Footy, chapter 22

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But Will picked it up. “You didn’t get on?”

“You could say that. He used to beat us with his fists when he was drunk or drugged up. I was covered with bruises all my childhood. They took me to a home a couple of times, after one of his beatin’s.” The bare recital of the facts didn’t do the reality justice.

Sean didn’t want to meet Will’s eyes, afraid of what he might see there. So he forced himself to look up. Instead of contempt he saw compassion and love. His heart filled with gratitude and tenderness. “My mother was a druggie,” he said. “She died of an overdose. I found her body. I was fourteen.” This time, he was quite unable to bring himself to look at Will. He stared out through the plate glass windows at the dark sea. He felt Will’s hand cover his.

“Shit, I’m sorry, Seanie.” Will had never called him that to his face before.

Reluctantly, Sean met Will’s eyes. Will’s face was filled with pity and sorrow and love. All at once, Sean knew that the person he wanted to spend the rest of his life with was right here in front of him. He’d always had a vague plan to get married, one day, and have a family. But the dreams were fuzzy, the spaces between the outlines unfilled. And memories of his own parents’ marriage kept on intruding. It was true – they did seem to have had a lot of sex. And perhaps, once, they had loved each other. But when he had gotten a more adult awareness of sexual love, he had looked in vain for some sort of affection between them. He hadn’t realised what a hole that had left in him till now.

He had kept on hoping his family would become ordinary – his parents going off to work each day, and coming home and having supper, and going on outings and camping trips. His ideas of what constituted a happy marriage were constructed out of the thin rubbish purveyed by TV, by the shiny women’s magazines his mother would buy when she got the welfare cheque before she shot up, she as mesmerized by the glossy falsehoods as he had been.

He had never truly believed he would find someone he wanted to marry. He smiled at himself—as usual, Sean MacDonald was being different. He wondered how his brothers would take it. And then, with a pang, he wondered whether Will wanted him that way.

On their route back to the motel, Will wanted to hold Sean’s hand, to sling his arm round his shoulders, but he resisted the impulse. He contented himself with putting his hand on Sean’s shoulder as they went into their room.

“Bed,” he said.

“Old man!” said Sean, grinning.

“Who said anything about sleep?” countered Will, his eyes warm toffee.


You can read the chapter here.