Mr. Commitment by Mike Gayle Read Free Book Online Page A

come back later.”
    1–0
    In a single swoop I’d claimed the moral high ground, belittled her feelings and made myself out to be the last remaining reasonable person left on Planet Earth.
    “You can’t stand being wrong, can you?” retorted Mel. “You’re not man enough to admit when you’ve made a mistake.”
    1–1
    The moral high ground that I craved so highly was all Mel’s. She’d pinpointed my insecurities and cast slurs upon my masculinity. I was in great danger of looking stupid.
    “Whatever,” I sighed exasperatedly.
    2–1
    Argument shorthand for “I’m pretending that I can’t be bothered to argue with you.”
I’m bound to win now,
I thought spitefully, and then Mel started to cry.
    Game over.
    This wasn’t fair at all. “Whatever” wasn’t a phrase worthy of tears. Mel had cheated by using the crying card when I hadn’t even provoked it. Most of our big arguments ended with tears. She’d say something horrible. I’d say something equally horrible. She’d cry. And I’d feel guilty. Tears were the secret weapon from which I had no defense.
One day,
I decided,
I’m going to get into an argument with Mel and burst into tears before she does, just so she can see how it feels.
    I hated seeing her cry. Absolutely hated it. I wanted to put my arms around her and tell her I was sorry, but I knew she’d just reject my peace offering. So instead, brushing past Julie—who had returned to watch the intriguing spectacle of two people not talking—I shook my head in her direction in a high-minded “I pity you” manner, and opened the door.
    I was—mentally speaking—already huffing my way down Clapham High Street, moaning to myself about how I was never going to understand women and their strange ways, when Mel shouted out after me, “What
did
you come round here for anyway, Duffy? Just to show me how much I can’t stand you?”
    I searched for something equally horrible to say, but the genuine hurt I heard in her voice thankfully brought me to my senses, so that the worst thing I could find in the deep well of regret into which I was currently sinking was, “I came to tell you, yes, I want to marry you.”
    This was actually a bit of a lie.
    Well, not a lie, but not exactly the truth.
    Kind of ninety-seven percent truth and three percent total fabrication.
    I did want to marry her—just not now—not yet. The words I’d said instead, however, had sort of leaped from my lips and now they were out I was almost proud of them. I’d never quite understood how people came to make decisions of this magnitude: “Let’s have a baby”; “Let’s get married”; “Let’s commit suicide.” These are all monumental life-changing decisions from which there is no return. I’d always believed it would take a certain type of strength from a certain type of person to say, “Let’s get married,” so I was pleased that even I, a metaphorical seven-stone weakling in a world crammed full of emotional heavyweights, had been able to cut it with the big boys.
    Hard Mel disappeared instantly, as did my incarnation as “Stupid Boy.” In their places were the Mel whom I knew and loved so much, and the good old me who thought Mel was the best thing since toast. She raced toward me and wrapped her arms around me tightly, making me feel like more of a man than I’d felt in a long time. As she kissed me fervently, again I realized I’d just made all her dreams come true.
If only it was always this easy to make people you love happy,
I thought. Sometimes I felt like my whole reason for being was to fill the lives of those I loved with disappointment—it was a nice change to do the opposite.
    I was happy.
    Mel was happy.
    Even Nosferatu seemed to be smiling.
    Everything was going to be all right.

The Six Million Dollar Man
    T he reactions to the news of my forthcoming nuptials were strange to say the least. My mum burst into tears. “I’m so happy,” she said through her joy-filled sobs. “I’m just