Page 63 of Exquisite Things

“But?” I ask as he collects his thoughts.

Finally, he speaks, reverently. “Well... I once believed romantic love was our only chance at exaltation. Now I think... No, I know—that love takes different forms, and they’re all equally transcendent. Romantic, yes. But platonic too. Familial. Parental. Communal. Artistic. And of course, the most important love of all...”

“Which would be...”

“Loving ourselves, I suppose.”

“So, you love yourself?” I ask.

“I think so.” He seems surprised by his answer. Like he’s still figuring out if he’s worthy of love.

“You think, or are you sure?” I murmur.

“It’s hard to love yourself,” he declares with ease. “But I think so.”

“So you forgive yourself, then?” I ask.

“Forgive myself?”

“For your greed.”

“Oh.” Complete silence. He’s not breathing. Finally, “I think I do. Do you love yourself?”

The woman outside knocks on the glass of the telephone box. I shrug sheepishly, letting her know I won’t be leaving anytime soon.

“You did call the helpline,” he says. “If you’re feeling unloved, I’m here to help. You’re. Not. Alone.” He speaks those last three words carefully. Giving each word emphasis.

“I’ve felt alone for a very long time.” I feel a lump in my throat. I wish I were saying this to him directly. As myself.

“I’m sorry.” There’s sincerity in his voice. “Are you in London? There’s an incredible gay community here.”

“Yes,” I say. “But this isn’t home. There’s no one here who could replace my mother.”

“She’s in Ireland?” he asks. Now I’m certain he doesn’t recognize my voice. If he did, he would know it was Mother I’m speaking of. “Did she kick you out of the house when she found out? Too many kids are on the streets because their families won’t accept them. It’s disgusting.”

“No, she was wonderful.” I close my eyes. Imagine Mother in the kitchen. By the Charles. In Provincetown. At the piano. Her hands, wrinkled from working for me. Her eyes, always full of love for me. Her smile, always ready to warm me. She lived for me and I deserted her. “She was warm. She was my best friend.” I laugh. “I sound like such a queen, don’t I? A mother for a best friend.”

“Nothing wrong with being a queen,” he snaps. “Unless you use the throne to colonize and oppress.”

I laugh. Gently at first. And then uproariously. I feel, once again, that I could talk to him forever. Like we used to on our walks. Just us and a tin of Oreo cookies. It scares me. That even here, in a new time, in a new country, I can still talk to him so naturally.

“I’m Bram,” he says. “What’s your name?”

“I— It’s—Liam.” It’s the first name I could think of. I feel so stupid. Giving him my brother’s name.

“Liam?” he asks, his voice haunting the past.

I suddenly panic. I can’t do this anymore. I’m afraid I’ll slip up. And I’ve heard enough, haven’t I? He’s happy. He’s loved. He forgives himself. Knows what he did was wrong. Isn’t that all I need to know?

“I—I have to go, I’m sorry.” I’m so anxious that I hear the accent disappear.

“Wait!” he says.

But I hang up. Catch my breath in the telephone box as the woman outside pounds on the glass.

I leave the box. She enters. She presses theBbutton and fetches the coins from my remaining time. Now I’m the one pounding on the door. “Hey, that’s my change,” I yell.

“Not anymore, kid.” She puts my money into the box and makes a call.