Page 69 of Exquisite Things
He rolls his eyes.
“It’s true. Your mother knew it and I do too. And the way I see it, you have two options. The first is to run away from me, which you’ve already tried. Has it made you happy?”
“No.” He shakes his head sadly.
“Then try the second option. Be with me. Let me make it up to you. Let me prove to you that we can be happy.”
He laughs. “Here? In this city with trash piling up on the streets, where queer bars are raided by the police, where punks and vagrants call me a bugger and a screamer when I’m sleeping on the Tube. Where boys like us are beat up at the George. This is where you want us to find happiness? In a country where the prime minister is at war with working people, immigrants, and... people like us.”
“You’re right. There’s injustice here. Poverty. Greed. People still hate us. Maybe they always will. I don’t care about all that right now. I care about you. What do you want, Oliver? In your heart.”
“I—I don’t know.”
“You do know, but you’re not brave enough to take it.” I shock myself with my own anger. I’ve craved his forgiveness for so long. Accepted my wrongs. Now I see I also resent him. For holding on to a sixty-year grudge. For allowing his beautiful tenderness to morph into defeatist weakness. “You’ve spent sixty years blaming me for your fate, haven’t you?”
“Yes, yes, I have, and—”
“And have you ever wondered what your fate might have been had you not met me? Cyril would still have killed himself. Harvard would still have put all those boys on trial. What would you have done?”
“I—I can’t answer that. No one can.”
“I can. Because I know you. You wouldn’t have dared break your mother’s heart. You would have taken a wife you didn’t love.”
“You don’t know that. You can’t—”
“Doomed her to loneliness. To always wondering why her beautiful husband shudders at her touch. You would have been a distant father.”
“Stop it!”
“Never able to truly reveal yourself to your own children. A life of secrecy. You would be in a seventy-seven-year-old body by now. Watching rebels change the world.”
“Why are you being so cruel?”
“Wondering why you couldn’t have played a part in your own people’s liberation. Well, this is your chance.”
“For what exactly? Is being together some form of liberation now?” He cracks his knuckles nervously.
“Isn’t that exactly what it is? To love when you’re told that love is a crime. What else is that but liberation?”
“Greed.” He shakes his head. “Fantasy.”
He shifts his gaze to a man and a woman kissing against the bridge. The ease of their passion stabs me like a blade. Queers have to learn where we can kiss and where we can’t. We don’t get to be carefree. Part of me likes that we have to fight for our love. Another part of me is enraged by it. I want to kiss Oliver defiantly and lovingly.
“You could’ve told me what you are.” He holds my gaze. He’s been waiting a long time to say this. “I might have understood. Perhaps I would have loved you. You never gave me the chance.”
“Loved me?” I’m full with the desire to defend myself. “You told me we couldn’t be together. You were ready to end us.”
“So you cursed me—”
“Because I thought it was what you wanted. Because I thought it was destiny. And yes, because I was greedy and selfish and stupid. I admitted as much toLiamon the phone, didn’t I? But you’re not Liam. You’re Oliver. I don’t have to be a gentle voice on the other end of a helpline with you. I can be myself. I must be myself. And I am sorry. And I was greedy. But please hear me when I say I don’t wantfantasyfrom us.” I put a hand on his cheek affectionately. My fingers tremble on his warm skin. “I want the opposite of fantasy. I want alifewith you. Real life. With fights and laughs. Ups and downs. Sickness and health and all that.”
“There’s no sickness for us though, is there?”
“Listen to me. Please. Don’t shut me out. I want—I want to make mistakes. I’ve made mistakes. Grave ones. And I want to make more. I want to do stupid things because I’m too passionate to make a sound decision. I want to want things. To need things. To need you. I want to be full of regrets. But to be the kind of person who tells people I have no regrets and actually makes them believe it. Don’t you see that a life without regrets is boring? I don’t want to be bored. I want to beus. Alive and unpredictable and exciting.”
He actually smiles. I might be getting through to him.
“I’m not begging you to stay here because the world is perfect. Yes, yes, yes, the world is as fraught and enraging as it ever was. I’m pleading becausemylittle worldis perfect. And I want to share it with you.” I get down on one knee. Like I’m proposing. I want to give the moment the weight it deserves. “I live in a home with enough room for you. I know a community who will welcome you. Where there are more than enough spaces for us. You saw the Blitz.All those freaks. Living freely. And it’s not the only place. There are bars and shebeens and shops just for us. We don’t need the whole city. Just a block here. A bar there. A shop or two that welcome our kind. And each other.”
