The line goes quiet, and then she laughs, wet and disbelieving. “Okay,” she says. “Okay. Two weeks. I’ll keep the pasta.”
We stay on the line until she falls asleep, her breathing slow in my ear, and I lie in the dark of a cottage in the woods and, for the first time in a year, I don’t feel like I’m hiding. I feel like I’m getting ready.
CHAPTER 17
THE THAW
"Hi, Lena."
"Hi, Dad. I'd like to come for dinner this weekend. Just me. I need to tell you and Karen something."
"Of course!” He sounds eager. “Saturday?"
"Saturday is perfect."
We talk for two minutes about the weather. He mentions the neighbour's fence situation. I don't pay attention.
On Saturday evening, Karen served lamb again—the one with the rosemary she sources from a specific farmer's market.
The dining room smells like wine and olive oil. Karen talks about the book club. My father talks about work. The conversation has its usual rhythm.
I eat and make small talk. I wait for a pause in my father's analysis of the neighbour's fence situation, and then I set my fork down.
"I have something I need to tell you both.”
My dad smiles at me. “This sounds serious. Are we getting some good news?”
“Are you finally seeing someone?” Karen asks.
“You tried out that dating app didn’t you?”
“I'm gay."
The sentence takes three seconds to say and has been thirty-two years in the making. The light from the window catches the good china. Nobody moves.
My father's jaw drops.
Karen sets down her wine glass. Carefully.
"We appreciate you telling us," Karen says. And I’m pretty sure she is reciting something she read in an article about How To Be A Supportive Parent.
"I'm dating someone," I say. "A woman. She's a musician. She makes me happy." I keep my voice level. Factual. "She's kind. She's thoughtful. She makes me better at being a person."
My father nods and looks down at his lamb. He picks up his fork. He eats a piece of lamb.
"So how long have you been dating?" Karen asks.
"Just about short of one year."
"A year?" Karen's surprise is visible, a small rupture in her careful composure. "That's quite serious."
"Yes."
My father eats and says nothing more.
It’s Karen who says it, right at the end, over the last of the crumble, not quite looking at me. “Maybe,” she says, “it’s time we had your sister over for dinner. If she’d come.”
My father nods but doesn’t say anything.
