Page 44 of Sad Girl Hours

Chapter Forty-four

Nell

I really do love Christmas. It’s the Holloways’ time to gosh dang shine.

Everywhere is decorated to the nines; the table at lunch is heaving with an absolute banquet of all my favourite foods – I want to give whoever first thought to roast a potato instead of just boiling it a little kiss on the forehead.

A crisp golden roastie? Now that’s an exemplary vegetable.

Everyone’s slightly tipsy but in a fun way, we’re singing along to songs we know the words to, and there’s just that gingerbread-scented magic in the air. It’s cold and dark outside for most of the day, but we’re all in here, all the people I love most in the world in one room.

Saffron doesn’t eat quite as much as the rest of us – I know she’s not really had a big appetite recently while things have been bad for her – but I’m glad to see she still eats a decent amount.

She’s always beautiful but with the candlelight from the candelabra in the centrepiece flickering on her face, the pink from the warmth rising over her cheeks, here – in my house … she’s something else.

I feel my dads – and sometimes Naomi – watching us as we share quiet inside jokes or pass each other things without the other asking for them, and I know what they’re thinking.

Something that’s confirmed when I’m carrying dishes from the table to the kitchen and I hear Saffron’s name, making me pause in the doorway.

“Saffron’s beautiful,” Gran says, their backs turned to me as they pass things either into the sink or the dishwasher. “Nell’s done nicely there, hasn’t she?”

“She is. And very sweet. I’m glad Nell’s sorted through some things enough to finally realise she’s gay. We’ve known since she was about eight and obsessed with that girl at school.”

“We’ve not known ,” Pops says. “We weren’t sure when she was older, remember?”

“True. She has played things close to her chest.”

Have I played things close to my chest, or am I just demisexual and don’t get attracted to people willy-nilly?

“Not everyone comes out of the womb waving a

Pride flag, Eric,” my gran says. “You may have done but not everyone. I swear you even gave the doctor a wink as you popped out.”

Pops laughs. “You must have a thing for men in white coats. Although I do tend to catch more calves than human babies.”

“Tend to?”

I would normally be thrilled to join in this conversation and put my dad on blast. But listening to them oh-so-casually discussing the nuances (or lack thereof) of my sexuality has made me see red. Scarlet.

I cough loudly in the doorway. “Hi, guys.”

Pops jumps. “Jesus, Nell, you startled me.”

There’s a riotous shriek from the lounge – I suspect the guns are back out.

“I’m going to go investigate the hullaballoo,” my gran says, scarpering, kissing me on the cheek as she goes past.

“You all right, Nelaphant?” Dad says as I put the dishes down on the only free bit of worktop space, with a little more force than is warranted.

“Actually, no,” I say. “I’m kind of sick of you both talking about my sexuality. I know you’re my dads, and you’re predisposed to be nosy, but it’s also nothing to do with you.”

Their eyes dart between each other, and it just makes me want to yell at them more.

“Where’s this coming from, agápi mou?” Pops says. “We’re just happy for you. We want to celebrate all the different things that make you you – if you’ll let us.”

“And one of those parts of me is a big ol’ hunk of lesbianism, is it?”

Another look.

“Well,” Pops starts slowly, “you and Saffron do seem to have a beautiful thing going.”

“Once again , Saffron is not my girlfriend.”

“No.” A pause. “But would you like her to be?”

“Yes,” I say truthfully.

“Well, there you go then,” Dad says, like that settles everything.

UGH. “It’s not as simple as that, though.”

“Nell,” Pops says, “you know we will love you whatever you identify as, but do you not think maybe you’re overthinking this? You love Saffron, you want to be with her…”

“And so that makes me a lesbian.”

“Well…”

Jesus Christ. “Can you not hear yourselves? I know it was simple for you two. You liked men; you identify as gay. Great, I’m very happy for you.

But it’s not that simple for me. I know I like Saffron but I don’t know how that translates to my identity as a whole.

Maybe one day I will identify as a lesbian – and I’ll be happy and proud to say so – but that’s not how I feel right now.

And, though bisexuality as a label doesn’t feel like it fits me either, I think it’s kind of shitty of you both to go, ‘Oh, she likes a woman, she MUST be a lesbian.’ Bi people exist too.

And pan people and, like, many , many other identities too. ”

“We know they do, darling, but you’ve never shown any particular interest in—”

“Just stop . You’re not going to convince me that you know my sexuality better than I do. It’s not like I don’t know, and I’m asking you to help make it simpler for me. I’m not asking.”

I’m getting to something important here, I can feel it.

“I don’t know what I am. And I really do think I’m OK with that. So, I’d appreciate it if you would be too. Unless I come to you and tell you otherwise, I identify as queer.” I say the word like I’m painting a canvas with a big, broad stroke, just the way I like it. “And that’s all you’re getting.”

And, with that, I turn away, leaving them both to deal with the mountain of dishes and – hopefully – to stop talking about me.

I open the back door and sit on the low brick wall facing out into the courtyard and let the weight of clarity sink down into my brain and wash over my body.

I like words. I like how neatly I can make them explain things that didn’t feel explainable until I put them down on paper.

But I think maybe I’ve been relying too much on them.

I’ve been so frustrated that I couldn’t find the words to explain how I feel about my sexuality and who I am or am not attracted to, and in that frustration I’ve been scrawling over pages and pages of paper, covering them with my words in the hope that I’ll stumble across the right one.

I’ve been doing this for twenty years. It should really have occurred to me by now that maybe there’s power in the blank page, in leaving space for things you don’t know yet.

All I really know is that I love Saffron. I’m in love with her. And I reckon that’s good enough for me.

My dads are suitably mollified for the weird interlude of nothingness and hedonism between Christmas and New Year’s Eve.

They’re oddly polite and even more touchy-feely than usual.

Whenever one of them passes, they squeeze my arm or toss a kiss on the top of my head – their way of maybe not apologising exactly, but of letting me know I’ve been heard.

“What do you think? Do I look OK?”

I’ve been scrolling on my phone, being a respectful king and not watching Saffron as she gets changed for our New Year’s Eve party, but now I look up.

She’s wearing a champagne-coloured dress with a V at the top leading to a point on her breastbone, layers of soft tulle shimmering out from her waist, golden stars glittering on the whole thing.

I put down my phone and stand up. “You look perfect.”

She laughs a little. “Thanks.”

“No,” I say, stepping forward. “I know I’m sometimes prone to hyperbole, but that does not apply here. You look perfect .”

She’s already put her make-up on – there’s pink and gold shining on her cheeks – but at my words she looks down, the pink intensifying and reminding me irresistibly of the sunset on the winter solstice.

“Shut up,” she says softly.

“Shan’t,” I say to be contrary, and also because I really could wax lyrical about how perfect this girl is forever.

“You look perfect too,” she says, and this time I do laugh.

“Really.” I gesture down at the jumper and trousers I’m still wearing from earlier.

“Really,” she says, and I’m suddenly very conscious of the half a metre of space between us, like all the atoms there are fizzing .

She takes a deep breath. “And listen. I don’t know what the New Year is going to bring.

But I want to thank you for being so wonderful, always, but especially over these last few months.

I’ll never forget how kind you’ve been – how kind your whole family has been.

It’s been my best Christmas ever. And then the whole bucket-list plan…

” She breathes out. “You really are the kindest person I’ve ever met. ”

“The bucket list was fun for me too,” I insist. “And we still have a couple of things left to do on it.”

“I hope it was,” Saffron says. “I hope you got something out of it, even if it didn’t massively help with your writing.”

“ You’ve helped with my writing,” I say, thinking of all the poetry I’ve been scrawling down over the last few days.

All the poems about getting to know yourself a little better but also just letting all the magic of possibility flow in and out and around you.

I doubt I’d have got here without her. “And even if this whole thing hadn’t helped, even indirectly, it would still have been worth it to keep trying to find things that would make you smile. ”

She smiles at that, and I beam back. “See. So worth it.”

She fades into shyness. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

“Personally, I don’t think people should have to earn kindness,” I say softly. “But, even if they did, you’ve earned all of this and much, much more besides. Just for the record, I’m continually impressed with you.”

“Shut up,” Saffron says again, laughing softly.

“I am ,” I say, smiling but not letting this pass.

“You hold so much inside you, so many difficult things, but instead of letting it twist you into a bitter, angry, negative person – which would be understandable, by the way – you’re always kind and soft and lovely to the people around you.

It’s like you let all the negative stuff make you even softer, rather than hardening you to the world. It’s inspiring really.”

I notice that her eyes have developed a shiny quality and clear my throat, readying myself to change the subject so she doesn’t cry and ruin her make-up. “Come on. I’d better get ready so we can get this party started.”