as though the water went completely still and now I don't have the energy to hold on anymore.

What is there to hold on to anyway? Where do I go now? I want to take every memory I have of her and drown it; tie something heavy to them and watch them sink. Preferably to the bottom of a dark freezing lake. Then I could finally move on and be someone else. I could be me without the memory of her. Whoever that was.

I've always believed it's possible for an entire life to change by just a single experience, an event or even a person. In fact, in my opinion, external factors were the only things that could change you. Things changed you a little as you went along, moulding you, altering you in ways. Some of them even come to define you.

I'd been lots of things. I'd been the boy whose mum was shot in front of him, I'd been the guy who'd been in love with the same girl for 13 years, I'd been the guy who'd won the Morley, I'd been the award-winning artist who'd punched a journalist.

Three days ago I had become something else again. Something I'd been before in fact. I'd become something she didn't want. She'd redefined me.

So I'd gone and done the same with her.

The mug of steaming black coffee appears at my side along with a seeded bagel which makes my stomach turn.

"You need to eat something," he tells me.

I nod but continue staring straight ahead, reaching around slowly to lift the coffee. It shoots straight through my body; syrupy black sweetness. Pat makes a good coffee. Almost as good as Eloise's. Almost.

He passes me and walks closer to the thing on the wall, his head dipped in focus. As soon as I'd got home I'd gone to work on it. Transforming it, redefining it. I'm convinced that aside from the film, it's the best thing I've ever done.

On the bottom right corner, I'd written my name and the title. My not so subtle message to her.

"It looks incredible, mate," he says finally. "Was wondering what the fuck you were doing to it. Thought you'd ruined it to be honest. But you didn't. It's genius." He tilts his head to the side and stares harder.

I nod again. Not sure it's genius. Not sure it even works entirely but I love it. Like you love her. I feel hypnotized by it and completely attached to it. I suspected from the beginning it was going to be hard to part with it and I was right. It's literally the only thing I've ever made that I don't want to part with.

It doesn't belong to me though. It never had. It belonged to her. But then, everything I'd ever made in some way belonged to her.

"It's done," I announce. I pull myself up slowly from my cross-legged position on the floor, the joints in my knees and back cracking loudly as I stand.

Pat nods and walks closer to it, inspecting the pictures, lingering far too long on the two from the lake. When I'd cropped them I'd made sure nothing of importance was showing, but the way he's gawking at her still makes me uncomfortable.

"When's your flight?" He asks.

"What time's it now?"

He glances at his watch. "Half eight,"

"Five hours." I scrub a hand over my hair and face. "I need to pack." I should also shower. I hadn't bothered since I got back but since I'd be sitting next to some poor cunt for seven hours I should probably do the decent thing.

I leave him perving over Eloise and take my coffee downstairs where I top it up with the bottle of Jameson's sitting on the dining table. Pat buys Jameson as a way of trying to refine my palate with what he considered a superior Irish whiskey. Him being English means he's convinced his taste is better in most things than mine. Even Irish whiskey. What Pat didn't realise was that my taste and preference for the shit stuff had come because it was all my dad could afford. He made do.

I weave my way around the boxes holding vinyl records as I slurp at my 'coffee'. He'd started packing them for me about an hour after I got back on Tuesday night. He hadn't gone back to his shithole across town and I hadn't asked him to. He'd taken one look at my face when I'd walked through the door, nodded and left me to it. Then he'd started making calls and cancelling appointments he'd set up for me since it was now clear I wasn't staying on.

Apparently, my 'redefinition' was written all over my fucking face.

There'd been a few more interviews he'd had to cancel too, which on a normal day I'd have killed him for even arranging. I couldn't care less anymore. To be honest, I was having a hard time giving a fuck about anything so it was all relative. He'd also gotten an email from some band who wanted me to do a music video for them. A band I'd photographed once for The LMC in Camden about four years ago in fact. He was practically jumping up and down with excitement as he told me. 

Partially as he was really into them, but also as he hadn't quite grasped the fact that my only interest was finishing Eloise's piece and sleeping for a month. Or forever. The look of disappointment on his face when I'd told him to tell them I wasn't interested was almost enough to make me reconsider. He did what I asked though. TheN they'd come back with a better offer and said the words 'we don't want to talk to anyone else' so I actually had reconsidered.

I'd also been too exhausted to argue with Pat anymore on the merits of whether to do it. I'd meet them when I got back to London and figure it out from there. I guess it would be something I could lose myself in for a while. Presuming I could stay sober long enough.

When I'd heard him apologise to Nicole Weston I'd felt embarrassed, a weird feeling of revulsion rolling over me. Alford had looked revolted too when I'd accused him of fucking her. So Sasha's info had been inaccurate. Course it had. Just one more 'Fuck you Foley' from the universe.

From the doorway of the bedroom I stare at the bed I hadn't slept in since I got home. I see her there, smiling at me, beckoning me forward as she pulls the sheet down away from her body. I squeeze my eyes shut and pinch the bridge of my nose hard to try and dispel the image. Part of me wants this place to stay here exactly as it is in memory of what happened.

The other stronger, louder, part of me wants to leave it now and never step foot inside it again. Or better yet, destroy it with my bare hands. Then I could properly go back to where I belonged. Where the world fucked me over and I could be angry about it.

As I'm emptying the drawers I pull open the second one down, my heart freezing in my chest as I see them. There, right at the back, her torn white lace silk knickers. I'm scared to touch them incase they disintegrate in my hand. Maybe it would be better if they did. I stare at them for almost a minute before slowly reaching in to pick them up.

They feel warm. Soft and warm. They remind me of her skin and the place between her legs that I'd never get to feel again. My chest tightens painfully while my dick throbs with want. So whilst I try and hate her I still want her. How is that fucking fair?

Had she cried and told him she was sorry? That I was a mistake? How hard did she let him fuck her to try and erase me? That's what I'd have done if it were reversed. If I was her husband. Would I have forgiven her for it? Most likely. But then, I'd most likely forgive her anything. Perhaps though, I didn't need erasing. Perhaps I was gone the moment I left that fucking lake house.

The force of my grip on the warm material makes my hand vibrate and my knuckles turn white.

"You really should eat something, mate," he says from the doorway of the bedroom, cutting through my trance. I blink a few times and ball the scrap of underwear inside my own and carry it over to the case.

"I'll be back at Rosin's tomorrow, Pat, no need to do the stand in thing anymore," I tell him as I sip my cold black 'Irish coffee'. I need another.

"You've barely eaten in three days," he points out.

"I was busy. I'll eat on the flight."

He sighs and steps further into the room. "Ready to tell me what happened yet?"

"Nothing to tell."

He looks at me skeptically. "Seriously?"

"Seriously."

"Aidan, for fuck sake," he sighs again.

"What, Pat? What is it you want to know exactly?" I snap. "What do you think happened? Didn't you predict it right from the fucking start? You were right. You're always fucking right. Congratulations."

A look of pity comes across his face. "Yeah well, for what it's worth, I didn't want to be right about this one."

"You didn't? Oh, well that makes all the difference mate, cheers," I say as I press hard down on the top of my suitcase to flatten the contents.

I see him contemplate retaliating but in the end, he bites his tongue and says nothing. As I swallow the last of my coffee his stare burns into the side of my face. When I turn to look at him again he looks sad and I feel guilty for my outburst. None of this was his fault. Course I know that. He warned me. He encouraged me too —not that I needed any —but at the start, he did warn me. 

"She's sorry," I say, my tone calmer. "That's what I got. She's sorry."

"Well, maybe she is."

The rage returns and I narrow my eyes at him. "You on her side or mine here?"

"What side, Aidan? What are you on about? Don't be a bloody child for fuck sake." He rolls his eyes.

"A child?" Eloise had called me that too. So had Alford in fact. I need another fucking drink.

"Yeah, a child. She's married Aidan," he states without a hint of irony.

"Oh, she is, Pat? I had no idea. Thanks for the fucking newsflash."

"Did she say she was going to leave him? Did she give you a single tiny hint that she was looking for a way out of her marriage? No, I'm betting not. So quite frankly, if you thought it was going to end differently you were kidding yourself." He drags a hand through his hair and gives me another of his sad looks. "But then, you've always been kidding yourself when it comes to her, haven't you? You literally have zero grip on reality when it comes to this woman, Aidan. You never have." He turns towards the door but then stops and turns back. "But you know what? Maybe all this, what happened here, is a good thing, because maybe now you can get over this. Maybe now you can put this ridiculous childish fucking obsession with her to bed and move the fuck on." He exits the room angrily.

What the fuck does he have to be angry about? Who the fuck is he telling to move on? I want to move on. I also want to punch him. I feel my fists curl and the blood pound hotly in my ears as I glare back at him.

To stop me doing something or saying something I regret, I turn and stomp into the bathroom. Acutely aware that stomping anywhere undoubtedly makes me look even more fucking childish.

I grip the sink hard and stare into the mirror. My eyes are bloodshot and ringed in red, and stand out against the grey / white pallor of my skin. I look like shit. I could be doing with a holiday somewhere with sun. At least my face was growing back though, retreating gradually back into hiding where it belonged. I run my hand over the trim I'd given it a few days ago which was being slowly forgotten.

I grab my shower bag and go back into the now empty bedroom and sling it into the case. With a final glance round the bedroom and inside the bedside drawers, I close the case and carry it out into the loft. Pat is on his laptop on the dining table as I walk into the kitchen to pour myself another coffee from the pot. He only looks up when I slide the bottle of Jameson towards me and top up my coffee cup with it. As I take a seat across from him he lets out a sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose.

"I'm sorry, man," he says softly.

I try a smile. "Not you too."

"I'm just worried about you. I don't want you back where you were three years ago. Or where you were when I met you."

I scrub a hand over my face. "Stop fucking worrying about me, Patrick. I'm an adult." I give him a pointed look.

"Well, you've a funny way of demonstrating that at times, Aidan."

"That right?" I roll my eyes and take another generous gulp. Coffee is definitely my favourite mixer.

He sighs again and reaches forward to grab the bottle, unscrewing the cap, taking a sip and then another before sitting it back on the table.

"Look, I get what being with her must have felt like, I do. You got to live the dream. This impossible unrequited love thing you had for so long finally came good. I was over the fucking moon for you mate honestly, but you need to let it go now. All of it. It's done." His voice is calm and even but there's concern peppered over every word. As I stare back at him and digest his words, I feel the back of my throat start to burn with an odd sensation.

"I don't know how to," I admit. "I've held onto her so tight for so fucking long, terrified that I'd lose her, that I honestly have no clue how to let go now."

He slides forward on his elbows across the table and nods at me, earnest. "She didn't make you what you are," he says. I frown, confused. "That's what you think right? You think she was the root of it all —your creativity and inspiration —and that without her you have nothing? Well, it's bullshit, Aidan. You're brilliant because you were born with a talent. One that lets you express yourself in ways other people can't. All she did was give you feelings that you wanted to express. What happened to you when you were a child did that too. She was something good you had for a while that drowned out all those horrendous memories you lived with for years. Memories you still live with. But you can't let this ruin you, Aidan. Not when you survived much fucking worse." His voice is soft but forceful and it hits me somewhere between my throat and my chest. I'm struggling to swallow. My eyes feel strange. "I won't fucking let it," he adds.

When I blink I feel something warm and wet run down my face. I squeeze my eyes closed and scrub my hands across them and inhale deeply and release a long breath.

"Yeah well, I think you're a bit late man. Pretty sure I was ruined a long time ago," I tell him.

"That's bullshit as well," he huffs. "But it sounds good for interviews so just keep saying it okay?"

When I open my eyes to look at him he's smiling a little. "Whatever you want," I
nod. You're the PR man."

"So, we're agreed that we don't have another thirteen years of moping over her then?"

"We?" I raise an eyebrow as I take another sip of my coffee.

"I feel like I've been moping over her with you. Seriously, try someone else on for size mate. Just for a change. Not like you're short on fucking offers."

"Yeah." I look down. "Tried that once already remember?"

"I remember," he nods. "Actually speaking of which..."

"What?" I frown.

He shifts in his chair and runs a hand over his mouth. "Weird coincidence actually, but I got a call from Leah last night."

I feel my eyebrows knot together. "Why would she call you?"

"She was looking for you. You've changed your number," he says as though it explains a single fucking thing. "She wanted to talk to you about some show she's doing for The Donmar Warehouse. She thought you might be interested in it. In working with her. She never gave any details, just wanted me to 'test the water'. She said not to worry if you weren't interested, or too busy, or still a massive complicated dick."

I smile. "She said that?"

He nods. "Told her you were definitely still a massive complicated dick but I'd mention it to you anyway."

"Which you have."

"So what will I tell her?"

I run a hand over the back of my neck. "Tell her I'll give her a call when I get home." I decide.

Pat drums his fingers on the table studying me while I quietly finish my coffee. I'm hoping the whiskey will win out over the caffeine because I want to slip into a drink induced coma in the air.

"For what it's worth," he starts. Oh, here we go. "Even though the project sounds interesting, and despite what I said earlier about moving on, I don't think moving onto your ex is the answer to getting over the love of your life. Just putting it out there." He gives me a look of warning.

"Oh, you don't? Well, what the hell am I gonna do now? Fuck, honestly who knows what I'd do without you mate." I roll my eyes.

"I'm serious, Aidan."

I sigh. "I know you are Pat. And I have no desire to shite all over her again so you've got nothing to worry about." And I mean it. I'm in an even worse place now than I was then probably. How I left things with Leah still makes me feel guilty. It's on my long list of things I regret. I don't regret being with her necessarily, just how I'd dealt with it. With her. I'd convinced myself from day one that she was temporary simply because she wasn't Eloise. It was ridiculous. Who knows if I could have been happy with her if I'd let her in.

I have too many fucking regrets. I'm weighed down with them and I want to be done with them. How many more could I carry?

Did it mean anything that she'd gotten in touch right at this point, though? Now that I was about to finally let Eloise go. I can't think about that right now. My head is full. Full of memories and regrets. But I need to figure out how to be done with them.

My mind starts to wander through which ones I regret most. I should have told Eloise I loved her. That I'd loved her my whole adult life. But I'd been a coward. I'd been terrified it would have made no difference to her. Terrified it would have made a difference. But in the end, it hadn't mattered either way. Because she loved her husband. Yes, of course I love you.

"Have you called Roisin? She know you're coming home?" He says, breaking through the haze.

I shake my head. "Nah, she'll start trying to arrange things. Feel she needs to redecorate the entire house or something. Best to just turn up."

He nods. "So you don't know how she's doing then?"

"I assume she'd have called me if it was really bad," I say, though I'm not convinced it's entirely true. My aunt is a lot like my sister in times of need. A lot like me. A fucking island.

"So what are you going to do now? You're gonna meet with The Collective? Do this video?" He sounds excited again.

"I'll meet them." Really though, I need to take a break before thinking about doing anything else. I've worked solidly for the last three years and I honestly can't be fucked even thinking about doing anything else ever again. But the video might be a good idea. I'm coming round to it. It's different. A challenge. I'd never minded a challenge. "I really need to go over and see Niamh and Rory as well," I add. "But that'll depend on how Roisin is."

Pat nods in agreement before relaxing back in his chair and glancing about the room.

"The vinyl's are getting picked up tomorrow afternoon. I've arranged for the two unsold pieces and the un-exhibited stuff from upstairs to get picked up on Monday. I'll let you know when you need to be at home for it," he says before his eyes turn serious. "I'll call her tomorrow and arrange delivery of it and I'll let you know when it's done." He'll call Eloise. Maybe she won't even want the thing upstairs anymore. Part of me would be heartbroken of course, but part of me would be pleased I'd get to keep it for myself.

"Thanks, mate," I say, averting my eyes to glance around the loft. I'd already detached myself from the place but my eyes linger on the pillar near the kitchen for a moment too long. I'm so sorry. "Yeah, well I probably should head, taxi takes about an hour."

He nods. "Need a hand down?"

I shake my head. "I'll manage." I stand from the table, the effects of my maximum strength Irish coffee washing over me as I do. I zip my passport and phone into the side compartment of my rucksack and hook it over both shoulders, then I hang my headphones around my neck. Pat follows me to the door. "Fuck, here, I almost forgot." I stop walking and reach into the back pocket of my jeans to retrieve the white envelope. "Make sure she gets it will you? Send it with the thing upstairs." I hand it to him.

"What about the outstanding payment?"

As I look at the envelope a weird shiver runs down my spine. "That tells her what to do with the outstanding payment." I'm not sure how she'll take the note now. Didn't matter anymore. Nothing mattered anymore really.

He gives me another of his looks of pity before reaching forward to open the door for me.

As I turn back to him to say goodbye he moves forward suddenly and wraps his arm around me, squeezing me tight. He's shorter than me and I almost choke on his hair first before I twist my head out of the way. Pat's not really a cuddler. He's only ever cuddled me once before —the night I won the Morley. He was completely rat-arsed. I must look like I need it if he's doing it now.

"I really am sorry, mate. But you're gonna be fine. Once you're home you're gonna be fine."

"Yeah," I say as I put my arm around him. "I'll be grand. See you in a few weeks. Thanks for doing all this, man." I gesture behind him with a tilt of my head as I step back.

He waves away my thanks. "Just take care of yourself, and Roisin. See you back there. Call you in a day or so."

"Don't forget to give her the envelope," I tell him as I head for the lift.

I've always liked JFK as far as airports go. It's less depressing than the rest of them. Quaint almost, with little pockets of isolated seats where you can sit by yourself and play over your whole life. Where it went wrong, where it went right. When it ended, when it began. I'd be fine like Pat said. Once I got home I'd be fine. This was definitely worse than before. I'd been used to not having her before but this was far far worse. Now I'd actually lost something. Now I knew what it was I didn't have.

She was sorry. Fucking sorry. The most pointless word in the English language. I hate it. People use it to fill silences when they have nothing else to say, or they say it robotically without any feeling behind it whatsoever. The need to hate her washes over me again. Maybe I do hate her. Why don't I know?

I used to think I hated my dad but that wasn't hate either, not really. My feelings for him were something else —more complex. A desperate need for forgiveness probably. An even more desperate need for his love. Maybe that's my problem? Maybe I've always been desperate for people to love me despite making it virtually impossible for them to. Or if they did love me then I'd eventually come to make them regret it. I'd likely have done the same to her. But I'd never fucking know. Because she was sorry.

Leah comes to mind. I'd never dwelled too much on her since we finished. But maybe I should have. Maybe how I handled the women in my life was something I needed to dwell on? Handling them, knowing what they wanted and needed, how to love them and let myself be loved by them. I'd never been fully prepared to give them what they needed and wanted — well, except for Eloise. I'd have given her anything. Everything. And look where that had gotten me.

Leah had taught me one thing about women. They didn't care much for unrequited love. I hadn't spoken to her since the night she told me she loved me. The night she told me she loved me and I told her that that was her problem, not mine. I feel an odd stirring in my gut when I think about seeing her now. It isn't the same stirring that comes from thinking about Eloise —that's more like a sledgehammer to every part of my body —but there's a fondness there. It might be nice to see her again. She'd been prepared to love me, had loved me, despite my being a massive complicated dick, and I'd rejected her. Much like Eloise had done to me three days ago.

I pull out my phone and bring up Leah's number, which I'd saved for reasons unknown. Then I type out a text telling her I'm coming back to London and that I'd call her in a few days to discuss her proposition. Then, being the fucking sadist that I am, I go into my photos. Flicking through around ten, each more painful than the last: her making a stupid face at the camera, her writing as I'd sat beside her, her as she'd fallen asleep on the couch with her book on its side next to her, her covering her eyes when I'd tried to photograph her as soon as she'd woken up. The sledgehammer makes a crunching noise as it hits my chest.

I select them all and hit delete.

Then I regret it immediately. Fuck it, what was one more fucking regret on top of all the others?

I order two double whiskeys from the snooty overdone stewardess and down them both before seconds after we'd got in the air. Then I ball up my pillow, switch on my playlist, and close my eyes so I can sleep the entire 6hrs and 55 minutes home.

My last thought before I close my eyes is that I hate her. My last thought before I lose consciousness is that I love her.

Fuck knows how I'll feel when I wake up.