Page 72 of Audacity

Shame?

I’m a whore.

I know all about the dangers of taking on other people’s shame.

‘Mary. If I may say so, this isn’t a matter of shame but a matter of love. Please, I beg you, don’t jeopardise the wonderful gift of love that you and your son share because you feel judgedby other people. Because I promise you, God will not judge you for this.’

‘But the Bible says homosexuality is a sin!’ she protests, her voice shrill.

Ahh. So that’s it. Her son has come out, and his Catholic mother has hit the roof.

‘Well, the Bible says a lot of things about homosexuality, the vast majority of which we disregard these days.’ Gabe’s tone is patient, but I can detect the wry undertone.

‘So it’s not a sin? Peter isn’t a sinner?’

Jesus Christ. No wonder he walked if this is the kind of conversation he had to have over and over, every single day.

Gabe forges gamely on. ‘You see, sometimes we have to take a step back from dogma that has been dictated to us from a very different place and time, and we have to look inside our own hearts. Because I believe, even as a man who committed the terrible sin of leaving the priesthood, that when we truly look inside our own hearts, we know.

‘And that knowing is very important and very powerful. We know what love looks like, and we know what’s right and wrong. And I don’t for the slightest second think that loving the people your heart tells you to love can be anything but beautifully, perfectly right and also profoundly spiritual.’

My fingers are poised over my keyboard, but I’ve given up all pretence of doing anything but listening. In fact, I bow my head as Gabe’s beautiful words pour over me.

I’ve fucked some of the most powerful, dynamic, eligible men in this city.

I am carnal and materialistic and relentless.

And the one man who touches my carefully, consciously, comprehensively boundaried heart isthisman.

I’m basically falling for Jesus.

Fuuuuuck.

Mary is still crying. I don’t know where Gabe gets his patience from, I really don’t. I’d be tempted to slap some sense into her and tell her to go home and give poor Peter a hug.

The man is a saint.

‘Tell me about Peter,’ he says conversationally. ‘Tell me about what he was like as a little boy. What was he into?’

His chair creaks, and I imagine he’s sitting back, stretching out those long legs and interlacing his fingers over that flat stomach of his like he has all the time in the world for her. Like he’s not overworked and exhausted.

‘Oh my God, it was all about trucks and cars for him. Vans. Lorries. Toy ones and real ones and storybooks about them. Anything with wheels. He’d play for hours and hours, God bless him.’

‘I was exactly the same. It’s lovely, isn’t it, to see little children at play? Such innocence. Suchfocus. It’s awe-inspiring, really, to see how transporting these passions can be. And tell me, Mary, did you ever try to get him to lay off the cars and focus on something else? Did you ever say,no, Peter, cars aren’t for you. Why don’t you spend more time on football? I’m sure you’ll like it better when you give it a chance.’

She gives a huge sniff. ‘God, no. He was useless at football, God bless him! He couldn’t kick a ball to save his life. It was cars and trucks all the way until he discovered computer games.’

I brace for Gabe to deliver his spiritual sucker punch. I can see where this is going, even if Mary hasn’t cottoned on yet.

‘Of course it was. Because he loved them. He was acting with his heart and soul when he played with trucks.He was listening to his own truth and acting on it.’He lowers his voice, and I have to strain to hear. ‘And that is precisely what he’s doing now. I’m not a parent, but from where I’m sitting, youronlyjob is to embrace your children’s ability to feel and act and speak from a place of truth and tolovethat true essence of them. That’s it.’

When Mary has taken her leave with a watery smile at me, I push my chair back and sprint into Gabe’s office. He’s sitting in the chair, watching me, his face pale and drawn.

I waste no time. This man gives everything to others, he bleeds himself dry for them, and I will bleed myself dry for him. I climb onto the chair and straddle him, cradling his head in my hands so I can kiss him with every ounce of the emotion I’m currently feeling.

He makes a pleased, surprised sound in his throat as my mouth finds his and wraps his arms around me.

‘You’re such a good man,’ I whisper against his lips. ‘You’resucha good man.’

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