"'I'd die for you,' that's easy to say
We have a list of people that we would take
A bullet for them, a bullet for you
A bullet for everybody in this room
But I don't seem to see many bullets coming through
See many bullets coming through
Metaphorically, I'm the man
But literally, I don't know what I'd do
'I'd live for you,' and that's hard to do
Even harder to say when you know it's not true."
-Ride, Twenty One Pilots
I was absolutely knackered and had just returned from work to my flat in Diagon Alley. It was only five-thirty and dark as midnight, stars drawn into the inky black sky just outside of my window. I was tired and angry and had just gotten into an argument with my boss, Rusty Perry, over something petty and had taken my work home to finish.
It had gone something like this:
Rusty: Can't you do anything right, Dean? You know this is going on the second page of the Prophet Tuesday. You've really cocked it up.
Me: Well you're one to talk.
Rusty: What the hell is that supposed to mean?
Me: Whatever makes you sleep at night, Rusty.
Rusty: (a vein now appearing in his neck) You'd better shut your mouth, Thomas, or I'll fire you in a flash.
Me: You're a real arse, you know it?
Obviously I was being just as big of an arse as Rusty, but I wasn't ready to admit that I'd done a shite job at writing the article, and I was even more reluctant to say the reason behind that was because of the most stupid mistake of my entire life that I had somehow allowed to seep into all aspects of my life. Anyway, Rusty couldn't bear to look at me for another second without threatening to smack me across the face, so I used a vacation day and left for the rest of my day (three hours, fifty-two minutes, 18 seconds).
What mistake could be that severe, you ask? I did the most assholeish thing the universe has ever seen. I could-and still do-feel the eyes of every supreme deity glaring down at me, their arms crossed across their chests disapprovingly. (Once you hear what the mistake was, it'll be an unanimous agreement: I am the Supreme Asshole.)
Anyway, Rusty and I almost got in a fistfight, but before he could whip out his wand and zap me straight to Hell, where I'll undoubtedly end up after the shitty stuff I've done, Katie Bell, the sportswriter who has the desk across the aisle from me, advised me to go home. I was hotheaded and spoiling for a fight, and Rusty, who was always pissed off about something, would probably fire me if I stuck around the rest of the day. No doubt I'll have to send him an apology letter via mail owl before I return to work if I want to keep my job.
I opened a beer and finished clacking around on my typewriter for my half-hearted Portkey article. What had happened to make me the Supreme Asshole was that I broke up with my girl because I'm scared of fucking commitment, which makes me the biggest turd on this side of the Atlantic. I wanted to get hammered just to forget about it.
You had your hair tied back in a bun and no makeup on but you were still the prettiest girl I'd ever laid eyes on. We were, of course, madly in love, like every other nineteen-year-old in London, You sat down on my couch and I mentioned how we might go see Puddlemere United play with Seamus and his fiancée on Saturday, and you said that would be good, and I was about to ask you what you wanted for Christmas because I was a major procrastinator and had put it off that long, when you blurted out your news.
"I'm pregnant."
Two words. You uttered two words that brought my entire world to the ground.
"I-uh-what?"
"I'm pregnant," you repeated quietly.
"Oh-oh my God."
"Dean-"
"How?"
"You're a wise-ass," you snapped. You were looking angry now, hurt, even. Which I can't blame you for. "You have as much to do about it as I do."
"Yeah, I, uh," I scratched my neck. "Uh." We'd been dating for a while, and when you said you had news I had no idea that your news would entail single-handedly ruining my life. Diapers and hormones and stress and premature gray hairs. I knew we were serious. I loved you. You loved me. We'd told each other that, hadn't we, in Trafalgar Square the week after the war ended?
I love you, Parvati Patil.
"I…" You groped for words. "It happened."
"What's going to happen next?" I asked. That seemed the most rational thing to do: focus on what was next.
"Well, I'm going to keep it," you said. "We'll have to move in together, won't we, and in a bigger flat?"
"Whoa," I cut in, putting up my hands. "We?"
"Yeah, you and I."
"I-I don't think I can do that, Parvati."
"What are you talking about?" Your voice was wobbling at this point. You knew what I was going to say but you let me say it anyway.
"I don't think I can be with you anymore."
You, of course, bawled your eyes out, sitting on my couch in my tiny three-room flat, after I had just bought us both tickets to see Puddlemere United play, and I became the Supreme Asshole for breaking up with you because I'm afraid of commitment and being a dad, versus what I should have done, which was marry you.
I never met my own dad, or if I did, I don't remember, so how was I supposed to know what it meant to be a dad? As soon as you were gone I put my foot through the wall (literally) and punched out my window so that my fists were bloody and scratched. I had made the biggest mistake of my life. And yet, did I want to become a father? Did I want that responsibility? The answer was no then, and still is. But in any case I let the best thing I've ever had walk out my door.
Ever since I've been high-strung and hungover in the days, short-tempered and ready to beat someone, something. Which is why I picked a fight with my boss. Which is why I potentially just lost my job.
Now it's Christmas Eve, and I'm watching the sky because I'm lonely as hell without you.
How could I be so stupid?
But at the same time, how messed up would any child of mine turn out? I'm nineteen. You can't expect me to know the first thing about parenting. I barely have a job. Didn't I make the same choice most nineteen-year-olds would?
There's a knock at my door. I sighed resignedly, beer still in hand, and flung it open.
And.
And you're there.
You wore that fuzzy white cardigan, the one with the mustard stain. You'd gotten a haircut. You wore the pearl earrings I remember your sister bought you on your birthday last year.
"I know," you said. Your voice was a bit shaky and you tried to control it while I tried to tame the animal inside me tearing me to shreds for being such an idiot. "I know this is weird but I just realized I have this Christmas present I bought and wrapped for you before...before everything happened, and I just found it while getting my gifts together to go visit my parents, and I thought I should bring it to you because it's just going to sit in my flat forever if I don't, and it's Christmas Eve and I'm at your door and I know we broke up but I don't want it anymore, so take it." You pushed a small box into my hand wrapped in holly-covered paper. Your hands trembled. You had tears in your eyes. "I know we aren't together anymore so I know this doesn't mean anything to you, so you'll probably just throw it away. I'm being an absolute bitch about this and you don't even need a watch but I really didn't want it in my house."
"A watch," I echoed.
"I'll just be going," you said, turning around, and I knew you were crying by then because I could hear it in your voice, and you turned to leave down the hall, but I wouldn't let you. "Parvati," I said softly, and you stopped but still didn't look at me. I kissed you. You tasted like salty tears and pink lipstick and I loved you so much.
"I'm such an idiot, Parvati," I said, willing her to understand. "I love you, Parvati, more than anything in the entire world, and it would be a really stupid move on my part to let you walk away."
You were really crying at this point. I went on. "I love you so much. I want the baby, I want you, I want to be in your life every second."
"Are you sure?"
"One-hundred and ten percent."
You laughed uncertainly, sniffling.
"It's going to be okay," I said softly. "I promise, Parvati. I want to have this baby with you."