Set the Record Straight

by Hannah Bonam-Young

“Clara, you complimented a gay icon on her most obscure gallery collection about gay culture that she put on during pride month. She told you it’s harder for women like you.” I lean across the table slightly, raising my eyebrows. “She thinks you’re gay.”

My lifelong friend has described herself as “tragically straight” when asked. While teenage me believed that to truly be a tragedy, I’m far past that crush now. Far past it.

“So they think I’m an idiot? Or worse, a liar? A gay fraud? A gaud!”

“I have! What if they only hired me because I’m gay?” “You’re not gay.” “Exactly!” “Are you seriously claiming reverse discrimination? In this year of our Lord two thousand and twenty-two?” I tease, smiling into my wineglass. “No? No,” she asks, then answers herself immediately. “Well…”

“Natalie really blindsided me…” She looks up hesitantly, softly finding my eyeline. “Is it bad that I want her to hurt like I did? Just a little?”

It’s been two weeks since Clara and I made our plan that she’s dubbed Operation Merry and Gay. It was either that or Ho-Ho-Homo.

“Now ask me what I’m wearing.” “Clara, I can’t. I’m at work.” I laugh, breathless. “See, that’s much more natural. Perfect. That’ll have Nat guessing.” Clara’s pride is audible. I clear my throat. “Can I see you later?” I ask. “For real or?” “Yes. I’ll stop by the gallery?”

My eyes roll upwards and to the left as I begin searching my memories. I’ve definitely thought about people’s clothes or noticed when someone would make an incredible model for work, but I’ve never wanted to kiss a stranger. Honestly, the idea of that is a little repulsive. “Not really. Do most people do that?” “Not everyone…” Leah’s features soften. “But it could mean you’re demisexual.”

I’m either a narcissist—and can only get off using my own imagination by myself—or I’m not as straight as I thought I was this morning. Hell, an hour ago. I might have a crush on my fake girlfriend.

Sometimes sex can become a bit too much for me. I’ve been known to shut down. The feeling of too much touching, kissing, overheating. Things I ought to enjoy paralyse me.

Clara interrupts my spiral with a chaste kiss. She’s not turned off. She’s not running away. Thank God. “Let’s just lie down. Do you still like to be tucked in when you feel… overwhelmed?”

“No one’s ever done that before,” I whisper. “Nobody?” She leans in and kisses me from my ear to jaw to mouth as I shake my head. “Because you said no?” she asks. “Because they never asked.”

If I had to pinpoint it—if I was asked at this exact moment—I’d say my sexuality is the corner of Evan’s lips. It’s the gasps she makes that act as a windstorm in my chest. It’s the space between her fingers where I fit better than anywhere else. It’s all instinct here. Intuition. And I’ve been waiting my whole life for this rush. So I’m not questioning it anymore.

“I think you have a girlfriend,” she conspires from her desk. “I think you still owe me two work assignments and a group project,” I fire back.

And after last night, I can’t say I wouldn’t rather be home right now, hibernating under blankets with Clara. Or using her legs as a scarf.

“No, I’ve just been waiting for you to initiate, and I can’t anymore.” Clara bites her lip while shuffling up the bed to lie next to me. “I’ve been waiting for you to start us off.” “We’re so polite,” I whisper against her lips.

She smiles at her feet. “You know, it’s silly. When you mentioned a girlfriend on your first day here, well,” she laughs, “at the risk of sounding entirely ridiculous—the old lesbian that I am—I thought you simply meant a friend that was a girl.” I can’t help it. The laugh that escapes me is a shocked, obnoxious thing. Half snorting, half disbelief. And it goes on for way too long before I manage to contain it. “Is it that silly of me?” She tilts her head, looking at me conspicuously.

“Loretta,” I choke through a laugh, “I think it’s time I set the record straight…”

“You told her?” Evan glances over my shoulder at Loretta, who’s greeting some new arrivals. “Just flat out told her the truth?” “I did.” I take a sip of mulled wine. “I mean, Loretta loved the story. I think she considers herself responsible. She says she wants to officiate our wedding someday.” The words slip out, and I shut my mouth tight. “She was joking, obviously.”

I’m terrified that she’s going to have a hard and fast lesson in the difference between your parents finding out your friend is gay and telling your parents you are gay.

“I actually thought there were only two kinds of love before. That it was just love like your family or romantic love. But I think there may be hundreds of kinds. Love like a new lease on life. Love like a place to exist freely. Love like being understood. Love like the contented quiet. Love like freshly baked cookies. Love like a thin veil between wishing it’d started earlier and loving the way it began.”

Honey, it’s not a video call! She can’t see your nodding—be approving out loud! That’s wonderful, Teens. Nice work. Work? Daryl, she didn’t get a promotion. Our daughter found love. Why don’t you just write down what you want me to say, and I’ll say it, Maggie.

Deeead

My favourite piece of the house is the dark oak door that doesn’t match. My father claimed it would block out the cold better than any cheap storm door ever could. He cut it a little too short. There’s always a draft. My mother doesn’t have the heart to tell him, but he must know.

“It’s an LG-BLT flag, I’m told.” Daryl nods, beaming with pride. “Oh my god,” Clara mutters under her breath.

Suddenly, I realise that all I’ve wanted since leaving this town ten years ago was to feel wanted. Wanted for who I am, as I am. Welcomed with long hugs, cups of coffee, baked goods, and presents. They’re not my blood, but this is my family. This was and will always be my home. This is where I belong. And that’s enough to stop all regret. All wishing things had been different.

I wonder if maybe, someday, Evan and I will bring our kids here. I suppose we could adopt. Or figure out what science has to offer. I’ve not really ever considered it. Maybe Evan doesn’t want kids. I know I want whatever she does. As soon as she does.

“Every year, with each snowfall, I’d be outside for hours building them. You’d tell me the next day at school, or church, or wherever, that you saw them. And you’d talk about how much you looked forward to driving past my house. How much you loved them. So, I kept doing it.” I pause for a breath, speaking faster than my lungs will allow.

You’re the brightest light in my life, my best friend, my confidant, my comfort—and the best stepmother Bagel could ask for.” That gets a soft, breathy laugh. “So, Clara Spencer, Teens…” I go down to one knee, the snow instantly seeping in around through my pants. “Will you do me the honour of being my wife?”