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I was mildly annoyed that he wasn’t here. But his panicked texting was also weirdly endearing and I was in love with him. So fuck.
“Oh my God, Oliver,” I hugged him in the hope of de-escalating. “I didn’t mean to make you feel… Shit, I’m a crappy boyfriend and you’re so great for doing this for me and you don’t have to like anything you don’t want to like and we can go if you—”
We can move at whatever pace you like. But you should know that I am yours, more truly than I have ever been anyone’s. Because when I’m with you, I’m me. Not someone I think I should be. And I’ll be with you, however you want, for as long as you’ll have me.”
“Then how about this,” said Oliver, elegantly pulling on his jacket. “I make good money now, so if you really believe that our obligations to each other are based entirely on what you’ve spent, sit down, add up what you think I owe you, and I will happily cut you a cheque.”
But I spent my entire life repulsed by his beliefs, terrified of his scorn, and desperate for him to think well of me.
“I’m a barrister. Clarity is my job. And what I’m saying is obviously I’d cope without you because wonderful as you are, I like to think this isn’t a codependent relationship. But I’d rather not have to. My life is more interesting with you in it, and you make me a worse person.”
And this morning we had the biggest fight we’ve basically ever had, and if you put a gun to my head, I’m not sure what it was really even about and just…is that what it’s going to be like? Is that what being married will be like?”
If the biggest fight you’ve ever had about is which band or dj will play at your wedding then you are fine fam 😭😭
Because I loved Oliver and I wanted to be with him for, like, ever, but the more I thought about it, the more I got this hard-to-pin-down not-quite-sick, not-quite-scared, not-quite-something feeling that we were doing it wrong.
My phone rang. It was Oliver, and I–I wasn’t in a space to be Olivering right now, so I let it go to voicemail. Which, again, didn’t say good things about my relationship. I bet James Royce-Royce never let James Royce-Royce’s calls go to voicemail. I bet Bridge never let Tom’s calls go to voicemail. I bet Prince Harry never let Meghan Markle’s calls go to voicemail. I bet Prince Charles never let Camilla Parker Bowles’s calls go to voicemail, although he probably should have, at least in the eighties.
“In essence, yes.” He gave an anxious little sigh. “Because, in a way, you’re correct. I will never truly know if the reason if I am discomforted by the trappings of mainstream LGBTQ culture is because I was raised in an environment where they were viewed negatively. Or because I simply don’t feel included by them. Or, indeed, because I have legitimate concerns about their origins and increasing commercialisation. And, honestly, I don’t think there’s any way to disentangle those things.”
“You…you’re a very entrancing man, Lucien. And you could be with someone equally entrancing, someone with whom your life could be interesting and glamorous. Instead of, I suppose, whatever I can offer you. Which is, by comparison, rather quiet and ordinary.”
“Actually, when I booked, I told them this was our first-date restaurant and that we’d had the lemon posset and you’d gone vegan since but could they do something. And they said they could.” Oliver’s eyes got very close to teary again. “Lucien.” He swallowed. “That was…that was terribly sweet of you.”
“I can’t marry you.”

