Chapter 3 – Luca
Dad hands me a mop and points to the bucket of steaming water on the shop floor.
The sunlight that spills into the room turns his dark hair to amber and sets his irises alight.
Sometimes I wish I looked more like him, less gangly more manly.
People never believe that we’re father and son when they first find out.
Though that might just be the small age gap.
I start sweeping the floor of all the dirt that customers traipsed into the cafe. I’ve done this a million times and I’m still amazed by how quickly the water turns to grey soup. Humans are messy, that much I’ve learned from cleaning a cafe floor day after day.
‘When you’re done, you can order in food. Your pick.’
I perk up. Dad never lets me order takeout.
He says stuff like, ‘We literally own a diner,’ and, ‘I can cook you anything,’ and, ‘Don’t you like my cooking?
’ which is completely beside the point. It’s the indulgence that counts.
It doesn’t matter what you order; the fact that it’s brought to your doorstep and you don’t have to clean any pots makes it special.
‘Just don’t order burgers, please. Or chips. Might as well order off our menu.’
‘So it’s not my pick,’ I retort. Dad sends me a look that tells me not to test him when he’s being generous, and I quickly get to finishing the floors.
All week long, I’ve avoided the cafe. Even if nobody comes up to me wanting to discuss the noticeboard, I see the curiosity in their faces. It’s a curse, growing up in a small town where everyone knows you and thinks they’re entitled to meddle and ask questions.
Only Dad has been giving me space. ‘You know where to find me if you want to talk,’ he said on the first day, and left it at that.
Which is why I’ve barely left my room. It’s amazing how many seasons of Elite you can watch if you put your mind to it.
But I know I’m not off the hook forever.
Now that I think about it, I’m pretty sure the whole takeaway offer is a strategy to get me talking.
So I best make it the most indulgent vegetarian food order I can.
Half an hour later, Dad and I sit on the Persian-blue couch in our lounge. The air smells of honey and garlic, chilli and lime. A tower of boxes waits on the coffee table while we select a film.
‘How about that Italian comedy with the gay brothers who own a pasta business?’ Dad suggests.
‘Not while eating pad thai. How about the one with the miners at gay Pride?’ I suggest.
‘I don’t want to be sobbing into my food, thanks. How about the gay romance with the farm and the actor with the stick-out ears?’
‘God’s Own Country it is,’ I say, finding the film and pressing play.
I seriously love hanging out with Dad. I know not every teenager wants to spend time with their parents, but if there was such a thing as a Dad Award, mine would win it, and I’m not ashamed to boast. It might be the fact that he was a teen dad.
Or that he’s gay, and I’m gay, and that bond is special.
With Mum so far away, it’s me and Dad against the world.
Though, in fairness, the world has given me little reason to fight it so far.
‘Don’t get me wrong, this is great, but I wish this town had more than three fish-and-chip shops and one Thai place to pick from.
I’d give a lot for a good pizza.’ Dad full-on munches and talks at the same time, something he’d never do with anyone else present, except maybe Simo.
But right now, I’m glad Simo isn’t here, even if I feel like a bad friend for thinking it.
If he was, we would not be watching a film in which two men make out.
I realised something this week. Bingeing TV shows only takes up so much of your brain power, which means the rest has a lot of time to think.
I’m not sure I like the conclusion I came to, but I can’t ignore it: I always thought I was fully myself around Simo.
No barriers or filters to hold me back. But I censor what I say around him all the time.
How weird is it, that I can talk about cute guys with my dad but not my best friend?
Around Simo, I avoid mentioning my sexuality so much that I’m scared I lose a piece of myself.
And now, after the noticeboard, I don’t know how to be all of me with him.
I don’t want Simo questioning my feelings, can’t bear to have him find out there’s stuff I’m holding back.
It never felt painful until I started thinking about it.
A flying chopstick hits my head and I meet Dad’s eyes.
‘I’ve asked you three times if you wanted to swap your spring rolls for my green curry, but you are miles away. Can’t believe Gheorghe isn’t working his magic on you.’ He nods to the dark-haired love interest with the sorrowful gaze, not unlike Simo’s.
‘Yes, curry, please,’ I say, and hand over my food.
Instead of returning to the film, Dad keeps his attention on me.
‘Luca,’ he says.
‘Maz,’ I reply, and I know we’ve reached the point where We Talk. Dad thinks voicing your fears makes them smaller, but I don’t trust the science behind that.
‘I’m worried about you.’
Four little words and I already want to fall apart. ‘I’d rather not talk about it,’ I say, and sound like I have a cold. I hate my voice for betraying me like that.
‘And I get that. But it’s my job to check in with you now and then.
Just following the steps in the parent manual here.
’ He sets his food down before lowering the film’s volume.
I keep my focus on the screen, where the two actors are pulling a lamb out of its mother’s womb.
When I don’t respond, he speaks up again.
‘You can talk to Miss M instead, if that’s what you want. ’
That gets my attention. ‘What did you tell her?’
‘Nothing she doesn’t already know. But you know how she is.’
She’s relentless. She’d offer useless advice until it’s coming out of my ears.
‘Luca . . .’ Dad starts, and scoots closer.
He wraps me in a hug, and because it’s physically impossible to resist his hugs, I give in.
Even though I’m no less of a mess, I instantly feel better.
‘I don’t want you to shut yourself off. Don’t push away the people you care about.
Talk to me. And talk to Simo. Don’t let a little gossip ruin your friendship. You boys need to stick together.’
‘OK,’ I say after a while, once I’m sure I’m not going to cry. ‘But I want to point out that it’s not “a little gossip”. It’s a ton of gossip. It almost couldn’t be more gossip.’
Dad sets his chin on my head, and it’s scratchy, but not in a bad way. ‘I know how you feel.’
I snort.
‘Oh boy, you forget that I was only sixteen years old when I had you. I know that noticeboard got you good, but it won’t beat the scandal your mum and I caused when news of you got around.’
‘Whoops. Sorry for that,’ I say. He’s not wrong; my sticky situation pales compared to theirs.
Imagine you’d just finished Year 11 and next thing you’re a parent.
Neither Mum nor Dad had supportive families, so they left everything behind and landed here.
And although I’m not super fond of Lombard right now, there are definitely worse places to wash up in.
‘Not your fault,’ Dad reassures me. ‘And anyway, you’re the best thing that ever happened to me. Never forget that, OK?’
‘OK,’ I reply, and I do feel a little lighter.
‘But promise not to shut yourself off.’
‘I promise,’ I say, but not without a groan.
‘That’s all I wanted to hear.’ He lets me out of his embrace, and we return to demolishing the mountain of food while watching two men making out in the mud. By the time the credits roll, Dad is falling asleep, so I bin the empty cartons and send him off to bed.
‘Hey,’ he says, halfway out of the lounge, ‘if you want, you’re off cafe duty tomorrow.’
Other kids might jump around for joy if they found out they didn’t have to get up at five in the morning to start work.
And usually sleep is priority number one, but I love Sunday mornings with Dad.
He switches on the lights in the cafe, brews the first coffee, removes the chairs from the tables, until I join him, hair still damp from the shower.
He grunts a hello and hands me a steaming mug of chai.
I don’t drink coffee because I hate it. The irony of working in a coffee shop while despising the stuff isn’t lost on me, but I can’t stand its bitterness.
It’s like drinking dirt. Sweet dirt, once you add caramel syrup to it.
So instead of pouring coffee, I bake. I preheat the oven and prep the sourdough loaves that have risen overnight.
I whip up unholy amounts of pancake batter, I set the banana bread out to cool, I add the chocolate chips to the muffin mix and watch the tops turn crisp and golden.
Then I stack them all into pyramids in the glass display out front, except I keep one back.
They run out faster than anything else we sell and cause queues and, sometimes, arguments.
I don’t save the spare muffin for myself.
At some point around 10 a.m., the bell above the door announces Simo with a happy jingle.
I swear it doesn’t sound so chipper when anyone else enters.
And even though he arrives a good hour, sometimes two, after we’ve run out of chocolate-chip muffins, I place one in front of him, dusted with a snowy sprinkling of icing sugar.
‘No, it’s all right,’ I tell Dad. ‘Like you said, I can’t keep hiding. Besides, you need me. I’m the better baker between the two of us.’
Dad makes a show of clutching his breaking heart. ‘I taught you everything you know!’
‘That’s a lie. Miss M taught me how to bake.’
‘A little advice: never have children. They will grow up to stab you in the back, repeatedly, with a dull knife.’
‘Goodnight, Dad!’
‘Goodnight, son.’
He disappears into the bathroom, and I fall on to my bed. My phone shows a text from Simo.
Simo: Morning run tomorrow?
It’s true that I like the frenzy of the cafe and baking alongside Dad, but I might have ulterior motives about working tomorrow.
It gives me space – space I wouldn’t have with Simo right next to me.
I’m not shutting him out; all I need is a couple more days.
To recover and rebuild the thick skin that has served me so well as a safety layer between Simo and my feelings for him. And yet, I could never turn him down.
Luca: I’m on cafe duty, but I’ll save you a muffin?
With me in the kitchen and him by a window seat, there’ll be several tables and a counter between us. Perhaps that’s all the space I need.