Valentine’s Day takes the spot for worst day of the year for me. Not that I have anything against love, or lovers, or even the fact that it’s a forced display of love. I hate the day for its capacity to hurt, instead of being the celebration of love it is supposed to be.
I watched Phillip fall in love for the very first time. I wanted to warn him to be careful, but I also wanted to enjoy the feeling of being young and in love. He was smitten, and I only hoped the girl was as smitten and as deserving of him. He was a really good person.
As he told me about how great she was, how amazingly beautiful, how much he loved her, I hoped he would be careful. But I didn’t tell him my fears, believing that I was being a pessimist for nothing. Just because my relationships hadn’t been successes didn’t mean he would also have the same bad luck, or even that all girls were bad.
I finally got to meet the girl. She was a meek, sweet thing, and I had to agree that the two looked beautiful together. They could hardly keep their eyes off each other, and some of the unrest in me subsided. She didn’t look the kind that would break a young boy’s heart, and I felt a little reassured. Trust me to always expect the worst.
Valentine’s Day came round, and little brother borrowed some money from me to get something nice for his girl, take her out to dinner. D-day came, and having no one to express my “love” to, I offered to be the boy’s chauffer for the day. His excitement had somehow rubbed off onto me.
First, we had to pick the flowers, a lot of flowers that filled the back seat. The plan was for me to deliver them to her home while the two love birds had their dinner. Along with the flowers, was a poem I had helped him compose. That is what would be waiting for her when she got home from their dinner.
Time for dinner came close and I drove the smartly dressed Phillip to a classy cosy restaurant, him chatting non-stop. I went outside to wait. Twenty minutes later, I checked on him. She hadn’t arrived yet.
He had to text me when she arrived, so I could go deliver the flowers at her home. An hour later, he still hadn’t texted me. I started getting a bad feeling about the whole thing.
Another hour, and still no text from him. I headed back to the restaurant to check on him. I got there and found him all alone. He was no longer so talkative, and I could tell he was worried. I sat with him, and I ordered some food.
He refused to order waiting for her to come so they could eat together. But I knew she wasn’t coming. He told me her phone was switched off. I got suspicious, but I could tell he was worried she might not be okay, so I kept my suspicions to myself.
Two hours later, she still hadn’t shown up, and her phone was still off. He excused himself to go to the gents.
When he hadn’t returned after 10 minutes, I went after him and found him crying. Whatever reason that girl had for not showing up, Phillip certainly didn’t deserve this! We threw the flowers by the roadside on our way home, and as I watched him take off his suit, I hated her even more.
The very next day, she called him “apologising” that her phone battery had been low. But the way he answered, I knew he didn’t believe her either; something had died in him.
From then on, I have hated Valentine’s Day because every time it comes around, I remember watching my little brother’s eyes dart to the restaurant door every time someone walked in, hoping she would be the one. I know it is silly hating his heartbreak on a day, but if it had never existed, he wouldn’t have been so well primed to get heart-broken.