Page 102 of Darling
“Because of me? Because of what I said to him?” There’s a note of panicked regret in his voice.
“No, son. Because of me, because of things I can’t give him, because of…” I trail off.
“Because of Mum.”
“Partly, yes. But mostly because I’m not fit to give myself to anyone the way I did your mother. It’s a terrifying thought, and I’m not sure I want to do it ever again.”
Leo frowns. “But you can’t be alone for the rest of your life, either. She wouldn’t want that for you.”
“No, you’re right. I don’t think she would.” And I don’t wantto be. IwantAsher. I want to be worthy of the love he is offering. But I need to be able to give him something equal in return. Not this broken, half-dead thing I’d been carrying around for the last six years. “But you don’t have to worry about me, cub. I’m going to be alright.” I give him a smile and move to stand. Leo follows and then, completely unprovoked, steps forward and throws his arms around me to squeeze me tightly.
“I’m sorry, Dad,” he says, sounding very genuine. “About everything.”
“You’ve nothing to apologise for, Leo. I’m the one who should be sorry. Things are going to be different now, I promise.”
“I believe it,” he says. “We’ll be there for each other, okay? No matter what?”
“No matter what.”
When I pull back, he gives me a beaming smile. “And look, if you want to have a boyfriend who’s like, my age, then cool. Go for it.”
“Well, thanks for the permission, son.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Now. You’re going to tell me everything about this film of yours. How on earth it happened, what it’s about, what your part is, everything.” He looks overjoyed and excited as he begins to tell me about how he was approached on Gloucester Road outside a Starbucks by a casting agent right after Sabrina broke up with him. I love seeing him like this, grey eyes—so like his mother’s—bright and sharp with thrill. It’s as enthusiastic as I’ve heard him talk about anything for a long time. It’s not a lead role, but it’s an important one, he tells me, and the producer has another project after this that he thinks Leo would be great for. He’s auditioning in London for it in a few weeks’ time. He’s buoyant with hope and anticipation for the future, and it’s impossible not to let a little bit of it seep into me, too. Thingsaregoing to be different now. Things are already different because this is the most Leo and I have spoken in months.
I almost want to call Asher and tell him the news, that the weight of indecision that has been stifling me for weeks has been lifted, and that someday soon, if he’ll still have me, I’ll be able to give him what he wants and needs. But he deserves to live, now. Love, now, if that’s what he wants. He is too full of love to be tied to me while I work through this mess. He’ll flourish. He’ll live. He’ll love.
And when we meet again, I will be whole and willing and ready to love him back.
Final Motion
A Vote of Confidence
Thirty three
Asher
Two years later
Périgord’s is busy when I get there just after 5pm. I have to squeeze my way through tightly knitted occupied tables to get to the raised section at the back. It’s not the closest place to the school, that’s Chevron’s, but that’s always packed with other Parsons students, and at least here, Max will usually reserve our usual table. It looks like I’m the last to arrive, though that’s not unusual. I always stay late and like to walk the long way down Quai de Louvre because even after eighteen months of living in Paris, walking along the Seine at night never gets old. It’s still surreal and outrageous, and I have to pinch myself most mornings when I look out the window over the spires and rooftops of the city I used to dream of visiting one day.
I suppose I have Christian to thank for it in a way, for inviting me to his party and introducing me to Jacob. Because Jacob loved my work, he’d seen potential in the crude shapes and untrained brushstrokes, and he’d wanted to work with me. A few months after arriving in LA, I’d put on a small showing at his gallery in Culver City, where a programme manager for Parsons had attended and liked what she saw. She’d asked whereI’d studied and laughed when I’d told her church, before telling me there were a lot of churches in Paris if I’d ever thought of studying there.
She’d gotten me onto their two-year certificate programme for US students, and the rest is history. My content had partly funded the course, Leah the rest. I didn’t mind her loaning it to me because I’d wanted to go so fucking badly that I knew I didn’t possess even a fraction of the amount of pride it would take to turn down her offer. Also, she still carried a lot of guilt about abandoning me in Ohio, and I didn’t mind sometimes using this to my advantage. Hey, no one’s perfect.
Moving to LA to stay at her place had been a great decision, and when she returned from her short tour, we’d reconnected in a way I didn’t even realise I’d been waiting and hoping for. I’d fucking missed her. And I missed her now, living a couple oceans away.
Over the last eighteen months, I’ve become fully acclimatised to Parisian life. I love it. Feel more at home here than I had in DC, New York, and even LA. It’s a fucking world away from the US: less brash, more cultured, slower paced, whilst still feeling vibrant and exciting. I’ve even learned French. I still struggle translating it when it’s being spoken quickly by a local, but most of the group of students I’ve been absorbed into always try and make an effort to slow their speech around me so I feel included in the conversations. But even when I can’t understand everything, I kinda enjoy sitting on the outside, observing everything, existing in this pocket of European elegance.
It’s been a lifetime since that farm in Logan, since the wooden shed they called a church where I painted my first piece. My work now carries traces of religion—ideas I walked away from, truths I stopped believing in. Instead of rejecting them, I put them on the canvas right alongside everything else. The mess, the flaws, the parts I used to hide. Sex. Lust. Sin. Love. Loss. Itall drives the work I make these days. And Christian is as big a part of my art and my truth as religion is.
I still miss him.
My chest hurts from how much I miss him and what we had in DC. There have been people since, guys who’ve given me intimacy and pleasure, but nothing has come close to what I had with Christian. Or I guess, what I never got to have with him. I think I still love him, too. But really, I just want him to be okay. To be less broken and sad than he was two years ago in my kitchen.
Like he can sense where my mind is, Aksel looks over in my direction and gives me one of his easy smiles. He’s about halfway down the long table to which I’d tacked myself onto the end. A couple of weekends ago we’d fucked, and I’d sort of ghosted him since. I feel guilty about it, but we both know this isn’t going to be something I take back to the States with me, and even if I wasn’t going back, he isn’t who I see myself with long-term. It’s not his fault; it isn’t even mine. It’s Christian fucking Darling’s.