Jack says he doesn’t say sorry easily, won’t throw clothes out once they disintegrate, can’t give up on a show he’s seen seven seasons of even if it’s shit now. He holds a grudge. And I’m muddied, have been since 2004 when we fizzed like popping candy that got a bit wet then was gone. If he had the power to blacklist me in whichever area was important to me, he would, but so far he’s not got that much sway.
“I apologise often. I’ve apologised often,” I tell him. “Every year when we’ve made up or I’ve tried to it’s like you’ve not listened, like I’m a Taylor Swift song and you’ve not heard the lyrics at all.”
“Lyrics don’t make a difference,” Jack says, “Lyrics can’t make a good song bad.”
But words are all I have, all I hear. And there’s nothing I like more than a sorry to salvage everything, to repair, to placate anyone, and there’s so much to be sorry for. I was always a fake when it came to church except with this: guilt’s my only constant. And you can’t unlearn that.