Chapter 17 – Luca
Lombard might not have a cinema or more than one place with good coffee, but it does have a train station.
Granted, the train to the city stops here a total of three times a day, if it bothers to show up at all, but the journey is gorgeous; rolling hills and golden wildflowers on volcanic rock.
It’s giving Hobbiton, but with shitter weather.
You’d be able to see the sea if it wasn’t for grey clouds above the hidden valleys.
After half an hour of me pointing out landmarks to Jacob – ‘The pasture where Sheila keeps the lambs in the spring! The willow that Princess Diana once sneezed on, allegedly!’ – I eventually run out of unremarkable things to show him, and we end up sitting in silence, smiling awkwardly at each other.
When we finally get off the train, we find ourselves surrounded by the towers and church spires of a medieval city, now a modern hub of activity. I’m glad that I brought a scarf because the cold of the city feels more vicious, catching you when you least expect it. Sea wind is more direct that way.
Braced against these unpredictable gusts, I follow Jacob up a busy street that leads deeper into the old town.
I try to look like I’m enjoying this, but my face is all scrunched up, shoulders raised to prevent the cold from sneaking beneath the folds of my scarf.
Jacob seems amused rather than concerned.
Just when I’m about to ask how much longer this walk will be, like the inner toddler I’ve not yet left behind, Jacob opens a nondescript-looking door and I follow him inside, keen to escape the elements.
I’m welcomed by low ceilings and brightly coloured drapes, upholstered benches with more cushions than anyone needs and the scents of cinnamon and other spices.
‘This is an Indian restaurant,’ I state.
‘Aren’t you hungry?’
‘Always,’ I confirm.
‘And I remember you telling me that you don’t like coffee. The reviews say that their chai is amazing.’
I’m already in love. With this place, I mean.
We peel off our jackets and huddle in a corner. Once the steaming mugs arrive and I’ve taken a sip of the chai, smooth and glorious, I’m ready to stay forever.
‘You approve?’ Jacob asks.
‘Wholeheartedly. I’ve always thought that chai spices would make the perfect ingredients for a Christmas cookie.’
‘I wouldn’t know. I’ve never made Christmas cookies before.’
‘Well, let’s fix that. I’ll turn you into a baker in no time.’
‘I look forward to it,’ he laughs.
We fall quiet, and because I don’t know what to say, I drink too fast and burn my tongue. This doesn’t happen with Simo, whose presence I’m so used to. It’s just lately that the silence between us has grown more demanding.
‘How is the portrait project going?’ I ask, remembering how to make conversation.
‘Better than you’d expect,’ Jacob says with a smile. I notice that he has dimples.
‘Oh?’
‘I’ve been meaning to ask,’ he continues, ‘would your dad be up for taking part in it?’
I feel my eyebrows travel upwards at the idea of Dad participating in a portrait series of queer Lombard.
‘You don’t look so sure,’ Jacob observes.
‘I’m not.’
‘Dare I ask?’
‘It’s complicated.’
‘You don’t have to talk about it. But I’ll listen, if you want to.’
‘I want to,’ I say and set down my mug. ‘I’m not used to discussing my dad’s sexuality with anyone but him. Or my own, actually.’
‘I find your dad fascinating.’ His French accent slips through, and his eyes kind of glow. ‘I’ve not met a gay father before.’
‘I don’t know it any other way. He’s never hidden this part of himself, which is why I never felt like I had to hide it either.’
Why is it that I can say these things to a boy I’ve only just met, but not to Simo, who’s known me more than half my life? Telling Jacob stuff I’ve never told my best friend feels disloyal, but I’m not sure who I’m betraying here; him or myself.
‘Makes me wish my parents were gay. It would have saved me a lot of anxiety,’ Jacob says.
‘Yeah, it’s taken a while to understand that it’s not that easy for everyone.
And that not every place is as welcoming as Lombard.
I think it has a lot to do with Mum and Dad being so young and alone when they came to town,’ I explain.
‘People embraced them and wanted to help out. That’s why Mum was able to go to university, and Dad felt safe to be himself. ’
‘What’s changed? Does he no longer feel safe?’
‘I guess not. His parents have just moved to Lombard, around the same time as you. They don’t exactly get along, which is why they haven’t spoken since I was born.
But now they’re here and they don’t know that their son’s gay and he doesn’t want them to find out.
So, long story short: no, I don’t think Dad would let you take his picture for your project. ’
‘That’s OK,’ Jacob says. ‘The important thing is that people feel comfortable having their portrait included.’
‘So you’ve found others?’
‘Maybe. You’ll have to wait till it’s complete to find out,’ Jacob says with the hint of a smirk. ‘What about your mother, is she . . .?’
‘A lesbian?’ I ask. ‘No. She only ever mentions the guys she dates, anyway.’
‘And how do a gay guy and a straight woman end up having a child together?’
I’m taken aback by his directness, but when he turns a cute shade of red and apologises, I brush his words away. ‘It’s fine. Most people give us curious looks, but no one ever asks, and it’s not like it’s a secret.’
I set the mug down and launch into a short version of the story that Dad used to tell me.
‘Mum and Dad grew up together and were close from, like, toddlers. Dad calls it a trauma bond, because they both came from messy families. Their parents were neighbours, and Maz and Poppy stuck together all through school. Apparently, Mum started fancying Dad, and he hadn’t yet figured out that he didn’t fancy girls.
He thought he had to give them a go and everything would fall into place – his words, not mine.
Either way, things did fall into place, only not in the way they’d imagined.
It took a few months until I made my presence known. And voilà, here I am.’
‘Excellent use of French.’ Jacob applauds.
‘That’s where my knowledge starts and ends.’
‘That’s what I’m here for. I can teach you,’ he says, without taking his eyes off me.
‘What about your parents?’ I ask after a moment, unable to sit in silence.
Jacob pulls a face like his tea has suddenly turned bitter. ‘They’re not speaking. And I prefer it that way, because when they’re forced to communicate, it gets ugly.’
‘I know that feeling. Put my dad and my grandparents in a room and it’ll soon go up in flames.’
The corner of Jacob’s mouth twitches, but it doesn’t turn into a smile. ‘Do your parents still get along? Or do you need to follow them around with a fire extinguisher whenever they’re together?’
‘Nah, they’re all right.’ It’s a bit of an understatement, because they’re literally best friends, but it feels rude to be lauding my parents’ brilliant relationship when Jacob clearly doesn’t have that.
‘They raised me together. But when you’re sixteen, with a baby, and a baby daddy who’s just come out as gay, you might have doubts about your future.
Mum went to uni and later joined a research programme in New Zealand. She’s still out there.’
‘And you don’t miss her?’
The truth is that sometimes I forget to miss her, because I’m so used to it just being Dad and me. I shrug. ‘I love her, and I know she loves me. But Lombard is too small for her, and I don’t want to leave.’
‘Ever?’
Jacob’s question makes me think. Dad and Simo are my favourite people. The cafe and the beach and the island are my favourite places. I can’t imagine being happy anywhere else. But I don’t want Jacob to think I’m boring, so I shrug again, and he doesn’t press for an answer.
After the food – rich curries, some creamy with almonds and raisins, others hot enough to make me hiccup – we set out again and find a bookshop with a view of the citadel.
Jacob is the bookish type and walks straight to the literary section.
He reminds me of Simo; I think their tastes would align.
In the meantime, I wander to a room with coffee-table books, for a simple reason: more pictures and less text.
I flick through one on the history of film photography, but I don’t take any of the images in.
My mind is stuck on the fact that Dad is hiding who he is from his parents, and I’m at least partly guilty of doing the same thing with Simo.
Because we don’t talk about gay things. At one point we apparently agreed to ignore several elephants in the room, and we’ve continued to do so ever since.
Now we’re here, incapable of talking openly, feeling silly.
Dad is the foundation I built myself on, proud to have this honest man as a father.
But his image has taken a couple of big whacks recently.
Yes, I get that he’s scared of his parents’ reaction, and I don’t blame him – their parent–child relationship is Royal Family levels of messed up. But I can’t just ignore it.
‘Luca?’ someone says, and I look up. Jacob is standing in front of me, a French book in each hand. ‘You seemed far away. I said your name a few times.’
‘Sorry,’ I say, but he shakes his head and smiles.
‘We should make our way to the train station or we’ll be stuck here for the night.’
On the train back, I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve not been fair to Jacob. I’ve barely asked him anything about himself. Instead, I’ve been stuck in my own head. He, on the other hand, has been attentive and charming. I must suck as a date.
If you can even call it that. I have zero dating experience.
How am I meant to know the difference between hanging out and dating?
I mean, yes, Jacob is attentive, and cute, and I like being around him.
But I’m already struggling with my feelings for one boy; I don’t need another to add to the confusion.