thank you though.”
George narrows his eyes at us. “No wine? Lachlan, you were usually the first one to finish the bottle. What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing is wrong with him, grandpa,” Brigs says but offers no more than that. None of us want to be the one to say it, if we even have to say it at all.
“Well something is,” he says. “I haven’t seen him for a year. Suddenly he’s stopped drinking and has some half Chinese girlfriend. I don’t even know you anymore, do I Lachlan. Perhaps I never did,” he adds under his breath. “You Lockharts are a strange breed, not like us McGregors.”
You can cut the tension above the table with a carving knife. I can see what it comes down to, even now. While Lachlan considers me part of his clan, George doesn’t consider Lachlan to be part of his. I don’t think it matters what Lachlan says or does, if he was a rugby player or a politician, an alcoholic or a church-going saint – in his eyes, he’s not one of them.
Lachlan clears his throat and stares at George dead in the eye. “No. I’m not really a McGregor am I? But I am here, just as I always have been. I have your last name. I have this family’s heart, as well as my own. I would just hope that one day, just as I said to Kayla, that you could see I consider you my clan and maybe one day, you’ll consider me to be yours.”
The room falls silent.
“Still doesn’t explain why you’re not drinking,” George mutters, cutting into the turkey on his plate.
“Because I’m an alcoholic,” Lachlan says, so matter-of-factly I nearly spit out my water. “I’ve always been one and always will be one. My whole life I’ve dealt with my problems, my past, my own soul, by using drugs or drinking my way out of it. You can only get away with it for so long and it wasn’t until I met Kayla, that I opened up my own eyes to what I was putting her through. What I was putting my family through. What I was putting myself through. You can judge me all you want, blame my clan, my origins, blame me for being a black sheep. But the truth is the truth and while I may not wear it proudly, it is mine.”
Everyone seems to hold their breath, waiting for George’s reaction. But I’m not holding my breath – I can barely breathe. This man…just when I thought he couldn’t surprise me anymore, he just laid his heart out on the table and all the ugliness that comes with it, for all the world to see. He expects to be hurt, to be ridiculed, to be judged and he still did it anyway. He did it because that’s him. He’s Lachlan McGregor, Lachlan Lockhart, my beast and the bravest man I’ve ever known.
The amount of love I have for him exceeds the deepest reaches of anything.
Infinite and uncontained.
Tested.
True.
Finally George clears his throat, making everyone jump slightly in their seats.
“So you can’t handle your liquor,” he says in his gruff brogue. “Maybe you are a McGregor after all.”
The joke is barely funny. But it’s a joke. And maybe the closest thing Lachlan will ever get to being accepted. Everyone bursts out into laughter, nervous at first, then one filled with relief. I can only squeeze Lachlan’s arm, right over his tattoo of Lionel the Lion, and stare at him like the googly-eyed lovebird that I am.
And, after that, everything seems fine. The tension dissipates. George has his sherry, Donald has a glass of wine, while the rest of us do it up with sparkling apple juice, sipping it like fine champagne. There is a sense of rightness, of peace, and the falling snow outside the windows just adds to the magical feeling of Christmas.
That is until we hear a loud CRASH from the drawing room. We all freeze, exchanging glances, then jump to our feet, filing out down the hall and into the drawing room.
The tree is completely knocked over, sprawled over the couch, ornaments and tinsel everywhere.
“How did this happen?” Donald exclaims as we gingerly come over.
Suddenly, at the base of
George narrows his eyes at us. “No wine? Lachlan, you were usually the first one to finish the bottle. What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing is wrong with him, grandpa,” Brigs says but offers no more than that. None of us want to be the one to say it, if we even have to say it at all.
“Well something is,” he says. “I haven’t seen him for a year. Suddenly he’s stopped drinking and has some half Chinese girlfriend. I don’t even know you anymore, do I Lachlan. Perhaps I never did,” he adds under his breath. “You Lockharts are a strange breed, not like us McGregors.”
You can cut the tension above the table with a carving knife. I can see what it comes down to, even now. While Lachlan considers me part of his clan, George doesn’t consider Lachlan to be part of his. I don’t think it matters what Lachlan says or does, if he was a rugby player or a politician, an alcoholic or a church-going saint – in his eyes, he’s not one of them.
Lachlan clears his throat and stares at George dead in the eye. “No. I’m not really a McGregor am I? But I am here, just as I always have been. I have your last name. I have this family’s heart, as well as my own. I would just hope that one day, just as I said to Kayla, that you could see I consider you my clan and maybe one day, you’ll consider me to be yours.”
The room falls silent.
“Still doesn’t explain why you’re not drinking,” George mutters, cutting into the turkey on his plate.
“Because I’m an alcoholic,” Lachlan says, so matter-of-factly I nearly spit out my water. “I’ve always been one and always will be one. My whole life I’ve dealt with my problems, my past, my own soul, by using drugs or drinking my way out of it. You can only get away with it for so long and it wasn’t until I met Kayla, that I opened up my own eyes to what I was putting her through. What I was putting my family through. What I was putting myself through. You can judge me all you want, blame my clan, my origins, blame me for being a black sheep. But the truth is the truth and while I may not wear it proudly, it is mine.”
Everyone seems to hold their breath, waiting for George’s reaction. But I’m not holding my breath – I can barely breathe. This man…just when I thought he couldn’t surprise me anymore, he just laid his heart out on the table and all the ugliness that comes with it, for all the world to see. He expects to be hurt, to be ridiculed, to be judged and he still did it anyway. He did it because that’s him. He’s Lachlan McGregor, Lachlan Lockhart, my beast and the bravest man I’ve ever known.
The amount of love I have for him exceeds the deepest reaches of anything.
Infinite and uncontained.
Tested.
True.
Finally George clears his throat, making everyone jump slightly in their seats.
“So you can’t handle your liquor,” he says in his gruff brogue. “Maybe you are a McGregor after all.”
The joke is barely funny. But it’s a joke. And maybe the closest thing Lachlan will ever get to being accepted. Everyone bursts out into laughter, nervous at first, then one filled with relief. I can only squeeze Lachlan’s arm, right over his tattoo of Lionel the Lion, and stare at him like the googly-eyed lovebird that I am.
And, after that, everything seems fine. The tension dissipates. George has his sherry, Donald has a glass of wine, while the rest of us do it up with sparkling apple juice, sipping it like fine champagne. There is a sense of rightness, of peace, and the falling snow outside the windows just adds to the magical feeling of Christmas.
That is until we hear a loud CRASH from the drawing room. We all freeze, exchanging glances, then jump to our feet, filing out down the hall and into the drawing room.
The tree is completely knocked over, sprawled over the couch, ornaments and tinsel everywhere.
“How did this happen?” Donald exclaims as we gingerly come over.
Suddenly, at the base of
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