Best of 2017

Matthew nods his head with a smile, blissfully oblivious of any potential tension.

Thomas not so much.

His eyes leave mine and stare at the table top, burger discarded.

“Well, Thomas? Is it true? Do you want to change schools?”

He shrugs.

It isn’t like him to avoid a direct question, and since he is avoiding the question this really isn’t the right place to push it, not amongst the screaming toddlers and the families out for a cheap bite to eat.

I change the topic of conversation, focusing instead on Portsmouth’s goal-scoring record this season, and that works well to lighten the mood.

“I’m going to play for Portsmouth,” Thomas tells me. “Terry says I’m really good.”

“He does, does he?” My boy nods, and even though Terry’s fucking name makes my insides grimace, I’m undeniably proud. “That’s good,” I say. “Well done.”

It’s Matthew who drops the next shitty bombshell. The poor kid has no idea.

“We’re going training!” he gushes. “Terry’s going to put us in kids’ club!”

“Excellent,” I lie. “And what does kids’ club involve?”

Thomas tells him to shut his stupid little mouth, and I’m taken aback by the venom in his tone.

“Enough of that,” I snap. “Let your brother speak.”

But Matthew doesn’t want to speak. Not now. His lip trembles as he holds back tears, and he looks so young sitting there. I’d forgotten how young he is.

Thomas folds his arms. “It’s on a Sunday. You won’t let us go anyway.”

“Won’t let you go?”

He shakes his head. “Mum said there’s no point even asking. She said you’ll never say yes.”

My throat dries. “Never say yes to you training on a Sunday afternoon?”

They both nod, and it smacks me right in the gut. I could retch my fucking French fries all over the fucking table.

“That’s what you want, is it? You want to go training?”

Thomas shrugs, but Matthew is still too young to understand etiquette. He nods so innocently, and I really do think I’m going to vomit up my fucking dinner.

“We won’t go,” Thomas says. “We see you on a Sunday afternoon.”

But they want to. I can see it all over them.

I wrap up my burger and clear my throat. “If you want to go training with Terry on a Sunday afternoon, you should go.”

Their eyes widen.

“But that’s your day…” Thomas tells me, like I’m not perfectly fucking aware of that.

Forcing a smile is so fucking hard. “We’ll make other time,” I say, even though I know it’s probably a fucking lie. “Maybe Saturdays, or holidays. Maybe even weeknights when the evenings get longer again.”

Matthew punches the air. He hollers out a YES that gets the family to our right turning their heads, and I know it’s signed and sealed already.

“What about you?” Thomas asks, and I have to pretend I’m choking on a gherkin.

“I’ll be around,” I say. “I’m your dad, right?”

They nod.

That’s right, I’m their fucking dad. Even if they have a new one now. Even if Terry steals my Sundays, and takes them out of the school I chose for them, and gives them another cool sibling to add to their dinner table.

Even if it doesn’t fucking feel like I’m their dad.

Even if it never feels like it again.

I still am.

I still am their fucking dad.

“Drink up,” I say. “We’ll take Brutus for a walk.”

They drink up.

My fingers are shaking as I pick up my uneaten burger for the dog. My throat is scratchy as I dump the empty wrappers in the bin on the way out.

I park up at the meadow a couple of streets down from Claire’s, and Brutus piles out happily, wagging his tail as Thomas clips on his leash.

We walk in silence, lapping that meadow three times before I can bring myself to speak.

“Tell me about school,” I say. “What do you want to do?”

Thomas looks up at me, and I keep my expression as neutral as I can.

“You can tell me,” I say.

So he does.

My boy tells me how he hates the school I picked for him. How he hates the other kids, and thinks the teachers are stuck up and boring.

He tells me how he feels sick to his stomach every time he has to go there.

How the other boys call him a common little freak because he likes football now and not rugby.

He tells me how they call him a little gay boy because he doesn’t scrum like he used to.

I’m sure there’s no blood left in my face as I land a hand on his shoulder and ask him why the hell he didn’t tell me this before.

And now it’s Thomas who has the trembling lip, wiping tears away on the back of his sleeve before they have chance to spill.

“Because… because I didn’t want…”

“Didn’t want what?”

It breaks my heart when his face crumples, and in some deep part of me I’m relieved to find I still have one.

“I didn’t want you to be ashamed of me.”

And now Matthew is crying too. My two boys stand and cry in front of me and I feel nothing but a cunt.

It’s so easy to pull them into my arms, so easy to breathe into their hair so they don’t see I’m right on the fucking edge myself.

“I’ll never be ashamed of you,” I tell them. “Not ever. No matter what. Do you understand me?”

I have to pull away long enough to check their faces.

“Boys, do you understand me?”

They nod.

I can’t believe I’m saying this. I can’t believe I have to say this.

Most of all I can’t believe Claire is going to get her fucking way, but that doesn’t matter now.

Only the boys matter.

“I’ll let the school know in the morning,” I say. “You can switch over next term.”

I HAVE to pull over into a layby off the A3 to vomit on the way home.

MELISSA

DEAN and I have finished up half a bottle of wine before I’m brave enough to broach the subject.

He shifts in his seat as I turn to face him, knowing full well I’m about to rope him into something shady.

“No,” he says, just like that. “Whatever it is, no.”

“You don’t even…”

He shakes his head. “It involves Henley, right? Some crazy plan? Another crazy plan?”

“Well, maybe… but it’s not…”

“Forget it, Lissa.”

We sit in silence. He tops up our wine and takes a forkful of noodles from his takeout tub.

“You want him, right?” I ask, and he stops chewing. “You said you’d do him for free. I’m saying you don’t need to. I’m saying fifty-fifty, maybe just once if you want… but just think about it…”

“Are you fucking nuts?”

I shake my head. “I’m serious, Dean. He wants men. He told me.”

“He fucking told you?”

“Yes.”

He swallows. “No.”

“No?”

“No, Lissa. This shit is way too fucking much.”

“He wants men. And if I give it to him… if I like it too…”

“If you give it to him then what?” he snaps. “Have you even listened to yourself? Crystals and music, whatever, but this is…”

“Crazy, right?” I finish. “Maybe it’s crazy, yeah. But maybe it’ll be the ace in my deck, maybe it’ll be the thing that makes him really fall in love with me.”

He looks at me as though I’ve suddenly grown an extra head. “Jesus wept, Lissa. Have you heard yourself?”

My stomach is in knots as I look at him.

“I don’t want it to be some random,” I tell him. “I don’t want to hook up with some random guy who doesn’t know what he’ll be… getting into…”

“Being choked half to death you mean? Sure, it might be a tough fucking sell, Lissa. No shit.”

I sip my wine. “Forget it, then.”

“I already have,” he says, but he’s lying. His eyes are wide and angry, but he shifts in his seat and crosses his legs, and I know. I just know.

“You want him. I know you do.”

“Not like that, I don’t.”

“But you do, don’t you? You can’t stop thinking about him either.”

“That’s bullshit!” he snaps, but it’s not.

I remember his face when I told him all the gory details. The way he swallowed when I told him how Alexander chokes me to the brink. How it made me feel. How Alexander makes me feel…

“The guy’s fucked up,” he says.

“But you want him.”

“I want a lot of things…”

“Fifty-fifty,” I say. “One night. You get to have him.”

“And what the fuck will you be doing?” His jaw is so tight.

“Watching,” I say. “Just watching, Dean. It’s not like we… I won’t be…”