Back in Sam’s van, a breeze traipsing over my skin, the hug seems miles away. His hands grip the steering wheel, his light blond hair fluttering in the wind. The whitewashed, neoclassic buildings with green ivy trailing across the walls flashing by as we drive serve as a perfect distraction.
A blue eye hangs from his rear-view mirror, swaying around and around, and every time it looks at me, I allow myself to relax. His keys jangle near his bare thigh, his shorts riding up as he pushes on the gas.
This is Sam?
The Sam I’d lock myself away with when I was young, playing video games?
The same Sam who taught me how to climb a tree. He always made it to the higher branch because he was cooler than me, braver.
The same Sam who didn’t like football, or rugby, or any other sport, which suited me perfectly because I was exactly the same.
He changes gear, navigating the streets easily, a man who knows it like… well, like the back of his blond-haired hand.
‘What brings you to Greece?’ Sam asks, as we wait for a blue tour bus to negotiate the narrow streets.
‘A wedding.’
‘Whose wedding?’
I cough. ‘My… ex.’
His eyebrows skyrocket.
‘Nice of her to invite you.’
I laugh. Sam’s brow furrows in confusion.
‘Her? Sam, come on. You think my ex is a woman?’
‘Sorry?’
Oh God. No. Has Sam become a homophobe?
Is he one of those internet trolls who thinks gay marriage threatens their existence?
A stereotypical locker room man who thinks every gay man fancies him?
In this instance, he’d be right.
‘Sam, I’m gay.’
‘Oh, right. Cool. Nice of him to invite you.’
‘Is that okay?’ Better to find out now.
Sam’s eyes widen. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Like, is it okay that I’m gay?’ I ask. I sound so stupid. ‘Because I’m gay, and I’m proud of it, and I love men and I’ve come here for my ex’s wedding, and he is a he, and he is marrying another he, who is also gay, and we are all gay. And there’s also nothing wrong with being gay, Sam, because?—’
‘Woah.’ Sam takes one hand off the wheel, and I wish he didn’t, because we’re turning a corner and it heightens my fear that he will lose control. ‘Of course, it’s okay. Why wouldn’t it be?’
‘Sometimes, you know, people are dicks.’
‘I’m not one of them.’ Sam winks, and something flutters in my stomach.
We stop at traffic lights, where people in flowing red dresses and summer clothes stroll by. Newspapers flutter in the breeze from a roadside stand also selling tantalising-looking orange juice. I’m thirsty again, realising I didn’t get a coffee at Sam’s shop.
‘When was the break-up?’ Sam asks, as the engine ticks.
