“Most of the time,” I joke.
Ian chuckles. “Well, one of the things that keeps coming up in the sessions I’ve done is the importance of knowing your own story so you can understand who you are. I think I’m going to focus on that more and more.”
I stretch out my legs and consider this for a moment. “It’s not a million miles away from what I’ve been doing this summer.”
“Exactly. That’s why I think you and me could do a great job of encouraging other people to do it, facilitating it. Especially queer people who are detached from their stories or denying them in some way.”
The excitement stirs within me. “It does sound interesting. So is it like group therapy?”
Ian bounces a fist on his thigh. “Yes, but it’s also about creating a permanent record. So that other people can understand us too—even after we’ve gone.”
I screw up my nose. “But how would we do that? I don’t want to be a writer.”
“It’s not about being a writer: it’s more about sharing your story, your emotional truth, the experiences that have definedyou. And you can do that in different ways—yes, by writing it down, but also through extended interviews, in audio or video recordings.”
I nod. “OK, I get it.”
“And what better place to do it than here? The castle where stories were lost but have also been found.”
I can feel my excitement building. “Very clever.”
The music changes and I look down to see Luisa and Stefano coming together for a slow dance. They snuggle into each other and gently sway from side to side, Luisa resting her head on Stefano’s shoulder.
“We could start small,” Ian suggests, “maybe running a week-long workshop in the spring and another in the autumn.”
I nod. “That could work.”
“Fantastic.”
I stand up. “The only thing is, my story isn’t quite finished yet.”
“Oh no?”
“You’ve just reminded me of one more thing I need to do.”
Chapter 53
Ifind Dad and Debbie sitting on the sofa in the big lounge, sipping mugs of tea.
“Alreet, lad,” says Dad when he sees me.
“We’re just havin’ a breather, love,” explains Debbie. “We weren’t sure if you’d have tea bags, so we brought our own.”
“We’re not as young as we used to be,” jokes Dad. “And we’re jiggered after all that dancin’.”
I sit in the armchair facing them. “I thought you did well. You kept up with most of the kids.”
Debbie smiles. “Yeah, but we’re payin’ for it now.”
I’m suddenly compelled to tell them what I came to say. With no preamble, I bark, “Debbie, I’m sorry.”
There’s a pause. She brushes some imaginary fluff from her lap. “What for, love?”
“For wiping your toast on the floor and all the other grim things I did.”
She waves away my concern. “That’s alright, love. You don’t need to apologize.”
“No, I do,” I insist. “It’s important. And Dad, I’ve already apologized to you, but please, can we not keep anything from each other again?”
