Page 78 of Storm in a Teacup
I send back a shrug emoji and then go back to the group chat.
DA: Ben is not also bi?
I scoff and say aloud, “Was it obvious to everyone that I was bi, except me?”
Linny makes a noncommittal hum.
ME: Ben is bi. Isla is a lesbian who thought she was bi at first because of compulsory heterosexuality
ME: Then she tried and failed to date a boy and figured it out
ME: We know this
ISLA: I am firmly a lesbian
DA: Right. Right. So Ben being bi is new information?
MUM: Correct
ME: Aye
MUM: So you still like girls? Because there is a woman at my church with a daughter your age. She’s very pretty
MUM: But there is a woman at my hairdresser who has a gay son so there areoptions
ME: Thanks
DA: Congrats [picture of lesbian pride flag]
ISLA: Wrong flag, da. That one is mine. This is the bi flag [picture of bisexual pride flag]
MUM: You’re 30 years old, Ben. You really need to get married. Now you have more options
ISLA: Mum, you can’t say that
MUM: Why not? It’s true
I show Linny the texts, who raises an eyebrow in a silent question.
“Better than I expected,” I answer, knowing what she is wondering. “Just as confused as they were when Isla came out, but they’ve had time to do their own research over the years.”
Isla texts me separately.
ISLA: They’re ridiculous. How ya feeling?
ME: Okay
I feel a little lift in my heart, not realizing that I was waiting for this. All of the most important people in my life know. It’s a little detail and an extremely grand one at the same time.
Linny and I continue to lie there in silence, happy to just exist in each other’s presence. While we do, I resolve to keep doing everything I can to show her how deserving of love she is. Before we’re done with this whole fake dating thing, I am determined to prove it to her.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Linny
It’s 7:30 a.m. and I am sitting at my kitchen table with my chin resting in my hand, a cooling cup of coffee beside me, and glasses slipping down my nose. This is how I start most mornings because it can take me forever to wake up. Oscar Wilde is weaving around my ankles, acting like I didn’t just feed him.
“You can’t fool me into second breakfast, my dude,” I mumble. We do this every morning.
