55. Dex

How is a man to reconcile himself with a lifetime of subterfuge in four short days? To sift through the layers of denial and misrepresentation, prevarication and obfuscation, like an archaeologist searching for a rumoured needle in a historically priceless haystack?

Cataloguing feels a far too rigorous science for the countless ephemeral feelings and fleeting desires I've experienced and disavowed over the years. Attempting to analyse, let alone label, the messy, sometimes sickening instincts that have skittered sinfully over the edge of my consciousness would be as efficient, as helpful, as trying to catch a ghost with a net and a jar.

I suspect labelling is overrated.

Because, among all the half-truths I force myself to confront in the hours and days that follow my unthinkable coupling with Max, one truth stands proud and inviolable when I gaze at my exhausted reflection in the mirror:

I came in the perfect mouth of an exacting, magnetic man, and it was the realest moment of my life.

By Wednesday, I break and call my sister. God knows, if anyone has taught themselves to navigate the perilous waters that lie between the lands of objective truth and subjective morality, it's Belle.

‘I really need your advice on something,' I say, fully and guiltily aware that she'll drop any plans she has for me. ‘Any chance you're free tonight?'

‘Oh,' she says, and there's a pause. ‘There's—could you come to the club? It's Diamond Night. Darcy's dancing. It'll be amazing.'

The only part of that sentence I care about is that Darcy's dancing. That works, as long as Max isn't there.

Will he be there?

Shit.

‘We could have a drink in the bar first,' she says. ‘Would that suit?'

A heart-to-heart with my sister and a chance to see Darcy. To say hi, to make amends, no matter how fleetingly, before Friday.

‘Yeah,' I say. ‘Thanks. That suits.'

It turnsout Diamond Night at Alchemy is an excuse for the patrons to bedazzle themselves in crystals and as little fabric as possible. My sister has her shapely bump encased in a long, cream dress with diamond-encrusted straps and a slash so far up her thigh I'm amazed Rafe has let her out of his sight. In fact, I'm sure I'm the only guy in the entire club he'd let lead his pregnant wife away to a relatively quiet corner of the bar.

Which is exactly what I do once I've said hello to everyone. The women look sensational, I have to admit, and the amount of bling on show has me almost blinded, and Aida has persuaded Cal to wear a stretchy, sparkly headband in his floppy hair, making him look like a brunette Jack Grealish.

Maddy greets me with a huge hug and a wink as she asks if I've come to see Darcy, so I guess the sooner I fill Belle in, the better. I don't want to keep my sister away from her friends or the fun, but fuck if this isn't a big conversation to wrap up in twenty minutes.

‘Is everything okay?' she asks as she sinks down next to me on the velvet sofa.

‘I don't know,' I say. ‘Look no one's dying, but I need relationship advice—more like life advice, really.'

She visibly brightens, flicking her sheet of dark blonde hair over her shoulder. ‘Ooh, exciting! And you've only been back a few weeks. Nice work.'

‘Don't congratulate me yet,' I say drily. ‘I've got myself into a bit of a situation. But you should know, between you and me, that I'm kind of… something happened with Darcy, and I like her. A lot.'

‘Ohmygod,' she says in a rush, gripping my forearm. ‘That's so amazing! I'm so happy for you both—she's so nice! And so, so gorgeous.'

‘Yeah.' I laugh weakly. ‘She's both of those, and more.'

‘So what's the problem?' she asks. ‘You're keeping it in the Alchemy family. I love it.'

You have no idea.

‘The situation is… complicated,' I say, watching her face carefully. ‘Because of Max.'

Her face falls. ‘Oh, shit. Of course. Woah—so Darcy's sleeping with both of you? That's not good.'

‘It's not quite that simple.' I take a deep breath. Fuuuuuck. ‘Something may have happened between him and me, too.'

It takes a moment to sink in, and when it does she claps both hands over her face and inhales sharply. ‘Wait—the three of you are…'

‘Kind of.' I say. ‘I don't know. It's very early days.'

I fill her in with broad brushstrokes that are as asexual as is humanly possible when narrating a threesome, sticking to the events and my main emotional reactions (horror, all-consuming desire, horror, in a nutshell).

I tell her that I dodged Darcy's messages, which has her screwing her face up with the effort of not bawling me out.

And then I tell her about Max. How he ambushed me with a full-on meeting before insisting on coming back to my office.

I tell her something happened.

Broad brushstrokes, right?

I don't tell her how I folded like a cheap deckchair as soon as he cupped my dick in that infuriatingly entitled, know-it-all style of his.

Nor do I tell her how I abandoned all decorum, all pretence, and begged him to make me come.

I don't describe how it felt to have him take me in his mouth—like the earth had shifted on its axis.

I suspect I don't need to. I suspect it's as clearly visible on my face as it is audible in my halting prose. And I have my answer in her wide eyes and in the way she reaches for my hand and holds it tightly.

‘Holy crap,' she whispers. She doesn't demand salacious details. She just asks, ‘And how are you feeling?'

‘Fuck knows.' I rest my elbows on my knees and drag my hands over my face before looking at her. ‘That's what I'm trying to figure out.'

‘And that's why you wanted to chat?'

‘Yeah.'

‘Wow.' She gazes around the room of happy, laughing people who are most likely secure in their sexuality and then back at me, tucking her hair carefully behind her ear and seemingly choosing her words. ‘Can I ask you a question?'

‘Sure.'

‘Was this your first time… with a guy?'

‘Apart from the other night with him and Darcy, yeah.' Even referring to him has my stomach flip-flopping.

She squeezes my hand tighter. ‘Was it out of the blue? Or have you wanted to—you know—in the past?'

I sigh. ‘He told me to go home and process, said I needed to tell myself some hard facts. So that's what I've been doing—or trying to do. And by far the hardest fact of all is that no, it wasn't out of the blue. I've had thoughts, I suppose, for years.'

I've never admitted that to a living soul before. Not even to myself, really, before this week. And my admission is the blow that fells my sister, because she releases my hand and instead wraps me in a huge, sideways hug.

‘I can't bear it for you,' she mumbles into my neck.

‘Hey.' I gently disentangle myself. ‘Why not? I'm fine.'

Her eyes, when she pulls away, are huge. We've always been told our eyes are similar—we get them from Mum—and hers are limpid with compassion. ‘Well you shouldn't be fine. You've had feelings for guys, and God knows how long you've been bottling them up, and it doesn't take a genius to work out why. I'm so fucking gutted for you.'

My sister hardly ever swears—or at least she didn't before she met Rafe—so her F-bomb reflects the full force of her emotion.

‘Don't be gutted,' I urge her. ‘I've been perfectly happy. That's why I'm so freaked out. I don't need this. It doesn't?—'

‘It doesn't what?'

‘It doesn't fit with what I want for my life,' I confess in a rush.

As the words spill out, I realise they're true.

Unlike the way I've been taught by every adult in my life, from my parents to my priests and teachers at my super-conservative Catholic boarding school, I don't believe homosexuality is a sin or an illness or any of those other despicable, invalidating words they use to scare formative minds away from any kind of sexual or moral exploration.

I have nothing at all against gay people. But clearly I do have something against the idea that I might be in any way queer, because I do tell myself I'm sinful, shameful, when I have feelings for or reactions to or fantasies about other men.

Homosexuality is fine for other people, but it's not for me. That's the line I've always stuck to. I won't perpetuate hate or bigotry, but I won't colour outside those same lines I've always been taught represent the boundaries of what is good and decent and wholesome.

It's a matter of personal preference.

Belle frowns. ‘What do you mean—you mean you want a nice, heteronormative wife-and-kids-type life?'

She doesn't intend it, but I can hear the gentle judgement in her voice. My sister has certainly come a long way in the years I've been gone.

‘Well, yeah. What's wrong with that?' It's exactly what she's opted for, at the end of the day.

‘Nothing's wrong with that. You'll make a great dad.'

She lays her head on my shoulder, and comfort flares deep within me. There's something about confessing to the person who grew up in the same fucked-up environment as you that's soothing. I don't have to explain my starting points to her. She gets it. It may be a case of the blind leading the blind, but we're together on this voyage of sifting through all the shit we've been told to believe and assessing which of it is real and valid and which of it is utter fucking bullshit.

So her next sentence hits me like a bolt of lightning.

‘The thing is, when you say things like that, it kind of sounds like Max, or any other guy, doesn't fit in with what you've been taught you should want for your life. And no surprise there, because he'll never make a decent wife.' She clasps my hand again. ‘But maybe, just maybe, if you give yourself permission to spend some time thinking about what actually makes you happy rather than what you think you should serve up for Mum and Dad, you'll be surprised at the answers.'

‘That sounds complicated,' I manage.

‘Really, it's the opposite. Forget about all the theory. What do you want, at the most basic level? What does your heart want? What does your body want?'

I make a noncommittal noise, because I'm not sure I trust myself to speak.

‘Look,' she says. ‘I'm the last person you have to explain yourself to. But I think one of the things that helped me break free from all that crap was that it just felt so good with Rafe, you know? And it got me wondering how something that felt so good, and made me so happy, could be bad.

‘There is no institution on earth as capable of overcomplicating things and making them feel ominous and depraved and wrong as the Catholic Church is, or of making up all these endless, ridiculous, godforsaken rules. Honestly! It's so crazy.'

‘It really is,' I murmur, and she lifts her head from my shoulder. She's grinning, and it's mischievous and charming and sweet as fuck.

‘Okay, so I don't want details, because ew, but tell me this. When you were with Max, did it give you the ick? Is that why you're spinning out? Or are you spinning out because it blew your mind so amazingly that it was fucking terrifying?'

‘Which do you think?' I ask her drily.

Her grin intensifies, and she nudges my shoulder. ‘I knew it! Look. You're a smart guy. Just go and have some fun with this, okay? It's all good. Go get all the orgasms. Orgasms are good! Don't discriminate against who's giving them to you.'

I cover my face and pretend to groan. ‘Okay, okay. I'm done with this conversation.'

‘I'm proud of you.' She plants a light kiss on my cheek before standing up. ‘Go have some fun and be outrageous. It's your turn to be the family black sheep for a while.'