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“Your sister doesn’t have a problem with me being gay, Ben. She has an issue with me sleeping with someone else while still being married to your mum. And she’s right. Your mum deserved honesty from me from the start. You all did. Remember how you felt when you found out about Mercedes and your friend Callum?”
“That’s different.”
I give him a look. “I betrayed a vow, son. I broke a trust. And I can’t say I could’ve done things differently because, honestly, I don’t know if I could. I made mistakes, ones that I knew would hurt the people I wanted to protect more than anyone in the world, yet I made them anyway. Now I have to deal with the consequences.”
Ben shifts in his beanbag, crossing his arms. He studies my face, absorbs what I’m saying as if taking in a lesson.
“Life is complicated,” I go on. “Love, emotions…they can be powerful enough to really mess with your head, with everything you think you know. Certainly messed with mine. Hell, they still are.”
“How?”
I can’t even begin to list the ways. “Ah, that’s nothing for you to worry about.”
“Did he dump you? Your boyfriend.”
“No. I mean he’s not my…” Shit. I feel flustered. Cornered. By a bloody seventeen-year-old.
“Because that would explain why you’re living in this shithole when he’s worth millions. Did you break up with him?”
“No one broke up with anyone,” I admit. To Ben, to myself. “Let’s just say I’m trying to figure things out on that front.”
“What does he say?”
“I…haven’t spoken to him yet. Since I came back from France.”
“Well, that’s stupid.”
My eyebrows rise, practically tickling my hairline. “I beg your pardon?”
“How are you going to figure out a relationship between the two of you on your own?”
How did this kid come from me? I stare at him in awe, my chest bulging with respect for the mature and thoughtful young man, of whose wisdom must’ve been passed down maternally, in front of me.
But I don’t show it, because if I admit what he’s saying is true, then I’ll have to face it. And I can’t. “Cheers, Ben, but I don’t think I need advice from my teenage son.”
“Yeah, it kinda sounds like you do. Maybe we should drink some beer while we talk it out.”
Standing up, I chuckle, rub his hair. “Maybe I should get you home before your mum starts thinking you’ve been kidnapped on your way home from work. Nice try, though. A for effort.”
LC:
I’m coming home. I miss you. I NEED to see you. Need to know you’re okay. I can get your address off Andy. Please call me. Text. Anything.
Oh, Laurence. Fuck. Alone in my family’s living room, I slap my head, as if that will somehow jolt some reasoning into my mind.
Me: I will. Soon. I’ve done it Laurence. I told my family. I’m just trying to work some things out. I hope you understand
I delete that. Start again.
Me: I miss you too. I’m so sorry. I haven’t been handling things well. I need to tell you what’s been going on.
Delete.
I hear footsteps descending the stairs. Two sets, one slow and thumping, and the other lithe and bouncing, which means Becca must’ve talked Lucy into facing me. I’m sorry, I think, wishing Laurence could hear me, hear how much I truly mean it. My daughter comes first. Always will.
And it’s not fair to keep him hanging on for something I can’t give him right now.
Me:
Don’t. I’m sorry. For everything
“Lucy.” I stand when she enters the living room that no longer feels like mine, but don’t approach.
My daughter nods, never quite looking at me. Becca, however, does. My wife offers an almost sympathetic smile as she limps to the couch and takes a seat, encouraging Lucy to sit next to her.
“How’ve you been?” I ask, directing the question at whoever is willing to answer.
“Fine,” Lucy says, crossing her legs.
“Lucy’s being given her own client list,” Becca tells me. “And the salon’s paying for her to start her Level 3 next month.”
“That’s fantastic.” My smile grows. “I’m so proud of you.”
“Thanks.”
We drown in silence for a little while, but things are going as well as I expected. I won’t give up though. Ever. “How are things going with Tiger?”
“Great. At least, I think they are. But he could be out shagging anyone for all I know, eh?”
“Lucy,” Becca scolds, but I cut in.
“It’s okay, Becs. She’s every right to be mad with me.”
Lucy scoffs. “That’s good of you.”
“Okay,” Becca begins. “This isn’t working. Will, maybe you should go.”
“Or maybe Lucy could tell me how she feels. Come on, Lucy. I’m your father. You’re angry with me. Tell me about it so we can fix it.”
“I’m not angry,” my daughter says. Her expression tells a different story.
“Then what are you?”
“I’m…I’m not anything.”
“Look at me, Lucy.” I move forward, sit on the edge of the chair. “Come on, look at me. Tell me what you’re feeling.”
