Ronan’s favorite, there was an extremely good chance that Ronan liked boys just as much as Michael did. When Michael answered, he tried not to reveal too much of his delight in deducing this little bit of information. “He’s cool. Do you, um, have a favorite book of his?”
Ronan paused. He felt as if he were going to share a deeply guarded secret and even though he was nervous, something told him he could trust Michael. “The Picture of Dorian Gray.”
Michael had read that book, quickly and only in his bedroom, and had delighted in its every word. He imagined Ronan reading the book in his bed, one soft light illuminating the words on the page, his heart beating a bit faster than normal as the tale of eternal youth, beauty, and forbidden love unfolded line after line. Maybe they could reread the book together and talk about how lucky Dorian was to be so handsome and so admired. “That’s probably his best,” Michael offered.
Ronan tilted his head, his hair falling across his forehead. “Definitely his most popular and mainstream.”
“Mainstream?” Michael couldn’t see his grandparents or his mother relating to the story. “You think?”
“Down deep, everyone feels like an outcast.”
Ciaran fidgeted in his seat, not sure how much more he could listen to. He had a vague understanding of what the novel was about, but no interest in hearing it discussed and analyzed. In fact, he hated when Ronan prattled on about literature in general, finding it to be self-indulgent and boring.
Michael completely disagreed even if he didn’t completely understand Ronan’s comment. “Everyone? An outcast?”
Don’t ramble, Ronan, don’t give too much away. “Wilde was part of …” Choose the right word, Ronan. “A minority. And so he was able to look at life from a different viewpoint. He understood that each of us in some way carries shame.” Ronan glanced at Michael’s eyes but couldn’t hold his gaze, and looked away. “Shame put there by another person, society, to make us feel like an outsider, someone who doesn’t belong.” When Ronan found the courage to look back, he saw that Michael had never taken his eyes off of him.
It’s like he understands exactly what I’m thinking, what I’m feeling. This was such a new feeling for Michael, to be in direct connection with one other person, that he had forgotten that sitting next to him was the boy who made this whole conversation possible.
Odd man out. Ciaran hated the feeling, hated being once again in this position. It’s always the same when it comes to Ronan, though, isn’t it, he thought. His brother always had time to talk to someone else and never to him. He wanted to blame Michael, but he knew he couldn’t. He wanted to blame Ronan, but he knew that would be useless. So he blamed himself. You should’ve kept your mouth shut and never called Ronan this morning to tell him that Michael had asked about him in that voice, that tone that said exactly what was in his heart. And when Ronan demanded in the guise of a whispered request, “You must bring him to me,” I should’ve said, “No, go find him yourself.” Why can’t I resist him? Ever. But enough. Enough is enough.
“Whilst I find this dialogue scintillating, an organic chem lab awaits,” Ciaran said, standing up. “And please note that the scientist was able to wedge the word ’whilst’ into his farewell.”
Michael started to stand up, but halfway through his motion realized how awkward he must look and quickly sat back down. He caught Ronan’s bemused look. “I’ll, um, see you at lunch, Ciaran. Okay?” Ciaran didn’t stop to answer Michael but kept walking until he was outside. The mixture of sunshine and wind was refreshing and he paused for a moment to allow it to revive him. A breeze flew through him and he got a chill; he knew he shouldn’t have told Michael he was related to Ronan. Some things are best unsaid. But he consoled himself with the knowledge that he did not introduce them. They met on their own with no interference from him, so whatever happened between them, and Ciaran knew in his heart that something would definitely happen between them, Michael could never accuse him of setting things into motion.
Ronan was watching Ciaran through the window. “My brother prefers the company of a laboratory over a library.”
Michael was still having a hard time conceiving these two as brothers. “I can’t believe you two are half brothers.”
“Brother, half brother, same thing, isn’t it?” Ronan traced the stubble on his chin with his fingers. “Still bound by blood.”
“I’m an only child,” Michael offered. “I wouldn’t really know.”
He is so easy to talk to. “Sometimes I feel like an only child.”
“You and Ciaran didn’t grow up together?” Michael asked.
“Oh no,” Ronan said, his gaze not meeting Michael’s. “Our childhoods couldn’t have been any more different.” Michael used every ounce of restraint not to respond immediately but to let Ronan offer whatever information he chose. It’s not that he didn’t want to know everything there was to know about him; he simply wanted to appear interested and not obsessed. Thankfully, after a moment or two of silence, Ronan explained. “We have the same mother, but Ciaran was raised by his father in London. Well, really by his father’s employees, nannies and such; his father travels a lot. Bit too busy sometimes to be a full-time parent.”
“That’s too bad. And you?”
“Edwige raised me in Ireland.”
“That’s a cool name, Edwige. Sounds beautiful.”
Ronan laughed. “It means ’war.’ “ His laughter was like a rock hitting the surface of a lake, unexpected with a loud thump and then with smaller echoes cascading out after it. “Which is exactly what she had with Ciaran’s father.”
“A war?”
“Let’s just say that our mum raised me as if I didn’t have a brother.”
“Wait a second,” Michael said. “Ciaran mentioned his mother to me; he made it sound as if she was a part of his life.”
Ronan shrugged and shifted in his chair, leaning his body to the right and crossing his legs. A feminine gesture, but on him it looked anything but. “Trust me, Michael, he wasn’t talking about Edwige. He must have been referring to his dad’s new wife. Can’t remember her name, but from what I remember, she has less interest in being a parent than his father. The bloke’s very much on his own.”
At a different time, Michael would have cared to hear more about Ciaran’s non-relationship with his parents, but Ronan had just called him by his first name. Michael, when spoken with an Irish brogue, sounded like a question. There was a lilt to it, an air of expectancy as if something should come after it. He liked the way it sounded and especially how it sounded flowing from Ronan’s lips. But what came after it was not what Michael wanted to hear.
“What’s your mum like?”
What was my mother like? Michael thought. Sadly, he didn’t know. Complicated, depressed, dead. “She passed away,” Michael said. “Recently.”
Ronan’s blue eyes filled with genuine regret. “I’m sorry.”
“That’s all right,” Michael said. And he meant it. “I can’t run away from it. It can be difficult, but I have my dad. And her death, you know, is what brought me here, so in a weird way I’m grateful.”
Ronan stood up. No, Michael thought, why did I have to say something so stupid? Grateful; that was absurd. Ronan can’t possibly understand what I meant by it; no wonder he wants to leave. But he thought wrong. “Take a walk with me, Michael.” It took Michael a second to realize that it wasn’t a question but a command. Once he understood the difference, he obeyed without hesitation.
Outside, walking side by side, Michael could feel the space between them, like a magnet pulling them together yet not allowing them to touch. This was good, for now. At least they were walking together in the same direction. Now he just had to think of something to say. Silence was good, but only in brief snippets.
“So, um … where in Ireland did you grow up?”
“Oh … a little place you’ve never heard of,” Ronan said, pausing to stare down at his shoes, at the grass. “Inishtrahull Island.”
“Inish … what?”
Ronan laughed, then overenunciated. “Inish … tra … hull Is … land.”
It sounded like music, albeit an unknown melody. “You’re right, I’ve never heard of it.”
Ronan finally looked in Michael’s direction. “Not many have. It’s in Northern Ireland, not where they had the Troubles, in Belfast, although it does have its own violent history.”
