I Unlove You by Matthew Turner Page A

I'd be..."
    "Dean Moriarty," I say.
    "Yes!" He slams his palm on the table. "And you'd
be... ”
    "Sal Paradise."
    "Yes. Yes. Picture the girls we
could sleep with, the hearts we could break, the irresponsible
drinking and moving from one town to the next. Just the two of us
and the unknown of the road. And the food...Aus, can you imagine
how good the food is in a place like New Orleans?"
    I laugh. "They eat gumbo, I
think."
    "I've never had gumbo. I bet it's
delicious."
    "Me neither. I hear it's
spicy."
    "I love spicy."
    "Me too."
    Arms crossed behind his head, he
stares into the distance. "It wouldn't be running, brother. We'd be
searching for something better. Nobody to hurt us or tell us what
to do. No more past to remind us of the pain. Just today and
tomorrow, and all the possibilities in the world.
    “ That Finnish band told me about
a few places I ’ ve never heard of
before. It would be you and me again. Wouldn ’ t that be
amazing? ” He focuses on my eyes and unleashes that smirk
again.
    “ Yeah, it would, Joe. It
would. ”
    “ Maybe one day, brother. Maybe
one day. ”
    “ Maybe, Joe. Maybe. ”

JUNE 29 TH - WALKING ALONGSIDE THE CANAL:
     
    The
sun sneaks through the breaks in the leaves, bathing the ground in
a multitude of sunlight and shadows. To my left is the canal, its
dark and murky water littered with fauna and fallen branches. To my
right, woodland with lush green trees and drystone walls. Next to
me, the girl I love, and our child within. Fingers interlocked, we
stroll along the canal on one of the summer ’ s hottest days
yet.
    “ I can ’ t imagine how hard
walking will become, ” she says, dressed in an orange sundress
that ’ s tighter around her stomach than usual. Wide
circular-rimmed sunglasses drown her face, her wonderful eyes
hidden from view, her forearms covered in an array of bracelets and
strips of knotted-together fabric.
    “ Don ’ t worry, I
can ’ t imagine we ’ ll have too many
days like this, ” I say, my own view shielded by the chunky black
sunglasses I found in an odds-and-ends shop three summers
ago. “ You know how it works: one amazing weekend, everyone rushes
to buy barbecue supplies. Excitement builds as we all dream
that this is the
year , and then, like it never
arrived, we descend back into grey mornings and drizzly
afternoons. ”
    “ Ever the
optimist, ” she says, sticking out her tongue. “ But I mean walking in
general. Each day it gets harder. ”
    “ You can hardly see your bump.
You ’ re still as slim as always. ”
    “ I can feel it, trust me.
I ’ m heavy all over. Can you imagine what
it ’ ll be like when I ’ m gigantic? ”
    “ I doubt you ’ ll get
gigantic. ”
    “ Oh, I will. This little bundle
is turning into a massive fatty, ” she says, smiling and blowing her
hair off the front of her sunglasses.
    “ I guess we
won ’ t be able to hide it from people
soon, ” I say, smiling myself, although this lethargic offering has
become so frequent, I ’ ve forgotten what a
real smile feels like.
    “ Yeah, I think
it ’ s safe to tell everyone now. I guess
that ’ s when we get all the presents and
advice. ”
    “ And the
questions, ” I
say. “ Lots and lots of questions. ”
    “ Everyone will be excited for
us. ”
    “ You think? ”
    “ Of course. At least, to our
face, anyway. ” She laughs and rests her head on my
shoulder.
    I make another pathetic attempt at
a smile, gazing over the water as a stationary barge boat consumes
nearly half the canal. Red and white all over, its wooden structure
juts up and over the edge of the bank, tied to the side with a
black rope I assume was once white.
    I love walking beside the canal,
especially in weather like this. Shaded from the trees above, I can
walk all the way into Halifax without so much as breaking a sweat.
Parallel to woodland most of the way, this side of the canal
remains in the shade, only the occasional clearing showering the
ground in brief sunny