I’m fine. I didn’t eat, that’s all.
Maybe I’m nervous about the move.
Maybe I’m sad.
Maybe I’m angry.
I sigh.
Mum opens her mouth to say something then stops. I know there are a lot of things we should be talking about, but I don’t have the energy right now. If she won’t talk about Dad then I’m not ready to talk about the move. I cringe as I recall the rest of our chat on the ferry. I’mdefinitelynot ready to talk to her about Ben. Like everything else, my sexuality is not something we discuss.
She knows though. I’m sure of it. We’ll have to talk about it some day, but not today. How would I even begin to explain the situation with Ben?
Shit. His message!
He misses me. He’s going to miss me. I don’t care if he misses me as a friend or something more – it’s enough to be missed. That he cares enough to miss me. My stomach thrills at the thought of his dopey smile, his shaved head and his arms. Those arms!
Ben Taylor misses me and that makes me happy.
I decide to keep my reply simple.
I’ll miss you too. Come visit soon?
X
Sent.
Sent without thinking.
So caught up in the thought of those biceps that I put an X.
You idiot.
We can kiss in private, but stating it in a message feels as if it crosses the boundaries of whatever it is we are.
A cold sweat breaks out around my collar as two ticks appear. I picture Ben opening it. He’s somewhere public, maybe chatting to a girl. He gets embarrassed and deletes the message immediately. Or worse, archives it. Archivesme. Hiding me away like a guilty little secret.
You ruin everything.
I gaze out of the window, searching for a suitable distraction, and take in Belfast.
The city is in a valley, surrounded by mountains. Mum and Dad both grew up on the same estate at the bottom of the Black Mountain. Uncle Tommy still lives in the house he and Mum grew up in, which they got when Granny and Granda McCutcheon died. Nanny Bet lives round the corner. Family everywhere!
‘This place has changed so much,’ Mum says. She always says this when we visit, but even I can see the differences this time.There are new buildings on familiar streets, new estates popping up on stretches of green. Mum points out one as we drive past.
‘There used to be a Roma community living there. That whole stretch was full of caravans.’
‘Where are they now?’ I ask, trying to imagine caravans in place of the identical red-brick houses.
Mum shrugs. ‘No idea.’
A flash of sunlight hits something in the estate and my headache flares.
I rub my temple. ‘I’m fine,’ I say before Mum can ask.
‘Well, sure, would you look at the size of you. Proper wee heartbreaker!’ says Aunt Sheila, planting a kiss on my cheek. ‘You’ve shot up. Hasn’t he, Tommy?’
Uncle Tommy grips me in a bear hug. ‘He surely has. How’re you keeping, Micheál?’ He always pronounces my name ‘mee-haul’, the Irish way. I don’t know why but it feels like a dig. Maybe because although I say some words with a Belfast twang (Ben always teases me about how I say towel – ‘toy-yull’), my accent is very English.
