‘God’s Own Countryit is,’ I say, finding the film and pressing play.
I seriously love hanging out with Dad. I know not everyteenager wants to spend time with their parents, but if there was such a thing as a Dad Award, mine would win it, and I’m not ashamed to boast. It might be the fact that he was a teen dad. Or that he’s gay, and I’m gay, and that bond is special. With Mum so far away, it’s me and Dad against the world. Though, in fairness, the world has given me little reason to fight it so far.
‘Don’t get me wrong, this is great, but I wish this town had more than three fish-and-chip shops and one Thai place to pick from. I’d give a lot for a good pizza.’ Dad full-on munches and talks at the same time, something he’d never do with anyone else present, except maybe Simo. But right now, I’m glad Simo isn’t here, even if I feel like a bad friend for thinking it. If he was, we would not be watching a film in which two men make out.
I realised something this week. Bingeing TV shows only takes up so much of your brain power, which means the rest has a lot of time to think. I’m not sure I like the conclusion I came to, but I can’t ignore it: I always thought I was fully myself around Simo. No barriers or filters to hold me back. But I censor what I say around him all the time. How weird is it, that I can talk about cute guys with my dad but not my best friend? Around Simo, I avoid mentioning my sexuality so much that I’m scared I lose a piece of myself. And now, after the noticeboard, I don’t know how to be all of me with him. I don’t want Simo questioning my feelings, can’t bear to have him find out there’s stuff I’m holding back. It never felt painful until I started thinking about it.
A flying chopstick hits my head and I meet Dad’s eyes.
‘I’ve asked you three times if you wanted to swap yourspring rolls for my green curry, but you are miles away. Can’t believe Gheorghe isn’t working his magic on you.’ He nods to the dark-haired love interest with the sorrowful gaze, not unlike Simo’s.
‘Yes, curry, please,’ I say, and hand over my food.
Instead of returning to the film, Dad keeps his attention on me.
‘Luca,’ he says.
‘Maz,’ I reply, and I know we’ve reached the point where We Talk. Dad thinks voicing your fears makes them smaller, but I don’t trust the science behind that.
‘I’m worried about you.’
Four little words and I already want to fall apart. ‘I’d rather not talk about it,’ I say, and sound like I have a cold. I hate my voice for betraying me like that.
‘And I get that. But it’s my job to check in with you now and then. Just following the steps in the parent manual here.’ He sets his food down before lowering the film’s volume. I keep my focus on the screen, where the two actors are pulling a lamb out of its mother’s womb. When I don’t respond, he speaks up again. ‘You can talk to Miss M instead, if that’s what you want.’
That gets my attention. ‘What did you tell her?’
‘Nothing she doesn’t already know. But you know how she is.’
She’s relentless. She’d offer useless advice until it’s coming out of my ears.
‘Luca . . .’ Dad starts, and scoots closer. He wraps me in a hug, and because it’s physically impossible to resist his hugs, I give in. Even though I’m no less of a mess, I instantly feelbetter. ‘I don’t want you to shut yourself off. Don’t push away the people you care about. Talk to me. And talk to Simo. Don’t let a little gossip ruin your friendship. You boys need to stick together.’
‘OK,’ I say after a while, once I’m sure I’m not going to cry. ‘But I want to point out that it’s not “a little gossip”. It’s a ton of gossip. It almost couldn’t be more gossip.’
Dad sets his chin on my head, and it’s scratchy, but not in a bad way. ‘I know how you feel.’
I snort.
‘Oh boy, you forget that I was only sixteen years old when I had you. I know that noticeboard got you good, but it won’t beat the scandal your mum and I caused when news of you got around.’
‘Whoops. Sorry for that,’ I say. He’s not wrong; my sticky situation pales compared to theirs. Imagine you’d just finished Year 11 and next thing you’re a parent. Neither Mum nor Dad had supportive families, so they left everything behind and landed here. And although I’m not super fond of Lombard right now, there are definitely worse places to wash up in.
‘Not your fault,’ Dad reassures me. ‘And anyway, you’re the best thing that ever happened to me. Never forget that, OK?’
‘OK,’ I reply, and I do feel a little lighter.
‘But promise not to shut yourself off.’
‘I promise,’ I say, but not without a groan.
‘That’s all I wanted to hear.’ He lets me out of his embrace, and we return to demolishing the mountain of food while watching two men making out in the mud. By the time thecredits roll, Dad is falling asleep, so I bin the empty cartons and send him off to bed.
‘Hey,’ he says, halfway out of the lounge, ‘if you want, you’re off cafe duty tomorrow.’
Other kids might jump around for joy if they found out they didn’t have to get up at five in the morning to start work. And usually sleep is priority number one, but I love Sunday mornings with Dad. He switches on the lights in the cafe, brews the first coffee, removes the chairs from the tables, until I join him, hair still damp from the shower. He grunts a hello and hands me a steaming mug of chai. I don’t drink coffee because I hate it. The irony of working in a coffee shop while despising the stuff isn’t lost on me, but I can’t stand its bitterness. It’s like drinking dirt. Sweet dirt, once you add caramel syrup to it.
So instead of pouring coffee, I bake. I preheat the oven and prep the sourdough loaves that have risen overnight. I whip up unholy amounts of pancake batter, I set the banana bread out to cool, I add the chocolate chips to the muffin mix and watch the tops turn crisp and golden. Then I stack them all into pyramids in the glass display out front, except I keep one back. They run out faster than anything else we sell and cause queues and, sometimes, arguments.
