living the American Dream.”
Steve stared at him hard, and they left after that beer.
“You take care,” Steve said. “Look after yourself.”
And although Daniel hadn’t confessed, it was seeing Steve again, seeing how comfortable he was in his skin, that made it impossible for him to suppress those feelings anymore.
He loves Bee, but can’t love her in the way she needs. He has always known that, but has thought that what they have is enough. He has assumed that if he stays, and he is going to stay, has no choice but to stay, they would make it work. And then there are the girls. He doesn’t want to be anything other than a full-time, present father. He is terrified of what might happen should they get divorced, terrified that Bee might turn into one of those crazy women who poisons their children against the father.
How can he possibly tell her why he is leaving? How can he get those words out, tell her that he is gay? Yet sitting here in Dr. Posner’s office, saying those words out loud to someone else, it is as if a cloud has lifted, a cloud that has been sitting on him his whole life, and he knows now, without a doubt, that there is no going back.
Daniel has never felt he had any other choice, but suddenly, since seeing Steve, he has realized that there might be another option after all. That simply accepting the truth, which had always seemed so terrifying, so utterly overwhelming to him, may be all he has to do if he ever wants to know what it is to be Steve.
What it is to be happy.
Chapter Eight
"Nan, do you know you have messages?” Sarah hauls the large paper bags in and puts them on the kitchen table, then she starts to unpack the groceries.
“Oh I know, darling.” Nan picks up a pile of coupons from the grocery store, walks over to the answering machine and lays the coupons on top of the blinking red light. “It’s terribly annoying seeing that thing flashing all day. I keep putting papers on top of it and someone—” she shoots a look at Sarah—“keeps taking them off.”
“Well, I’m sorry,” Sarah says, and laughs, “but generally red blinking lights mean there are messages, which means someone’s trying to get hold of you. Don’t you want to listen? What if it’s important?”
“It’s Andrew Moseley.” Nan sighs. “He wants to talk to me about money, and while I think he’s absolutely charming, I really don’t want to talk to him.”
Sarah stops unpacking and watches Nan light a cigarette, worry in her eyes.
“What are you going to do?” she asks gently. “I know things are tough. Will you have to . . .”
Nan looks up sharply. “Sell Windermere? Absolutely not. I don’t need much, so I was thinking perhaps I ought to sell some of the furniture, some of the things in the house that I really don’t need.”
Sarah looks dubious.
“Some of this stuff is wonderful, the antiques dealers would have a field day. And think of all those tourists and people spending twelve and a half million dollars on houses—don’t you think they need furniture? And this isn’t that reproduction stuff you find at the furniture stores, this is the real McCoy—people will pay a fortune for this.” Nan gets animated as she gestures around at an antique Welsh dresser, the oak kitchen table.
“Right,” Sarah says, trying to sound upbeat, and not wanting to point out that almost every piece of furniture in the house has coffee-cup rings, cigarette burns, is in a condition that no antique dealer would be the slightest bit interested in.
“And then there’s my mother-in-law’s jewelry collection. She collected paste earrings for years, and I have them all in boxes in the attic.”
“Okay.” Sarah recalls opening the boxes once upon a time and seeing what she thought was a load of junk. But she’s not a jewelry expert, and who knows what people will pay. “So you think this would be enough?”
“For the time being,” Nan says, enthusiastic now, excited at the prospect of
Steve stared at him hard, and they left after that beer.
“You take care,” Steve said. “Look after yourself.”
And although Daniel hadn’t confessed, it was seeing Steve again, seeing how comfortable he was in his skin, that made it impossible for him to suppress those feelings anymore.
He loves Bee, but can’t love her in the way she needs. He has always known that, but has thought that what they have is enough. He has assumed that if he stays, and he is going to stay, has no choice but to stay, they would make it work. And then there are the girls. He doesn’t want to be anything other than a full-time, present father. He is terrified of what might happen should they get divorced, terrified that Bee might turn into one of those crazy women who poisons their children against the father.
How can he possibly tell her why he is leaving? How can he get those words out, tell her that he is gay? Yet sitting here in Dr. Posner’s office, saying those words out loud to someone else, it is as if a cloud has lifted, a cloud that has been sitting on him his whole life, and he knows now, without a doubt, that there is no going back.
Daniel has never felt he had any other choice, but suddenly, since seeing Steve, he has realized that there might be another option after all. That simply accepting the truth, which had always seemed so terrifying, so utterly overwhelming to him, may be all he has to do if he ever wants to know what it is to be Steve.
What it is to be happy.
Chapter Eight
"Nan, do you know you have messages?” Sarah hauls the large paper bags in and puts them on the kitchen table, then she starts to unpack the groceries.
“Oh I know, darling.” Nan picks up a pile of coupons from the grocery store, walks over to the answering machine and lays the coupons on top of the blinking red light. “It’s terribly annoying seeing that thing flashing all day. I keep putting papers on top of it and someone—” she shoots a look at Sarah—“keeps taking them off.”
“Well, I’m sorry,” Sarah says, and laughs, “but generally red blinking lights mean there are messages, which means someone’s trying to get hold of you. Don’t you want to listen? What if it’s important?”
“It’s Andrew Moseley.” Nan sighs. “He wants to talk to me about money, and while I think he’s absolutely charming, I really don’t want to talk to him.”
Sarah stops unpacking and watches Nan light a cigarette, worry in her eyes.
“What are you going to do?” she asks gently. “I know things are tough. Will you have to . . .”
Nan looks up sharply. “Sell Windermere? Absolutely not. I don’t need much, so I was thinking perhaps I ought to sell some of the furniture, some of the things in the house that I really don’t need.”
Sarah looks dubious.
“Some of this stuff is wonderful, the antiques dealers would have a field day. And think of all those tourists and people spending twelve and a half million dollars on houses—don’t you think they need furniture? And this isn’t that reproduction stuff you find at the furniture stores, this is the real McCoy—people will pay a fortune for this.” Nan gets animated as she gestures around at an antique Welsh dresser, the oak kitchen table.
“Right,” Sarah says, trying to sound upbeat, and not wanting to point out that almost every piece of furniture in the house has coffee-cup rings, cigarette burns, is in a condition that no antique dealer would be the slightest bit interested in.
“And then there’s my mother-in-law’s jewelry collection. She collected paste earrings for years, and I have them all in boxes in the attic.”
“Okay.” Sarah recalls opening the boxes once upon a time and seeing what she thought was a load of junk. But she’s not a jewelry expert, and who knows what people will pay. “So you think this would be enough?”
“For the time being,” Nan says, enthusiastic now, excited at the prospect of
Similar Books
