“Of course I can do that. I’m going to do exactly that, Mum,” I say flatly, even if I’m somewhat breathless. “Go to Wales for Christmas with Emily and Carys, who are also my family. Carys is mydaughter.Nothing you say is going to change my plans.”
“You can’t.”
“Watch me.” I look at my mother, jaw set.
“You don’t even have the decency to marry Emily and yet you call her your family.” Mum sniffs her disapproval.
“I’m not in love with Emily. Plus, this isn’t the 1950s. She’s a good friend. And my family. And—”
“Don’t tell me anything more, I don’t want to hear it—”
“I’m gay, Mum. And attracted to men, for the record.”
I can’t believe we’re having this fight. Again.
“You’re just going through some selfish phase. Yet another of your self-destructive phases like you’re having some perpetual tantrum and not thinking about us—”
“Let’s talk about who’s actually being selfish here—”
Mum’s face turns red. My ears burn. Everyone stares at each other in awkward, paralyzed silence. Nothing like some casual homophobia at the table and denying Carys’s existence to ruin another family gathering.
There’s a clatter, and Great Aunt May cuts her off, the only one who can get away with that. “Oh no, I’ve dropped my cutlery. Charles, would you please get me another fork?”
Great Aunt May has no problems with dexterity. She’s nimble, an athlete back in her day.
As I rise, she catches my gaze. She’s slightly turned away from my parents. There’s a hint of mischief in her pale eyes.
“Of course.” Grateful, I bolt to the kitchen. Drawing a deep breath, I rake a hand through my hair, then grip the counter to do the breathing exercise that my therapist taught me.
Stay calm. Stay fucking calm.
That’s not strictly part of the exercise. My stomach’s in knots. I pull out my phone.
Nightmare, I text Michael.Mum’s pretending she hasn’t heard me talking about going to Wales to see Carys. I hate Christmas so much.
There’s a surprisingly quick response.
Hang in there. Keep with your plans.
I don’t think she’ll ever accept Carys, I text back. My eyes sting for a moment before I will the tears away. Not here. My shoulders are tight.
I’m sorry. I hope she comes around one day too.
With a gulp, I slide the phone away and find a fork. One piece of cutlery at a time, I’ll get through the rest of Sunday lunch. When I bring Great Aunt May her fork, she pats my arm.
After cake, I make my round of goodbyes and retrieve my guitar from the study off the entry, where it was tucked away out of sight so it wouldn’t offend anyone. I tug on my black leather lace-up boots, find my wool coat in the wardrobe, and wrap a generous gold scarf around my neck. With gloves on, I take the guitar and my bag with some uni reading and open the door.
No one comes to see me off.
In the gray mist, I walk the fifteen minutes to the station, pushing away the heaviness that Sundays usually bring when I come out to Richmond, like I’m trying to briskly outwalk the ghosts of my personal history.
I’ve got headphones on over my ears, playing some old tunes from The Stone Roses, and I feel freer. I tug up the lapels of my wool coat against the sting of the weather. Out here, December’s late afternoon gloom hangs low. On the platform, I shiver, guitar in hand and backpack slung over my shoulder.
Once the train arrives, I huddle down in my seat. The air con’s probably on, because that would be just my luck today. I spend about three minutes on my readings, too out of sorts to focus. Instead, I give Emily a quick call to check in and get a glimpse of Carys to cheer me up a little. If only they weren’t so far away.
There’s a moment when I think of Ben. I bet he doesn’t have family drama like this. What does he do on Sundays?
Chapter Five
