Page 39 of Exquisite Things
We stare at each other in nervous silence. Footsteps. The click of the front door. She’s gone. We’re alone.
I’ve never felt more excited. It’s all I want. To be alone with him.
But all I see when I look in his eyes is anguish.
I pull him gently toward me again. He resists. “Do you want me to leave?”
He shakes his head sadly. “Of course not. But you must leave. You must be gone when she gets here. I can’t see you again.”
“Give me a reason that isn’t based in fear.”
“Fear protects us.” He looks out his window. Lovingly watches his mother cross the street. He keeps his eyes on her until she turns the corner. “You want to know what I’m most afraid of?”
“I want to know everything about you.”
He turns to face me. “I’m afraid of how easy it is to talk to you.”
“Then talk to me. I’m here.”
“I’m afraid of howmyselfI feel when we’re together.”
I put a hand on his cheek. Hold it there. “Then be yourself. What other choice do you have in the end?”
He lowers his voice to a hush. “I’m afraid of how much I want to kiss you.”
I smile. “Then kiss me.”
And so he does. He brings his lips to mine. Passionately at first. And then softly. We kiss like we have all the time in the world. He finally removes his lips from mine. He smiles as he leans back against his blue wall. Runs his hand along its chipped paint. “Weall painted my room together. Me, Mother, Father, Liam. Mother chose the color. She said it reminded her of the ocean.”
A memory: me and James alone in his room. It was almost two decades ago but I can still see the underwater world painted onto his walls. Still remember the humiliation of being caught with him. I did see James once again after that horrible night. But I didn’t speak to him. James has lived a long and prosperous life. Marriage. Children. He never went into bookbinding. He became a lawyer like his father. Lived someone else’s dream life instead of his own.
Oliver must be haunted by his own remembrances because he suddenly looks away from me. The fear returns to his gaze. “I can’t break her heart. I’m sorry.”
“Maybe our love won’t break her heart. Maybe, in time, it might even fill her with joy. To know her son is loved.”
“By a man?” His sharp eyes tell me there’s no counterargument to this.
Still, I have to try. “Your mother loves you. Nothing will change that. I’ve looked into her eyes and into her soul. She may struggle at first, but she’s a good woman.”
“Even good women have their limits.” He’s speaking to the walls he painted with her. Staring at the color she chose. “And how will I support her if I stay in the life? How will I get into a good school, get the kind of job that will let me care for her as she has for me?”
“You’re still young. There’s time to figure all that out. I certainly never imagined I’d be a working tutor at seventeen.”
His lips tighten bitterly. “I’m not young anymore. Not since Cyril died and Brendan was expelled.”
“You could make music. You’re talented. Your mother would be proud if you—”
“Music isn’t a job!” He scoffs loudly. He looks at me in confusion. I’m not making any sense to him. “And if you’re so adamant I chase my passions, then what about yours? Is tutoring moneyed children your lifelong dream?”
“No. Once upon a time, I dreamed of being a writer. A poet, perhaps.”
“And?”
“Writing is too dangerous.” I remember how James’s father once described Wilde’s words:menacing text. “Every time I tried to write a poem or any sort of story, it turned intomystory. And my story can’t be told.”
“Exactly! Because what we want... who we are... it’s unspeakable.” He throws his arms up into the air in exasperation. “You think we can be together when writing about our life would be a crime?!”
“I don’t need to be a writer anymore. I don’t need the world’s approval. I don’t even need anyone to know. All I need... all I desire... is right here in this room.” I take a reverent breath. “My dream is to have the privilege of loving you.”
