John nods. “Yeah… the reading week in October?” John replies, directing his question at his boyfriend, now sitting on the arm of the sofa, scratching his fingers through John’s hair.
“Mmhmm. That OK? Sorry, I can’t get away sooner. But, I mean, you can go withou—”
“Don’t even say it, baby,” John interrupts quietly. “I’m not leaving you alone.”
Andrew gazes down at John, gratitude and affection softening his eyes. I’m glad they found each other. Em and I were so nervous to tell John we were leaving, but he just told us to go and live our lives like he intended to. Fuck knows what he meant by that, but he’s been nothing but supportive. As always.
A short while later, Andrew heads home, and Emma turns in. She’s sleeping in my bed with me, something we’ve done many times after a few too many drinks, and no doubt, despite starting off with good intentions and wearing a T-shirt and underwear, she’ll end up topless by the morning. She gets too hot in bed, but luckily, boobs are about as interesting to me as a slice of soggy bread.
When just John and I remain, he pours us another small glass of wine each to finish the bottle. The rich Cabernet is not something many would choose in the height of a heatwave, but John and I agree that white wine is not the drink for us. To be fair, I’m wearing Nash’s hoodie again, and it’s still twenty-two degrees Celsius at ten o’clock at night, so I’m hardly one to comment.
“So, are you ready for this?” John asks, innocuous words belying a multitude of worries.
“I am,” I reassure him. “I’ve been ready. I just needed to know I wouldn’t be putting anyone at risk by being there. If something had happened to that little girl because of me…” The lump in my throat steals my words, and I swallow it down. I’m happy, goddammit, I will not cry.
“I know, son. I know,” John says, squeezing my shoulder with a steady hand.
That’s what John has been to me since the day I met him. A steady hand. A safe place to land. Family, really. Family isn’t always the people whose blood you share or whose ancestors you have in common. Sometimes, it’s the people you choose, and who choose you. To stand by, to support, to love without condition or expectation. I found that in Norfolk with Nash, with Wren, Archer, Cole, and Aidan. Even Bev and Mike became like family to me in the short time I was there. And Rain. Rain and I were family from the moment we met, two kindred spirits, birds trapped in the same cage.
But John and Emma had no reason to befriend me. No associations to lean into, no need for someone with as much baggage as I carried when I walked into the gym all those months ago. And yet, they chose me. I had never in my life been chosen for anything other than what I could do, or offer, or be for someone else. I had always been an object, a disappointment, a tool, or a toy. But to John, and to Emma, they saw something in me that called to something in them, and we’ve become a family as close as any I could have been born into.
“You know, I never wanted kids,” Johnsays, contemplatively, his deep burr resonant and calming. I turn in my seat to face him, hooking one knee up beneath me. “I left Scotland when I was seventeen. My father and I did not get on. Emma’s dad, my brother, Michael, was always better at keeping his thoughts to himself, but I just couldn’t. I’d answer back when Dad was spouting off his daft fucking political views, or religious claptrap. Michael agreed with me on every point; we talked about it a lot, but he was always the calm waters, while I was the tempest.”
“I can see that about you,” I said, my head resting on my fist, propped up on the back of the sofa. “You’re like one of those hot chocolate bombs, though.”
“What the fuck is that?” He looks disgusted.
“You’ve got a hard shell, but get you warm enough, and you melt into a sweet gooey thing that everybody loves.”
He doesn’t know what to say to that. Just creases his brow at me before abruptly changing the subject. I scoff at his tactics of avoiding getting ‘sappy’ – his word, not mine.
“Anyway, I never wanted to be a parent, but what I’ve realised is I didn’t need to makekids to be a parent. You and Emma are my kids, as much as anyone else could’ve ever been. And I’m very proud of you both for seizing this opportunity for a fresh start.”
I choke down the well of emotions his words threaten to release. “I feel a bit like we’re abandoning you,” I say, looking down at my lap.
“Ah, don’t be daft, mate. I’ve got Andrew now, and we have our plans, y’know. We’ll be OK. More than, in fact. I’ve been happier in the last several months than I’ve been in years, and you’re a huge part of that.”
I smile weakly at him, affection for this man overwhelming me.
“And you’re OK? About Dominic, I mean?” he continues, and I tense, my whole body stiffening.
“I’m fine,” I say, too quickly, I realise when his one judgy eyebrow goes up. I huff out a breath as he stares me down. “OK, fine. I’m not fine. I’m…” I freeze, not sure what to say. John just cocks his head at me, that fucking eyebrow saying far too much all on its own.
I check in with myself and think about therapy. The discussions we’ve had have been transformational, and I’m really lucky that I’ll be able to continue with them remotely when Imove. But something that Dr. Posner said comes back to me, and I can’t ignore it anymore.
“I think after what that man put you through, you’d be well within your rights to be royally pissed off that he died before he could be appropriately punished for his actions. And especially before you could get the closure you needed.”
I hadn’t agreed with him at the time, but now, I can see the truth in his words. I hate it when he’s right.
“I’m really fucking angry, John,” I spit, and immediately feel tears spill over, that old familiar lump returning to wreak havoc on my voice. “How fucking dare he? After everything he did to me, after all the ways he hurt me, terrorised me, and stood in my way of just moving the fuck on in my life, how fucking dare he take justice and closure away from me. I wish I didn’t have this ball of hate inside me, because I always try to be positive, but John, I fucking hate him. I hate him so much for what he did to me. And I hate him for making me doubt myself the way I have been for years, for making me believe – truly believe, deep in my soul – that I am worthless and that I would only ever be a burden to anyone I was in a relationship with.”
That thought hits me the hardest,because this is the crux of things, isn’t it?
“I fucking hate him for holding me hostage in my own fear when he wasn’t even here. He kept me from building a relationship with the man I love for six fucking months because he wanted me to what? Suffer? Be alone? What was it, an ‘if I can’t have you, nobody can’ situation for him? What a fucking cunt!”
My voice has been steadily rising in pitch and volume through my tirade, and John hasn’t flinched. Not once. That’s what he does. That’s how he is. The steady hand that holds me up in life, my father, for all intents and purposes. He pulls me into his arms and holds me tight as I cry.
The tears are endless, the sobs back-bending. The ache in my heart burns as though Hades himself has set it alight. I’m shaking, trembling in every cell of my body, my sobs stealing my very breath as I cry, and cry, and cry. Through it all, John holds me steady.
