Edward
He’d never told anyone. Certainly not his dad.
Not even his mum, not yet anyway. Although he suspected she might already know, deep down—she knew him better than anyone else.
Not that he’d gone out of his way to hide it, not exactly, but it just never seemed to be the right time.
It was always easier to put it off. And there was something about being an only child that seemed to make it harder.
It was getting harder to pretend at home, too.
All that expectation. Awkward questions about girlfriends, about settling down.
Listening to yet another of his dad’s outbursts about George Michael or Elton John or Freddie Mercury, the comments so automatic, so routine, that he didn’t even seem to realize he was making them.
The weight of his grandma’s expectation, that he would be the one to carry on the family name, as the only son of an only son.
But now, finally, Edward had made up his mind.
Finally, he had met someone.
Someone who understood what it was like to live half your life in secret, how exhausting it was to conceal who you really were, to hide your true self.
Who knew it was important to fly under the radar but had promised to be there when he was ready.
Had promised to be his wingman, his backup, or maybe more.
Someone he could turn to if it all went wrong.
Tonight, they would talk things through again.
And tomorrow, he would tell his parents.
Edward checked his watch: it was nearly time. The watch had been a twenty-first birthday present, and he knew it was expensive, something to take good care of, to wear only on special days. Days like today.
Because, finally, it seemed that things were going to change.