Page 95 of Darling
Christian
It takes me close to twenty minutes to extract myself from the conversation with George Handler about golf, of all things. (No, I don’t play, George. No, I don’t want to learn, George). Granted, it had given me some time to think of how I’m going to explain all this to Asher, why I hadn’t told him, why I had told Felix, why I hadn’t decided yet. But everything feels like excuses. I don’t want to give excuses, not to him.
With a deep breath, I push open the door and step into my office. Leo is on the sofa, not Asher, pink head lowered as he scrolls his phone. After our discussion, which had not really been a discussion, he’d seemed to disappear again, then I’d been so busy with work that when I got home, he was out or asleep. Then Felix and Nicoló had arrived, and I hadn’t wanted to do this with them in the house. Now isn’t an appropriate time to talk, either, but the look in his eye tells me he’s prepared for it, battle lines drawn, shield up. I assume Asher had arrived, seen Leo here, and promptly left.
“Dad,” Leo says.
“I haven’t seen you all night. I didn’t know you were here.”
“Thought I’d keep out of sight, wouldn’t want to embarrass you.” He gestures at his head. He has an open bottle of Hennessynext to him, and his voice is ever so slightly slurred.
“Is Callan here?” He’d been on the guest list, certainly, I’d checked that thing eight or nine times, but I hadn’t seen Leo’s friend, either.
“He never showed,” he says in a tone that suggests it was lucky he hadn’t.
“Is everything alright? Did you two have a fight?”
“Oh, yeah. We had a fight, alright.” He laughs and scrubs a hand over his mouth. When he looks at me again, he looks more drunk than he did before. “Your boyfriend left, by the way.”
My entire body stiffens, the hair on the back of my neck rising.
“Excuse me?”
“The guy you were talking to before, the one who was in the hospital, the one who’s my age, the one you’ve been fucking. He was in here, we had a chat, and then he left. Doubt he’ll be back around anytime soon.” He stands, bottle in hand, and shuffles toward me. My breathing is coming in short, sharp bursts through my nose as I stare at my son. He has a confrontational look on his face, eyes wide and pupils blown, ridiculous pink hair a tumble on his head.
“Are you on drugs?” I ask, taking him in again. It’s been on my mind this week: his behaviour, his outbursts, this stupid acting job, his hair. If I’m wrong, then at least it will work as a distraction from what he’s just accused me of. I’m not prepared to deal with it right now.
Leo laughs. “Am I on drugs? I mean, sure, why not, Dad.”
“Leo, we n—”
“Are you closeted?”
“Am Iwhat?” My voice is thin as paper.
“You fuck men, right? In secret. That’s a thing you do? Because that’s whatclosetedmeans, Dad. Maybe you’re just notfamiliar with the term. But being attracted to guys and sleeping with them whilst hiding it fromliterally everyonemeans you’re a closeted homosexual. That’s sort of the legal definition.” I, of course, know there isn’t any such thing, but I don’t say it. I’m trying to breathe, trying to stay upright, trying to remain very calm.
“Leo, I’d like you to understand something,” I manage, forcing some sort of authority into my voice. “My personal life has absolutely nothing to do with you.”
“Yeah, it does,” he snaps. “Because you were married to my mother! Did you fucking lie to her face, too? Were you fucking men the entire time you were with her? Did you even love her?”
Something inside me snaps, and I take a few quick strides forward and smack him hard across the face with an open palm. He almost buckles from shock. My hand stings from the impact of it, and it feels as though something huge and terrible is tearing out through my chest. I know what it is, I’ve been running from it for years, hiding like a snivelling coward whenever it got close. I can’t hide from it anymore, I don’t want to. None of this is Leo’s fault; my son lost his mother, too.
Trembling with guilt, I reach for him, pulling him into my arms.
“Leo, Christ, I’m sorry.” I smooth a hand over his hair. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean that… Forgive me.”
He’s stiff only a moment before he softens, letting me pull him close. Then, I hear it. The soft, muffled sobs of him breaking down against my shoulder. It shatters my heart to pieces.
“Dad…” he says, clinging to me, desperate. “I miss her so much… I still miss her. And I don’t know what to do… I just…” He sobs harder. I hold him tighter, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.
“I know, sweetheart, I know. It’s alright. I do too, I do too.”I realise I’m crying too, finally letting the colossal wave of grief wash over me. The pain and the loss are suffocating; it feels new, it feels like it did those hours and days right after.
We stand like that a long time, a shoulder to each other, and it occurs to me that we have never done this before. When I met him at the hospital, I’d tried to be strong for him, tried to reassure him, had tried to never ever break down in front of him. And it was as though we’d both made some silent promise to never let ourselves feel that pain in front of the other. We needed this. When Leo’s tears ebb, he pulls back from me, and I notice the shocking red mark across his cheek. I hit him. I lifted a hand to my child. The guilt and shame of it makes me feel ill.
“Leo, I’m so sorry,” I say again. “I shouldn’t… have done that. Christ, son.”
“I shouldn’t have accused you of that.” He sounds dreadfully ashamed.