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I’ve been dreading this night for years. Twenty year reunion. Twenty years since we graduated from that shitshow Truham. Twenty years that I’ve done nothing with.
Fine, not nothing. I’m successful. On paper. I make money and I have a nice house and two good pups. And okay, my pups are genuinely wonderful. Lilac, my Blue Lacy, and my Vallhund, Sterling—lights of my life, the two of them.
But more often than not, my days are quite dull, and I feel despondent most of the time. I haven’t had a real relationship since I was 24, and shortly after that I think I started talking with mum less and less. Mainly because she just… well, if I’m honest she saw too much. She’s always had the uncanny ability to see right through me. And so when my job was devouring the free time I had and I felt the pressure to be, you know, less myself, I couldn’t face mum’s reproachful eyes and sad tone of voice. So I called and visited less often, and eventually so did she. Now I only see her a few times a year. We don’t really talk in between visits except to confirm the wheres and what-times and whatnots.
Somewhere deep inside I think I’m still the person I always was, I’m just… not proud of how I’ve let everything fall away. I loved the idea of teaching; I still love it in theory. It’s what I’ve always wanted to do. I just… I envisioned myself, as I think most education students do, in a classroom teaching and mentoring bright young students. Not in a massive auditorium or a fucking Zoom call with apathetic adults, all working cushy jobs, making too much money, attending seminars through work where motivational speakers such as myself with even cushier jobs talk to them about “life.” We’re so far removed from the real world in there, it’s nauseating. But loads of people don’t see how shit my life is, how it's all a fucking performance. They just see how much money I make and call it success; those are my least favorite conversations because folks never understand why I’m unhappy. They think I’m greedy, like it’s not enough.
I’d hoped to change something, make something more of myself before now. Or to live a life that's truer to who I actually am. But time got away from me, and now I’m driving a car most of my colleagues would envy—that I don’t actually give a shit about—to my school reunion.
Once inside the venue, I head straight to the bar. I’m going to need several drinks to get through this. Darcy texted me a few minutes ago saying they were close, them and Tara, so I hang out where it’s easy to find me.
I don’t have to wait too long. Within a few minutes, my best friends come barreling down the hall and sweep me up in a hug. I’ve been shit about seeing the two of them, just like Mum, but they’re always the first to shut me up when I try to apologize or feel miserable for myself. I’ve spent a fuckton of money paying into the Self-deprecating Comments Jar that Tara imposed a few years back. It’s bankrolled a few of their wilder nights out. Huh. I should probably put that money towards therapy instead.
We embrace and catch up, but soon they spot another friend from their old school and run off to the dance floor. I smile after them. They’ve always been a graceful whirlwind of color in my life. (Well—Darcy is the whirlwind; Tara makes their chaos graceful somehow.)
Once I can no longer see them through the crowd of bodies—moving far more spastically than any of us did at 18—my eyes fall back to my pint. It’s hard to be anything but boisterous with Darc, but I find it equally challenging to maintain that mood when I’m alone again. So I’m standing here staring forlornly into my ale when a voice I hated in high school sounds behind me.
“‘S a shame, innit it?” Harry Greene says. I turn around to face him. He hiccups, and his eyes are unfocused, but somehow I get the feeling he’s picturing Tara and Darcy.
I can feel my shoulders tense as I look him up and down, bracing myself for what’s to come. “What’s a shame, mate?” I ask bitingly. I think it’s biting, at any rate. It probably rolls off Harry like water off a duck.
He stretches out the hand that holds his beer, sloshing amber liquid over the floor as he gestures in the direction my friends ran off. “Them. The– their– I should 've been married by now, but all the girls are lesbians these days, like them. Women don’t want dick anymore.”
I scowl at him. “What the fuck, Harry?!”
He turns his glassy eyes to me. “What?” His tone of voice indicates Harry’s total belief in his innocence and disbelief that I could disagree. “One chick hates being a woman and pretends they’re not and another is a fucking lesbian but not the good kind. And even Imogen says she’s 'sapphic,' whatever that means, but I know she likes men but she won’t date me because this pride shit has rotted her brain. It’s like there was something in the water at Higgs back when we were in school, completely ruined the girls."
I’m seeing red now. “What the FUCK, Harry!" I shout again. "I should have known you'd be just as homophobic as you were when we were sixteen, you shit cunt. Women don’t exist just to make men happy, and they especially don’t exist just to make you happy. Get the fuck over yourself. And no one wants to hear your transphobia, either.”
Harry stands taller, or as much as he can while he’s pissed, trying to make himself look bigger. “Have you forgotten that Tara Jones being a lesbian was a cockblock for you? And Imogen supposedly likes men but she doesn’t want you, either. You aren’t married, same as me, and you haven’t dated in years. You should be angry, too.”
“Piss off, Harry, none of that has anything to do with why I’m not married. And for the record, no one has ever wanted your dick.” I clench my teeth so tight my jaw hurts as I storm off sullenly. I find a quiet corner in a back corridor somewhere to have a think. Tara, Darcy, Imogen, they’re some of my favorite people. I’m not upset over their queerness. I love them, support them… fuck, I’m one of them. Not that Harry knows that. Not that anyone besides the four of us really knows that.
But maybe… maybe my own queerness has sort of hindered me. Or, my internalized shit regarding my own queerness is more like it. If it weren’t for being hung up on the boy from form 22 years ago and the proper full-on gay crisis that sent me spiraling, maybe I’d have been married years ago. Don’t get me wrong—it was definitely not his fault. As if I could ever place blame on those eyes, or those curls, or those dimples. No, I just mean… if I could have accepted back then that I was bisexual; if I could have accepted back then that I didn’t have to be who other people thought I should be, maybe I could have loved who I was. I could have loved liking boys. I could have loved my self, so that loving someone else didn’t seem so out of reach. Maybe I’d have found someone to commit to, someone to love. Maybe I could have been worthy of their love.
I might not be like Harry fucking Greene, but I think I’ve similarly gotten in my own way, like he has. And fuck if that isn’t a massive wake up call, recognizing a piece of myself in Harry, however small.
I shake my head, clearing the cobwebs and the self-flagellation and self-recrimination and all the other ways of hating myself. I set my pint glass down on a random table, and head off to find my friends on the dance floor. They’ve found Imogen and her partner by now, as well as a friend they all met in year 11, some woman called Elle who looks vaguely familiar. Elle’s husband has some weird fucking moves, but it sort of helps me let loose as we all laugh at his uninhibited display.
After an hour of jumping around and making absolute fools of ourselves, we’re all exhausted. We stumble out of the hall and into the cool night air, laughing loudly about nothing. I think this has been a fun night for the five of them, but for me it’s all felt quite profound, dancing freely with fellow queers after I made my resolution. I’ll tell them about it sometime. Not tonight. Tonight I’m just soaking in the bliss of being myself. I think I could probably find euphoria like this again if I stop getting in my own way.
Darcy twirls down the pavement, so we run after them to make sure a car doesn’t come careening around the corner before they can get to safety.
When we find the carpark, Elle shouts jubilantly at someone in the distance. She drunkenly throws out her arms in a gesture of embrace, even though the person is leaning against a car, still quite far away. Far enough that I can’t make out who it is.
“Who’s that?” Imogen asks. “Why weren’t they at the reunion?”
“It’s Charlie!” Elle cries. The wine she had inside seems to be making her emotional, as her voice is thick with tears. “He’s our best, best friend, but he and Tao graduated the year after us, so he couldn't make it. But he's our desig- our drivig- he's our DD."
I freeze, swaying from the momentum I had up until the moment Elle spoke that name. Charlie. My imagination is flooded with scenes from over two decades ago. Swift legs as he hurtled down the track. Inky dark curls on his temples. Pale blue eyes, like cotton candy. That first boy I ever fancied.
Darcy’s the first to notice I’m still behind the group, still at the edge of the carpark. They call out to me, “Nicky!” as they teeter back towards me. They wrap both arms around my neck, a move that’s purely alcohol-induced affection, but my heart warms nonetheless. Tara wanders over too and smiles at me like only my oldest friend ever does. They both knew then, and I can see by the loving but teasing looks in their eyes that they know now, too.
“Come on,” Tara says as Darcy takes my hands and pulls me forward. “You can finally meet Charlie.”