Page 81 of Unstitch

‘I can’t bear it for you,’ she mumbles into my neck.

‘Hey.’ I gently disentangle myself. ‘Why not? I’m fine.’

Her eyes, when she pulls away, are huge. We’ve always been told our eyes are similar—we get them from Mum—and hers are limpid with compassion. ‘Well you shouldn’t be fine. You’ve had feelings for guys, and God knows how long you’ve been bottling them up, and it doesn’t take a genius to work out why. I’m so fucking gutted for you.’

My sister hardly ever swears—or at least she didn’t before she met Rafe—so her F-bomb reflects the full force of her emotion.

‘Don’t be gutted,’ I urge her. ‘I’ve been perfectly happy. That’s why I’m so freaked out. I don’t need this. It doesn’t?—’

‘It doesn’t what?’

‘It doesn’t fit with what I want for my life,’ I confess in a rush.

As the words spill out, I realise they’re true.

Unlike the way I’ve been taught by every adult in my life, from my parents to my priests and teachers at my super-conservative Catholic boarding school, I don’t believe homosexuality is a sin or an illness or any of those other despicable, invalidating words they use to scare formative minds away from any kind of sexual or moral exploration.

I have nothing at all against gay people. But clearly I do have something against the idea that I might be in any way queer, because I do tell myself I’m sinful, shameful, when I have feelings for or reactions to or fantasies about other men.

Homosexuality is fine for other people, but it’s not for me. That’s the line I’ve always stuck to. I won’t perpetuate hate or bigotry, but I won’t colour outside those same lines I’ve always been taught represent the boundaries of what is good and decent and wholesome.

It’s a matter of personal preference.

Belle frowns. ‘What do you mean—you mean you want a nice, heteronormative wife-and-kids-type life?’

She doesn’t intend it, but I can hear the gentle judgement in her voice. My sister has certainly come a long way in the years I’ve been gone.

‘Well, yeah. What’s wrong with that?’ It’s exactly what she’s opted for, at the end of the day.

‘Nothing’s wrong with that. You’ll make a great dad.’

She lays her head on my shoulder, and comfort flares deep within me. There’s something about confessing to the person who grew up in the same fucked-up environment as you that’s soothing. I don’t have to explain my starting points to her. She gets it. It may be a case of the blind leading the blind, but we’re together on this voyage of sifting through all the shit we’ve been told to believe and assessing which of it is real and valid and which of it is utter fucking bullshit.

So her next sentence hits me like a bolt of lightning.

‘The thing is, when you say things like that, it kind of sounds like Max, or any other guy, doesn’t fit in with what you’ve been taught you should want for your life. And no surprise there, because he’ll never make a decent wife.’ She clasps my hand again. ‘But maybe, just maybe, if you give yourself permission to spend some time thinking about what actually makes you happy rather than what you think you should serve up for Mum and Dad, you’ll be surprised at the answers.’

‘That sounds complicated,’ I manage.

‘Really, it’s the opposite. Forget about all the theory. What do you want, at the most basic level? What does your heart want? What does your body want?’

I make a noncommittal noise, because I’m not sure I trust myself to speak.

‘Look,’ she says. ‘I’m the last person you have to explain yourself to. But I think one of the things that helped me break free from all that crap was that it just felt so good with Rafe, you know? And it got me wondering how something that felt so good, and made me so happy, could be bad.

‘There is no institution on earth as capable of overcomplicating things and making them feel ominous and depraved and wrong as the Catholic Church is, or of making up all these endless, ridiculous, godforsaken rules. Honestly! It’s so crazy.’

‘It really is,’ I murmur, and she lifts her head from my shoulder. She’s grinning, and it’s mischievous and charming and sweet as fuck.

‘Okay, so I don’t want details, because ew, but tell me this. When you were with Max, did it give you the ick? Is that why you’re spinning out? Or are you spinning out because it blew your mind so amazingly that it was fucking terrifying?’

‘Which do you think?’ I ask her drily.

Her grin intensifies, and she nudges my shoulder. ‘I knew it! Look. You’re a smart guy. Just go and have some fun with this, okay? It’s all good. Go get all the orgasms. Orgasms are good! Don’t discriminate against who’s giving them to you.’

I cover my face and pretend to groan. ‘Okay, okay. I’m done with this conversation.’

‘I’m proud of you.’ She plants a light kiss on my cheek before standing up. ‘Go have some fun and be outrageous. It’s your turn to be the family black sheep for a while.’

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