Brother Gideon is old and strange with empty and claw-like hands. He’s always watching me when I sing at Sunday service.
My body curls into itself, muscles aching from holding it all in.
No one asked if I wanted this.
No one ever will.
three
Linus
Six Months Later (Age 19)
Thesundippedthreehours ago.
I’m still sweating.
Everywhere's too hot. The tiled walkway under my sandals, the back of my neck, the inside of my chest.
“Go for a swim.” Da shooed me out of our caravan. Told me I’ve no reason to be irritable.
He hasn’t a clue. I’ve been holding my breath for three days straight for an opportunity like this. I cut left through the garden path behind the main lodge, pretending I’m taking a walk to clear my head.
Really, I’m hunting.
I saw him again today. Ripped. Blond. Tank top stretched over his chest like sin itself. A jawline sharpenough to cut glass. He’s been here with his family since Monday, same as us. I clocked him straightaway.
In the dining room, his eyes follow mine. Lips quirk into a smirk every time we’re at the pool.
Heknows. He’s patient. Waits for me get the courage to find him.
Now’s my chance and every part of me is on fire.
This morning, my parents ambushed me over breakfast. Instead of enjoying my juice, croissant and tea, I had to endure a whole lotta shit. Mum pulled out the pamphlet Niamh gave her of a wedding venue she loves in County Clare. Seaside views. Seating for two hundred.
“You’ll be twenty in a year,” Da reminded me like I’d forgotten. “It’s time to think seriously about your future. Niamh’s a great wee girl. Lock her down, son.”
They didn’t take the news well when I told them I’ve been accepted into the hospitality program at Washington State University and my plan is to leave in the fall.
Mum gasped like I’d slapped her. “You applied without telling us?”
Da didn’t raise his voice, not in public. His silence was worse. Thin-lipped fury.
“Why would you go to America?” he shouted once we made it back to the caravan. “You’ve a good job in Dublin. You’ve a future here. Niamh’s father lined up a proper path for you.”
I reminded them I’ve worked for Brian Callahan’s booking agency, Tri-Color Tours, for two years already and done every job he’s thrown at me. Booking, logistics, artist relations. Every music festival in Ireland, every goddamn late night. Every grunt job possible.
It’s not enough for me. Brian’s way of doing business isn’t sustainable. I won’t have a future there unless it ends with a house in Dun Laoghaire and a ring on Niamh’s finger.
No one in my life knows I’ve been questioning everything about myself.
I can’t marry a woman when I have dreams about different hands on my skin. Rougher. Broader. Stronger.
Guess I’m about to find out if there’s something to them.
Alone in the dark, sweat under my collar, I’m half-hard as I nervously edge through the resort garden like some fucked-up fairytale. I should turn back.
I don’t.
