Page 104 of The Words Beneath the Noise

They knew. They'd known, or at least suspected, and they didn't care. Didn't recoil. Didn't look at me like I was broken or wrong or something to be ashamed of.

My mother had called Tom family.

“Art.” Bea was beside me, hand on my arm, voice soft beneath the chaos. “You're shaking.”

“I know.” I couldn't make it stop. My whole body was trembling, some combination of relief and shock and the release of tension I'd been carrying for longer than I could remember. “I thought... I was so sure...”

“That we'd throw you out? Disown you?” She squeezed my arm. “You absolute idiot. You're my brother. I don't care if you want to marry a man or a woman or a particularly attractive lamppost. You're still my brother.”

I laughed. It came out wet and broken, closer to a sob than anything else. “A lamppost?”

“I've seen some very handsome lampposts. Don't judge.” She pulled me into another hug, gentler this time. “I'm so glad you told us. I'm so glad you found someone. You deserve to be happy, Art. You always have.”

“I didn't think I was allowed.”

“Bollocks to allowed.” Her voice was fierce against my shoulder. “You're allowed whatever you can grab with both hands. The world's too bloody short to spend it being miserable.”

My father appeared when we were settled in the sitting room with tea.

He stood in the doorway for a long moment, taking in the scene. Mum on the settee beside Tom, showing him photographs from what I recognised with horror as my childhood. Bea curled in the armchair, watching with undisguised delight. Me perched on the edge of my seat, still trembling slightly, a cup of tea cooling in my hands.

Dad's gaze moved from face to face, lingering longest on Tom. Then on me.

I braced myself. Dad had always been harder to read than Mum. More reserved. More concerned with propriety andappearance and what the neighbours might think. If anyone was going to have a problem with this, it would be him.

He crossed the room slowly. Stopped in front of where Tom was sitting.

Tom rose immediately, soldier's instinct, and they stood facing each other. My father, grey and dignified and unreadable. Tom, tense and wary and clearly preparing for the worst.

“Thomas Hale,” my father said.

“Sir.”

“My wife tells me you care for my son.”

“Yes, sir. I do.”

“And what exactly are your intentions?”

The question was so absurdly formal, so precisely the thing a father might ask a suitor in any normal circumstance, that I felt hysterical laughter bubble up in my chest. I choked it down, watching, waiting.

Tom's chin lifted. “My intentions are to stand beside him for as long as he'll let me. To protect him when I can and support him when I can't. To build something with him, whatever that looks like, for however long we have.”

My father studied him for a long moment. Then, slowly, he extended his hand.

“Good enough,” he said.

Tom shook his hand, and something in his expression cracked open. Relief and disbelief and something that looked almost like hope.

“Thank you, sir.”

“None of that. It's Edward. Or Dad, if you prefer, once you've been around long enough.” My father's mouth twitched in what might have been a smile. “Now sit down before Margaret overwhelms you with baby photographs. I believe there's one of Arthur at age three refusing to wear trousers that she's been dying to show someone.”

“Dad!” The word came out strangled. “You can't?—”

“I certainly can. You brought him home, Arthur. That means he gets the full experience.” Dad settled into his usual chair and accepted the cup of tea Bea handed him. “Now. Tell me about this work of yours that you can't tell me about. Preferably with enough vague details that I can pretend I don't know it's important while being appropriately proud.”

The afternoon passed in a blur of tea and conversation and the slow, sweet process of watching Tom become part of my family.