“You…” Tom’s admission took Michael’s breath away, or what remained of it. Tom took his breath away, full stop.
“It’s only short, and it’s mostly about…” Tom cleared his throat and went a shade pinker. “About your hair. Ah, there we go.” He indicated and pulled up parallel to the car in front of an empty space and reversed. And went forward. And reversed again. He laughed. “So much for showing off.”
Michael smiled. He loved the way Tom tried to come off as super cool and then did these little humbling things, like failing at parallel parking, or freaking out over the Foyle Bridge. He was quite something, and not for the first time, Michael began to doubt his decision to stay celibate, because it wasn’t just ‘no sex’. It was no kissing, no romance, no nothing.
Eventually, when Tom had parked the car more or less straight, they got out and for a moment stayed where they were, admiring the university’s buildings sprawled in front of them. Or, rather, Tom admired the university buildings; Michael was secretly admiring Tom. He’d stopped off at home to change into a t-shirt, jeans and boots, and the t-shirt was a snug fit, showing off his stocky, well-toned physique.
“You did your A Levels, didn’t you, Mike?” Tom asked. It was a well-timed interjection.
“Yeah, I did.”
“Did you not want to go to uni?”
He’d never told anyone—he tried not to think about it—but no one had asked him, not since sixth form, where his teachers told him if he took a year out he’d never go to university. He’d ignored them and opted for the year out. Now he was into the third year, and it looked like his teachers had been right. “I did want to go,” he admitted quietly. “But…I don’t know that I’m clever enough.”
“Hey, if I am, you definitely are.”
Michael chewed the inside of his cheek. He could tell Tom the truth and not be judged for it. He was certain of that. It was a truth he’d revisited many times in the past two days, and he couldn’t help but wonder if God was directing him. “I was going to be a priest,” he said.
“Well, there’s a shortage of young priests in Ireland.”
“So I believe.” Michael turned his attention to the university, wondering what it would be like to be an undergraduate student. “In case you’re wondering, I don’t want to be a priest anymore, but I still kind of like the idea of studying theology. Do they do it at Queen’s?”
“I don’t know. Let’s have a look around and then maybe find a pub or café so we can go on the uni website.”
They wandered the campus, all of which was open access, although it was the Christmas break, and it was late afternoon, so the buildings were locked up and in darkness save for the security lights. It was an interesting mix of old and new, with vast, currently empty car parks in between, and it was a big place, yet strangely, it was smaller than Michael had envisaged it would be.
“Why Queen’s?” he asked. “Why not Ulster? Only, couldn’t you study in Derry then?”
“Not English, no. I’d have to go to Coleraine, but Belfast…is a great city, and Queen’s is one of the best universities in the world.”
The pause in Tom’s words was so slight, Michael almost convinced himself he’d imagined it, but the longer they spent together, the better he was becoming at reading the subtle changes in Tom’s body language. There was something he wasn’t saying.
“Shall we go and find a coffee shop, or something?” Michael suggested. It was a warm evening, but he was bored with looking at buildings and nowhere near ready to go home. That was the other thing, of course, about hanging out with Tom. This was the fifth day in a row they had spent a significant chunk of time together, and while Michael’s resolve was holding so far, he was back to constantly fighting the impulse to tell Tom how much he liked him and to hell with Peter. Quite simply, he couldn’t get enough of Tom Donnan, and the idea of him moving to Belfast, even this early in their friendship, made Michael miserable.
There was a coffee shop five minutes’ walk from the uni, and it was open until eight o’clock, so they bought a large gingerbread latte each and took advantage of the free wi-fi.
After a few minutes of reading the information on his phone screen, Tom frowned and said, “All right, so, I think I’m gonna have to contact the admissions people, see if they’ll accept anything other than A Levels or a Leaving Certificate. And it’s high grades—ABB. I might have to rethink this.” He slumped in his seat and picked up his drink, sighing into the cup.
Michael had been reading the same information but was one step ahead. “It’s a shame you’re stuck on Belfast. Ulster accept experiential learning.”
“Crop picking?” Tom asked with a wry grin.
“It’d be all right for reading Thomas Hardy,” Michael said, deadpan, and Tom’s grin turned to laughter.
“Did you see the theology needed BBB?” he asked.
“No. I didn’t look at it.”
“Would you consider going to uni?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. Do you think I could do it, Tom?”
“Without a doubt.”
“But I’m a dope.”
“What did you get in your A Levels?”
“AAB.”
“I thought you got a C in English.”
“I did. That’s what I mean about not being clever enough.”
“Er…Michael! AAB? That’s like genius performance.”
“I just got lucky with the questions, that’s all.”
Tom shook his head in obvious disbelief.
“Honest, I did. You ask your Katie.”
Tom raised an eyebrow, as if to say ‘I might just do that’, but then he stared into his cup again. “So…I’ve, er…I’ve lost my job.”
“Oh, Tom. I’m sorry.”
“Thanks, but it was inevitable really. Amazing, isn’t it? Connor can hound you for weeks and O’Grady doesn’t give a shit. I try to stop him, and O’Grady’s down on me like a ton of bricks.”
“Did he fire you? Only you could do him for that. Wrongful dismissal.”
“No. He demoted me and promoted Connor. And I tried, I really did. But I couldn’t work with him.” Tom sat back and folded his arms, his eyes trained somewhere in the distance. “I didn’t tell ye, but someone vandalised my car.”
“Connor?”
“I’m pretty sure it was, aye.”
“What did he do?”
“The first time, he wrote on it with lipstick—a derogatory name because I stuck up for you. The second time, it was a scratch right along the side.”
Michael’s fears had been realised. Tom was taking the punishment for him, and his thoughts escaped unchecked. “Oh, God. This is my fault. I should’ve just kept it to myself.”
He really meant it, too. If he’d never told his mum, Peter wouldn’t have kicked him out and then mouthed off. Connor would be none the wiser, and Tom wouldn’t be looking to run away from Omagh.
“Hey, now, you listen to me, Michael. None of this is your fault. Why should you have to pretend to be something you’re not? It’s everyone else who’s wrong, not you.”
Michael shook his head. After a year in Seamus’s company, knowing Paddy, Aidan, Chancey, Harrison, Paulo—so many non-straight men—he had to accept that either all of them were wrong, or it was, as Tom was suggesting, everyone else.
“It’s not like Omagh everywhere,” Tom reasoned. “Here in Belfast, there are gay pubs and night clubs.”
“Are there?” Michael knew these things existed, of course—Harrison had shown him when he’d been in America. But he didn’t think they existed in Ireland.
“I looked one up earlier. It’s only down the road. We could go and have a look, if you want.”
“Seriously?” Michael felt a little flutter of excitement at that—and added it to his list of things to confess. He shouldn’t go. He should say no, be strong, resist temptation. But…screw it. He might never come to Belfast again—unless Tom fancied having a visitor every now and then. The thought of not seeing Tom
around Omagh, or at Mass every Sunday, made Michael want to cry and beg him to stay, but it would be selfish. He wanted Tom to be happy—he was brave enough to do what Michael could not: leave Omagh.
Having barely touched his latte, Michael was on his feet and tugging on his jacket. Tom blinked up at him.
“You want to go, then?”
“Yeah, come on.” Michael set off towards the door.
“Hold up!”
Michael waited on the pavement outside, and Tom emerged at a pace, pulling his jacket on. He looked so handsome today, with his hair lightly gelled and spiked, his lovely green eyes sparkled with anticipation, and there was a little bit of stubble on his chin that made him more rugged. With the snug t-shirt and fitted jeans over those thighs… Michael averted his eyes. “Which way?”
Tom pointed, and they set off.
He was right. It was only down the road, and it looked like a typical city pub, both outside and in. Michael scanned the posters around the walls, advertising all the different things they had on each night—comedy, open mic, cabaret—it was a shame he couldn’t bring Harrison here. Maybe they’d have some of his burlesque.
They went to the bar to order drinks—beer for Michael, Coke for Tom—and then Tom chatted to the bartender while Michael listened, once again in awe of how laid back Tom was. He really could talk to anyone.
“Shall we go and sit?” Tom asked him after a few minutes of chatting away about the pub and Belfast in general. Michael nodded in agreement, and they chose a table across from the bar. He could feel Tom’s eyes on him, but it was more than just watching him, like he was trying to see inside his head.
“Are you all right?” Michael asked, hoping to shift the attention elsewhere, because his brain had now processed where he was, and it was making him feel strange. All around him were men and women, a lot of them with their partners, same sex, opposite sex, it didn’t matter, for what they all had in common was that same intimacy he’d seen in the other gay and bi men in his life. It wasn’t sexual intimacy. It was closeness, trust. Love. Michael wanted that for himself, and he was here with the first and only person who had wanted it with him.
What was he supposed to do? Break his promise to Peter and go to hell? Or keep his promise and spend the rest of his days in a living hell, knowing what he was missing? It was a massive decision, which he thought he’d already made. Now this pub and Tom’s proximity had stripped away his defences. What the hell am I supposed to do?
Chapter Twenty-Four:
What are you doing…
“They’ve got a New Year’s Eve do in here,” Michael said, tilting the top of his beer bottle at a poster affixed to a brick pillar. “Still tickets available, it says.”
Tom had watched him scan the poster over and over again, half blinks, a lick of the lips, head slightly to one side and then the other. He’d stopped reading the words a while ago, clearly aware he was under scrutiny, but Tom couldn’t look away. This man had, in the space of a few days, turned Tom’s understanding of the world upside down and then shaken it, like an overfilled wastepaper basket, until everything he’d ever thought, felt or dreamt was nothing but a screwed-up mess scattered on the floor.
“I think we should come.” The words escaped unconsciously, but it didn’t matter. Not anymore.
“For New Year?” Michael asked.
Tom forced his attention from Michael to the poster and back again. “Maybe.” Michael gave him a puzzled look. “I mean move here.”
“To Belfast? You… You’re really going to leave Omagh?” Michael’s frown disappeared, in its place panic and confusion.
“I am, but…” Tom’s thoughts were tumbling over each other, all trying to break free at once. He had no idea how Michael was going to respond to his suggestion, and yet the sheer possibility of the future he was imagining for them both made him giddy. “All right. I need to be honest with you, Mike. Completely honest.”
“Why? What’s going on?”
“Nothing new. It’s what I’ve been wanting to tell you since Christmas Day, but I’ve kept it to myself. I didn’t want to put any more pressure on you.”
“About us dating?”
“Aye, that’s part of it, but I’m presuming nothing. Which means I need you to be honest with me. Can you do that?”
“I haven’t lied to you.” Michael’s eyebrows arched in an expression of worry and incredulity, but his eyes were always the key. They gave away his every emotion, and right now he was hurting. Nothing new there, either.
“I didn’t mean that, dafty.” Tom laughed apologetically. The longer he delayed, the worse he was making it.
He reached over and took Michael’s beer from him, setting it on the table between them. Michael’s hands remained in the same position, clasped around the space where the bottle had been. Tom tugged to gently prise them apart and brushed his fingertips over Michael’s palm, drawing back until their fingers latched. The contact made Tom’s heart gallop, and he was suddenly breathless and dizzy—one look at Michael’s face told him he felt the same.
“It’s true, what I said this afternoon. I want to go to uni, and I’ve worked out what I need to do to make it happen. But I didn’t really bring us here for that reason. Or not solely for that reason. The thing is, I’ve been listening to you and watching you these past few days. It’s had me in tears.”
Michael sat back a little. His mouth opened and closed a couple of times before he managed to say anything. “You’ve been crying about me?”
Tom nodded. “I even cried on our Katie’s shoulder last night.”
“But why?”
“Because you’re so unhappy, and it…” Tom stopped to swallow the lump and regroup. He didn’t mind crying in front of Michael, but he’d rather not do it in a Belfast pub, and not tonight. “It really hurts, Mike.”
“Oh, God. I’m sorry, Tom. But I’m OK.”
“Are you?”
“I will be.”
“See, this is what I mean about you being honest with me.” He felt like the devil in disguise, tempting this man who loved God with all his heart and soul, and who was prepared to suffer to save his mum. Michael was already crushed under the burden he was carrying, and Tom wasn’t sure if he was lifting the weight or adding to it. He really needed Michael’s honesty right now, to know if he was going against his will, or giving him a chance at happiness. A chance at life. He released Michael’s hand, certain the physical contact would influence any answer he gave. Michael’s gaze fell to where they were no longer joined.
“Look at me, Mike,” Tom beseeched gently. Michael peered through his long dark lashes. His eyes shone and twinkled, and for a moment Tom forgot all of the things he wanted to say. He laughed quietly to himself, feeling the heat of a blush rise up his neck. “I don’t know how you do this to me,” he admitted, looking everywhere but Michael’s face in a desperate bid to keep a connection with the world around them.
“What do I do?” Michael asked. He wasn’t seeking affirmation. He was so modest, innocent. Beautiful all through.
Like the moth seeking the moon, Tom’s gaze locked on Michael’s face, and he was almost lost. That blesséd curl tumbled forward, as frivolous and naïve to its allure as its wearer. Tom commanded himself—leave it be—and breathed in deeply, slowly, drawing in the moment, gathering the strands that had been there for a couple of years, but in the past four days had tangled, tugging tighter, bringing them closer and closer to this time, this place.
“Have you imagined your future, Michael?”
“That’s a lot to imagine.”
“Not, like, all of it. Just the being celibate part.”
Michael’s cheeks turned dusky pink, though his answer was serious and assured. “Yes.”
“And in that future, are you succeeding, or are you going to confession every day?”
Michael’s solemnity broke, and he smiled a little. “The second one. But don’t I owe it to my mum to try?”
“She accepts you for who you
are. It’s Peter who doesn’t, and he never will.”
“Yeah, I know.”
Tom couldn’t decide whether Michael’s resignation was better or worse than his sadness. He’d lost his dad, and now he’d lost his stepdad—the two men his mum loved most, other than him. If she’d known of her son’s sacrifice, she’d have given her happiness for his. But there was only one person with the right to tell her what Peter had asked of Michael.
That curl was still so tantalising, and Michael’s hands remained just as Tom had left them, long fingers half-curled upon thin air. In the relative dimness of the pub’s festive lighting, the backs of Michael’s hands appeared smooth and bare, though Tom’s fingertips held the physical memory of the soft dark hairs that danced across the pale skin—a forest of young firs in a distant snowy landscape he yearned to explore. But he dared not presume. Who was he but a small-town boy with grand ideas of studying at Queen’s University? Michael could do so much better for himself.
No flitty thoughts tonight, Michael’s full attention was on him. It was time to reveal his hand.
“If there was an alternative, would you consider it?”
“Is there one?”
Tom shrugged. “Look around you. What do you see?”
Michael turned on his seat, slowly rotating to take in the other people in the pub, couples standing together with their arms around each other, the girl who kissed her girlfriend before heading for the ladies’, the two men who had just arrived, laughing at their own private joke. Tom watched them all, too, waiting for Michael to turn to face him once more.
“Happy people,” Michael said.
Tom held out his hands. “This is the alternative, Mike. There’s a thriving gay community here in Belfast—this is one of many pubs and clubs, places to meet other people. And there are groups online—other gay Catholics who will help you find a way to stay faithful and be happy.”
“What groups?”
“Well, there’s one I joined yesterday for LGBT Catholics, and their families and friends. There were a few members who’d shared their stories, of their families pushing them away, asking them to change, praying to God to take away ‘this terrible thing’. They all said talking to others going through the same experience gave them the strength to accept themselves.”
Seeds of Tyrone Box Set Page 81