Page 93 of Sad Girl Hours
“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 likesa 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—”
“Juststop. 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 relyingtoomuch 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’minlove 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 lookperfect.”
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 arefizzing. 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’llnever 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.”
