Page 4 of Strawberry Kisses

“It’s my parents’ wedding anniversary next weekend… and my dad’s seventieth birthday,” he said slowly, chewing his lip. The soft, lilting Irish note in his voice was suddenly more noticeable. I knew his mum was Irish, and I assumed he’d picked it up from her. “I have to go down to Devon for it and take a cake.”

“Oh. Do you need me to watch Whiskey for the weekend?”

“Yeah, but…” Patrick sounded distracted. He looked up at me through his long lashes. “I think I need to tell them I’m gay.”

Patrick’s words landed, but I didn’t actually hear them. Not at first. And when I did, it took me a while to process them. I must have looked like a complete tit standing there staring.

I’d known Patrick for three years, and in the three years I’d known him, he’d never had a boyfriend… or a girlfriend… or any form of romantic partner as far as I was aware. He didn’t do hook-ups, and he didn’t do casual flings. He was quite private, so I figured he hadn’t wanted to share or that he wasn’t the sort of person who wanted or needed a relationship. And that had been fine.

It had to be fine.

Because there was one teeny tiny sticking point in my friendship with Patrick that I’d been trying to bury for the past three years.

I was hopelessly and irretrievably in love with him.

And when I’d thought he wasn’t gay or wasn’t interested in dating or sex or anything, that had been fine because I could put my feelings for Patrick into a box, label it “disaster crush”, and never, ever look at it again.

But now? Now I was threatening to vomit my feelings all over Patrick’s kitchen in rainbow glitter. And once you spilt glitter, that shit was never going back in the box.

I was well aware Patrick was still staring at me and that I was still holding the cheese grater in mid-air.

“Oh…” I said, beating the glitter rainbow back so I could try to find words. “Thank you for telling me and for trusting me. Is, um, is there a reason you want to tell them now? Or that you haven’t before?”

“Well, I guess… my mum used to talk about me getting married and finding a nice girl, and I kept putting it off with the restaurant starting up and everything, but I can’t use that as an excuse anymore. I’ve always worried because mum’s family is Catholic, and I was never sure how she’d take it. She says she just wants me to be happy, which is sweet, but I still wasn’t sure.” He paused, and I rapidly shoved dinner into the oven so I could forget about it for thirty minutes and focus on Patrick, who looked about two seconds away from passing out. He’d gone the colour of sour milk. “But then a couple of months ago she was talking about something she’d been watching, a film I think, and how the leads had been a gay couple and how nice it was to see that.” He looked up at me and chuckled. “I think she might already know, but, um, I think I want to tell her and Da before the party. Just so they know. And my sisters too… Feck, that’s a lot of people all at once.”

I walked over and took his hand, squeezing it gently. “It’s going to be okay. You don’t have to say anything if you’re not ready, honey.”

“No, I want to. We’ve got a family Skype tomorrow to sort out the last few details for the party, so I thought I’d do it then. At least… at least then if they don’t want me to come down, they can tell me.”

A flicker of pain caught in my chest. “Do you think they would?”

“I don’t think so. I mean, I’m pretty sure Mary’s best friend is a drag queen from the pictures I’ve seen on Twitter. But it’s hard.” He smiled up at me, and I squeezed his hand tighter. I’d never really met Patrick’s family, but he talked to me about them all the time, and honestly, they sounded slightly insane but in the best way. I knew he loved them fiercely, even if he didn’t see them that often.

“Was it hard for you to tell your mum?” he asked quietly.

“A little,” I said, then I grinned. “But I think she already knew. I mean, I threw a temper tantrum at four because I couldn’t wear a tutu like the girls in my class for the dance school showcase. And I was wearing eyeshadow at seven. I mean, that all sounds horribly stereotypical, but look at me.” I gestured to the flowing, pink off-the-shoulder top I’d found in the River Island women’s section and my skin-tight ripped jeans. “So honestly, I don’t think my mum even blinked when I finally told her when I was thirteen. She just told me she loved me, asked me to stop wiping fake tan on her nice white towels, and helped me put posters of the Jonas Brothers up in my bedroom.”

“Fake tan?” Patrick asked with a wry grin and raised eyebrow.

“It was Essex in the early noughties. Everyone had bad fake tans, glittery lip-gloss, and the thinnest eyebrows known to humankind.”

Patrick snorted. “Well, I’m glad your eyebrows grew back in.”

“So am I. It was touch-and-go for a while. I know at least one person who now has to draw them on because she over plucked them so much.” I squeezed his hand again. “I’m sure it’s going to be fine. Your family sounds a little crazy from what you’ve told me, but they obviously love you.”

“Thanks. You’re the best.”

“I know.” I leant down and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Why don’t you go grab a quick shower while this cooks, and then we can watch a movie? Mr. President and I can take up our positions on the sofa until then.”

Whiskey yowled in confirmation, appearing to rub his head up and down Patrick’s leg in a gesture that was a combination of love and a demand for food.

“No, you’ve been fed,” I said. “Don’t tell lies.”

Whiskey meowed grumpily and stalked off towards the living room. I’d never met such a vocal and emotional cat before, but then again, Whiskey was a unique being.

“A shower sounds great, and dinner smells amazing. Baked mac and cheese?”

“With pancetta. And at least three-quarters of a block of cheese.”

“Thanks, Connor,” Patrick said, giving me the same warm smile that always made my insides melt. It was the smile I’d do anything for.

I watched him head towards the stairs before I scrubbed my face with my hands, very, very glad I wasn’t wearing make-up for once. I couldn’t tell Patrick he’d just utterly upended my entire universe with one simple sentence, especially because it had clearly been a huge deal for him to share, and I wasn’t such a self-centred asshole that I was going to make this all about me.

Even if all I wanted to do was suddenly pour my heart out and tell him how perfect he was.

Not that he’d want a relationship with me, of course. I’d never managed to be very good at them, but maybe it was my choice of man that was the problem. None of my exes had turned out to be relationship material. Fucking, yes. Dating, not so much. Not that I’d minded since they’d all been somewhere on the scale of self-absorbed dickhead to complete wanker, even the ones who’d initially shown some promise. Heartbreak and I were old friends by this point. I should know better than to get too attached to fuckbois.

But this was Patrick… I sighed. No, I was not going there. Patrick did not need this. Especially not now. He had more than enough shit to deal with. I would just keep my mouth closed for once. With superglue if necessary.

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