Page 42 of When Lemons Give You Life

He smirks. “You’re thinking of Speed 2, Lisa. But he wasn’t in that either!”

“Oh, yeah. God, remember when we watched that and someone shouted, ‘This is just Titanic with Sandra Bullock’?”

“Yeah—it was you! If my mum were still alive, she’d be horrified at your film knowledge.”

I laugh. “I wish I could have met her.”

“Me too. She would have adored you, like I do, even though you make me late to everything!” he says with a twinkle in his eye.

Heat blooms across my cheeks despite the cold and three glasses of chardonnay I’d enjoyed during trivia. It’s easy with him. Too easy. Like we’re characters in a show I wish I could pause and stretch out forever.

We sit in comfortable silence for a bit, his mixtape humming softly—a random mix of classical string music with a dash of Missy Higgins thrown in for good measure. For a second, I imagine a world where he is straight, in which he could be mine. But then he wouldn’t be Beau, the man I adore for everything he is. The man who fills his flat with friends after choir, their voices still hoarse from rehearsal, music spilling into the kitchen while he passes around wine and tells everyone they sang like angels. The guy who organizes board game nights that stretch past midnight, inviting everyone he knows just to make sure no one feels left out. Sure, he sometimes stresses out about time, but he draws people in without trying, as if his warmth has its own orbit.

Beau clocks my silence. “You alright?”

“Fine,” I lie. “Just . . . existentially exhausted.”

“Of course. Classic Thursday mood.”

“I just feel like I’m stuck, you know? Everyone else is off doing things. Getting married, moving overseas, finding whatever it is you’re meant to find in your mid-thirties.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You’re only twenty-nine.”

“Exactly, essentially ancient,” I say, knowing he’s seven years older.

His chuckles are soft. “Lisa, you’re the most alive person I know. You’re chaos wrapped in fairy lights.”

I don’t know what to say to that. So I nudge him with my shoulder. “You’re the worst, Beau Brooks!”

“Griff would have to disagree with you there.”

The name lands like a stone in a pond, reminding me I can’t keep swimming in this direction.

I glance at Beau. “Are you sure you know what you’re getting into with him?”

He blinks. “What do you mean?”

“You know he left Mum. When she was dying. Just . . . disappeared.”

Beau doesn’t look away. “I know.”

“And that doesn’t freak you out?”

He exhales through his nose, not angry, just measured. “Grief does weird things to people. Especially when they’ve already lost too much. It wasn’t simple for him, Lis.”

“Sometimes it feels like you know a Griff I never will.”

He nods. “It’s not because he doesn’t care about you. It’s just . . . growing up gay when Griff and I did, you got good at concealing things. You learned to lock parts of yourself away, even from the people you love.”

The words settle and my heart sinks, imagining Griff at school, learning to shrink himself just to survive, to dodge the names and the stares. Kids can be merciless.

No one should have to do that. I can’t pretend to know what that felt like, but I do want to understand him—the brother who’s spent a lifetime behind locked doors. I want to tell him that I’m on his side.

At least at home he had Mum. She once told me she’d had a sense Griff was gay from the time he was a kid. She always embraced his boyfriends, never made him feel wrong for who he was. I know she had his back completely.

And if she was like that, surely my father must have been too—I can’t imagine her marrying someone who didn’t share her views. Dad always built me up, made me feel like I was special. I don’t remember any specifics on the topic, but I doubt my prickly brother ever let him close enough for personal conversations.

I sigh. “I’m still so angry that Griff left me to deal with Mum’s death alone. I’m angry that he’s kept me at arm’s length since we were kids.”