My throat tightens.
“But when a man loves another man enough to say it out loud anyway...” She trails off, searching for it. “Enough to choose him publicly. To stand there and claim him when half the world would still rather he didn’t...”Her eyes lift to mine.
“There’s something unbearably romantic about that.”
I say nothing.
Because I know she is not talking theoretically anymore.
She is talking about Mark.
“With straight people,” she goes on, “how do you know sometimes if it’s actually love or if it’s just convenience? Timing. Habit. The fact everyone expects man meets woman, man sticks around, everyone applauds because he remembered Valentine’s Day once.”
Irritatingly, a faint breath of amusement escapes me.
She keeps going, quieter now.
“Men can do the bare bloody minimum in straight relationships and get handed medals for being decent. Show up, don’t cheat too obviously, occasionally buy flowers from a petrol station, and suddenly they’re Prince Charming.”
“That is a depressingly low bar.”
“It’s subterranean,” she says. “And everyone still acts grateful.”
A reluctant smile tugs at my mouth, but she is not joking.
“What I mean is...” She twists her mug between her fingers. “When there are actual obstacles, when loving someone is harder, when claiming them means something, then being chosen must feel enormous.”
I meet her gaze.
“Not because gay relationships are magically better. I know they’re not. People are still people. But if someone loves you enough to make it visible, enough to be proud of it, enough to say yes, this one, this is mine, when life would often let them hide...” She shakes her head. “That has to feel different.”
I don’t answer, because I think I know what she means.
“And with us,” she says, lowering her gaze again, “sometimes I think women are expected to be grateful just because a man stayed.”
The kitchen goes very quiet.
Because there it is.
Not envy of my sexuality.
Envy of certainty.
Envy of being wanted in a way that looks unmistakable.
My grip tightens on the mug.
Sophie watches me.
“Did he ask you to stay?”
“No.”
“Did he want to?”
I don’t answer.
Which is answer enough.
