68
Ryan
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure, go for it.”
“You and Martin…well, why?” I ask her, as she makes us coffees in her café. The coffee machine, thankfully, is still in one piece.
I brought her here after taking Evan to school. She has an appointment with the insurance company and I should really be on my way to training – I’m already late, and after skipping a few days, the coach’ll kick my arse.
“What do you want to know?”
Everything, for fuck’s sake. Last night I didn’t want to push it – we were busy with something else – but this morning her words started to take shape in my mind. A strange desire to hear everything about him and her is gnawing away at my insides.
“You told me he’s gay.”
Christine hands me a cup of coffee and jumps onto the counter.
“He didn’t know back then, he hadn’t realised yet. He was confused.”
“You don’t say,” I say, taking a few sips, worsening the burning sensation in my stomach.
“We went out for a while, we had sex… It was the first time for both of us, and after almost two months I realised I was pregnant. When I told him, he confessed that he’d realised he was gay.”
“And then what happened?”
“My parents lost their shit. He lost his shit and…well, you know me by now.”
I smile.
“There was no sense in trying to be a family. He didn’t want me. But he was always there for Evan, and that was what counted.”
“So what did you do?”
“It wasn’t easy,” she says, avoiding my gaze. “I was just a girl, I was so scared, and I suddenly found myself with a baby in my arms. There were a few really difficult years where I thought I couldn’t do it, where I thought I’d only mess everything up even more… And that’s kind of what happened. I’m hardly a model parent.”
“I think you’re amazing,” I say impulsively.
“I’m really not. Sometimes I ask myself how he turned out so well.”
“I’m sure you did your best.”
“I tried. I dropped out before the last year of school – it wasn’t the best decision…but I got my secondary school diploma after doing evening classes at college. Then I found this job. At first, my parents helped out a lot, but when Evan started school, I wanted to try and do it by myself. I worked here, which meant I could afford an apartment. It was nothing special: a bedroom, a kitchen-living room, and a bathroom. It wasn’t much, but it was mine. Ours,” she says, looking at me in embarrassment. “We didn’t have much, but everything we had came from us,” she says, with a sense of pride in her voice that I can only envy.
“A few years ago, I took over here. The owner was retiring and now it’s all mine. Thanks to the café, I could afford a mortgage from the bank, and now we have a decent house to live in.”
“And Martin? Didn’t he help you out with all this?”
“Martin helped us when we asked him for it. Medical bills, school uniforms, books…all the things Evan needed.”
“He could’ve done more,” I say, feeling the burning feeling worsen again.
“I didn’t need him for that.”
Jesus, what a woman.
“You’re not used to asking for help, are you?”
