Sunday, September 7th 2014

'Jack, are you listening?' His mother's voice cut through his thoughts.

'What?'

'The teapot. The kettle's boiled.'

'Right. Sorry.'

She eyed him. 'You've been off all weekend.'

She wasn't wrong. He couldn't shake what had happened last week. Couldn't stop replaying it. In a few hours, he'd have to go up to Dublin and face it—face Ciarán. It had been a mistake. A drunken, meaningless mistake. And that mistake sat as a knot in the pit of his stomach.

He had applied to dozens and dozens of ads on Daft.ie, desperate to find somewhere else, to save him from having to move into the apartment with Ciarán. To save him from a conversation he didn't want to have. To save him from the consequences of what he had done in his drunken state.

'Are you sure, Jack? You know I'd do anything for you, don't you?' His mother's voice softened as she reached across the kitchen table, squeezing his hand. 'Everything I do is for you. So you have the best life. So you don't have to struggle.'

Jack swallowed hard, feeling her grip tighten, warm and familiar. She had always fought for him, always put him first. She wanted the best for him, she made her expectations for his life very clear. But that warmth—so comforting albeit suffocating a lot of the time—caused anxiety now.

She had no idea what he had done. What he had let happen. What he had wanted.

And if she ever found out?

Jack's stomach twisted violently. He didn't know what would break first—her heart, or his place in this family.

'Yeah,' he said, but before she could retort, the doorbell rang and she shot off down the hallway to greet her guests.

'Will you carry the tray into the sitting room in about five minutes.' She yelled back at him as she hurried in a fluster down the hallway as someone knocked again impatiently. 'Alright, alright. I'm coming!'

In the kitchen, Jack slid the brick that held the fridge door closed to one side with his foot, and pulled open the door, taking out a large carton of milk. Carefully, he poured it into a jug and placed it on the serving tray with the massive teapot and a collection of mugs of varying pastel colours. There was a packet of custard creams, chocolate hobnobs and some Lidl own-brand jammie dodgers on the counter, which he piled onto a plate and placed on the tray too.

'Throw us one o' dem, will ya?' asked his father, and Jack tossed him a hobnob which he swallowed without even chewing, 'ta.'

'Are you coming in for this?' asked Jack and his father threw his eyes up to heaven.

'I suppose I will. Your mammy will only go mad otherwise.'

Jack slid the brick back into place at the base of the fridge. It had been there for months, as much a fixture as the fridge itself. His dad kept swearing to fix it and his mam always threatened to call a handyman but his dad always ranted about never paying for something you could do yourself. Round and round they went. Jack was as sick of the argument as he was of the damn brick.

'Is Big Sinéad Begley coming tonight?'

'I think so. Why?'

His father shook his head, grabbing another biscuit. 'Jaysus. She'll eat us outta house n' home.'

Jack forced a laugh, but it didn't quite reach his chest. His stomach was already in knots.

The sitting room always felt strangely empty, despite being packed with untouched furniture and never-used crystal. His mother loved to boast about the 'good cutlery', even though no one had ever eaten off it.

Jesus Christ stared down from the wall, red light glowing beneath him. The couches, older than Jack himself, still looked new—untouched, like everything else in the room.

There were two or three Yankee Candle wax burners going - his mam's newest obsession - which added a slight cinnamon scent to the overall smell of dust and disuse. The big light was off, but she had a few of the lamps on. 'Ambience' she called it, for their big anti-gay meeting. He had been instructed to set up a handful of the kitchen chairs in the room, and they dotted the perimeter with little yellow cushions on them.

She bustled in, leading the group. 'Now, ladies and gentlemen, take a seat. Pour yourself a cuppa.'

Jack kept to the corner, dodging conversation until one of the women from mass zeroed in on him.

'Jack! Your mother says you're off to UCD. Fair play!'

'Yeah. Delighted. Heading up tonight.'

'And you found a house? Your mother was saying it's desperate for students!'

Jack tensed. Avoid. Deflect. 'Yeah, all sorted. City centre.'

'Oh lovely! Where exactly?'

'Temple Bar area,' he said quickly, rising before she could press further. 'Just grabbing some water.'

At the sink, he downed two pints in quick succession, heart hammering. He had no plan. He couldn't move in with Ciarán. Back in the sitting room, the meeting had begun.

'Marriage,' his mother declared, her tone deliberate, weighty. 'That's what this is all about. Should two men be able to get married?'

The word sat thick in the air, heavy enough to press down on Jack's chest. His mother's lips curled slightly as she said it, like it tasted bitter. Like it pained her to even acknowledge.

His breath felt too shallow.

Ciarán flashed into his mind's eye again - an out of body birds-eye view of the pair of them lying in bed together and wrapped in each other's almost naked bodies. He fought the urge to vomit. The room was mostly silent as she spoke, his father slurped his tea loudly, earning an eye twitch from his mother every so often.

'Or two women,' added a woman.

'They have their civil relationships or whatever they're called. Marriage is a sacrament, and as we all know, God wouldn't allow it.'

Nods of agreement. Murmurs of approval. Jack felt like he was underwater.

Jack watched Big Sinéad Begley - Begs' mam - as she continued to sink biscuits down her gob like a child left alone at the snack table of a children's party. He assumed it was out of awkwardness. If Jack's mother knew about her gay transexual son over in London, so did everyone else in the village. He loved his mam, but she was a talker, and he knew if she had told Jack and Mark that rumour, there were probably dozens that had gotten the same spiel before them. He couldn't understand how someone that was always so busy had as much time for gossiping as she did.

'We need to think of our children,' his mother continued, voice strong, assured. 'I need to think of my Jack, and you need to think of yours.' His legs twitched, his knuckles blanched white against the armrests, as a few glanced over at him.

His mother's voice droned on, but it sounded far away, warped, like he was hearing it underwater.

He'd be disowned. Excommunicated. And all for what? A drunken moment where he couldn't see straight, let alone think straight! His mother's voice rang in his ears, but it sounded distant. His stomach twisted. He wanted to say something. But what? And to who?

Ciarán.

Jack's stomach coiled with dread. He needed to silence him. Make him swear to take that night to his grave. No one could know. No one. Ever.

His mother's voice droned on in the background, but he wasn't listening. His mind was spinning, racing, trying to grab onto something solid.

This wasn't me. It was a mistake. It meant nothing.

He needed to focus. He had to focus. On this campaign. On his mother. On what actually mattered.

The farm was his life. Not Dublin. Not whatever the fuck last weekend was. He squeezed his fists tight, his nails biting into his palms. He wasn't going to be some puff living in an apartment.