He furrows his brow. “I saw you from the stage. Your face. You looked horrified.”
“I was surprised, sure,” I said. “I mean, it took me a minute, but…” I fumble for the words. I want so badly not to ruin this.
“I thought you were magic tonight, Roe. Like no one I’ve ever seen before. Which makes sense, because you’re like no one I’ve ever met before.”
He is so close to me now. My fingers nudge against his in the dark. The balled-up napkin is still in his fist. Gently, I ease the wet pulpy material from his hand and into my own. I start gently daubing his lip. Roe. My poor Roe.
“And,” I venture, “I thought you were … extremely sexy.”
“You did?” Roe asks, as if this is a trap.
“I did,” I confirm.
We are silent then, standing in the dark. I step forward and trace the edge of his cheekbone with my finger. He doesn’t back away, but he doesn’t move towards me either. Taking this as encouragement, I lightly kiss the skin above his lower lip, making sure I don’t graze his cut. Roe closes his eyes. I lean forward again and kiss the empty ear lobe where the clip-on pearl just sat.
“Maeve,” he murmurs. “No.”
No?
His eyes flick open. “I’m sorry.”
“No?” I repeat uncertainly.
“I just think … we should focus on getting Lily back. For the time being.”
I can’t help it. I feel the embarrassment and rage bubble and spill inside of me. “Well, if that’s how you feel, Roe, why did you just interrogate me on whether or not I find you attractive?”
“Um, well…”
“And why –” my voice is getting shrill now, I can hear it – “why were you singing songs to me onstage about how we’re in hiding together? What is that about?”
“Look, I’m confused, too,” he says in desperation. “But … that thing you showed me – the tarot reading. I can’t forget it. The Secret Santa, the way you and Lily shouted at each other, you turning on the tap and drenching her stuff… It was dark, Maeve.”
“I’m sorry, Roe. I don’t know how I can…”
He puts his hand up. “I know. It’s fine. Fi has already given me an earful. Obviously, you weren’t to know what was going to happen. But every time I think about you like that, I just feel so angry and guilty.”
He looks at me mournfully, as though I were a game that he’s been dying to play. “And when we’re … together, like this, I thought … I thought I could forget about it.”
“But you can’t,” I say, tears rising to my eyes. “You can’t forget about it.”
“You’re so important to me,” he says. “More important than anyone. But I can’t … I can’t have this big romance with you and sleep at night. Knowing that my sister is still … wherever she is.”
“OK,” I say, my voice flat. “I get it.”
And I do. I do get it. In the same way that I needed to draw a boundary with Fiona about witchcraft, Roe needs to draw one with me. I don’t like it. But I understand it.
“Come on,” I say. “Let’s get you some clothes.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
BY MONDAY, THE GIG AT THE CYPRESS HAS BEEN ALL OVER the media. A few people from the gig have even been on RTÉ, explaining how the violence broke out.
“This was a targeted attack on the queer community,” says one queen. “And this was an attack on our visibility. Children of Brigid specifically went after young, vulnerable kids who had found a safe space where they could express their gender orientation. This needs to be taken seriously as a hate crime.”
“I see,” the host replies. “And, in the interest of balance, we’re also going to be hearing from a rep for Children of Brigid, who are an after-school organization that primarily arrange charity events—”
“The cabaret was a charity event,” the queen interrupts. “And there’s also evidence that these people are funded by the same American organizations that supported the anti-choice movement during Repeal the Eighth. These people are literally enemies of progress.”
“We’ll be back after a short break.” The host smiles.
Fiona, Roe and I watch the whole programme in Fiona’s house. Jos keeps running in and out of the room, waving a broken toy phone around and screeching his disapproval.
“Is that true?” I ask. “The bit about the funding?”
Fiona nods. “There was a piece on the Irish Times website about it. There’s this whole thing where this group of wealthy white Irish Americans want to keep Ireland all pure and holy. Their ideal version of a motherland, or some bullshit.”
“OK, wow. At least the media are reporting it, though.”
“It was a tiny feature, mind,” Roe counters. “It only made the online version. The media emphasis is still very much ‘these troublesome queers won’t calm down’.”
I make a silent, slightly shameful note to myself that both of my friends read the Irish Times and that I do not. I write READ THE PAPER into my phone as a reminder.
“Look, it’s back on,” Fiona says, pointing at the screen.
To the surprise of absolutely no one, Aaron is the rep speaking on behalf of Children of Brigid. When the show comes back after the ad break, he is sitting on the couch, wearing a suit.
“I hate him for being so TV-pretty,” Fiona says, throwing a Dorito at the screen.
And he is. He’s all golden sunshine and white teeth, charming the hosts and assuring everyone that it is a “true pleasure” to be on the show. The drag queen in her pink wig and sequinned dress shoots daggers.
“I just think we need to be conscious,” Aaron says, “of how young children are being sexualized. Why should a twelve-year-old have to think about their gender? Or their sexuality? Is it naive to think that childhood should last a few more years?”
“Perhaps it is,” the host says, with
