Fourth Comings_ A Jessica Darling Novel - Megan McCafferty [38]
When we were younger, before my parents moved to their waterfront condo across town, Bridget and I always sprinted across the street and up the stairs to the other’s bedroom to break any big news. Now that we’re both in the city, we’ve settled on an undistinguished Irish pub in Brooklyn Heights to serve the same purpose. Bridget says she doesn’t mind making the “trek” to Brooklyn from the East Village because such interborough subway travel makes her feel more like “a real New Yorker.” Of course, merely having such thoughts undermines any cred she’s earned, but I love the pure ingenuousness of her efforts.
Bridget got there before I did, looking radiant and reluctant to say good-bye to summer in a crinkly-cotton Empire-waist dress and flip-flops. She was seated at a plastic-covered table past the already rowdy regulars at the bar, in a small alley-like seating area tucked back near the kitchen and unisex restrooms. It was my favorite table because it had the best view of all the random Irish-themed artwork hanging crookedly in mismatched frames along the deep green walls: an eight-by-ten glossy of Colin Farrell in a still from Miami Vice; a poster of a football team, the Notre Dame Fighting Irish 1988 National Champions; a Dublin street map; a collage of U2 ticket stubs; and so on.
Bridget greeted me with a cheery little wave.
“I already ordered for us,” she said, grinning merrily in anticipation of the $7.95 breakfast plate of deep-fried bacon, eggs, hash browns, and soda bread that we always split when we met here.
We hugged hello and had barely settled into our rickety seats when Bridget began our conversation with a gleeful yet terrifying, “I’ve got big news!”
I might have flinched.
“We’re not getting married.”
I almost tipped over in my chair. “What?!” Water spilled from glasses and silverware clattered as I clutched at the table to retain my balance. “You’re breaking up?”
“Nononononononono!” Bridget’s pale hands flapped around her lovely face like the wings of a dove struggling to take flight. “We’re not breaking up at all! We’re still engaged.”
“But you’re not getting married?” I was confused.
“Well, hopefully someday. But not until gays can do it, too. And even then we’ll probably elope.”
“Really?” She had taken me completely by surprise. “When did you decide this?”
“I don’t know. It’s a pretty hot topic around school. And as a black man, Percy really sympathizes with the struggle for equality. We wouldn’t join, like, a racially segregated club, so why would we participate in an institution that discriminates against homosexuals?”
“Well, that makes a lot of sense….”
This was a lie. I respected them for taking this stance, but it didn’t seem like their battle to fight, especially when not all gay people even want to get married. My former writing professor/mentor, Professor Samuel MacDougall, even wrote a book about it, An Unconventional Life. To be honest, I never got around to reading the book, but I did catch a lot of the controversy surrounding its publication, and how it made him a traitor to gay activists and a hero among right-wing conservatives who champion traditional “family values.” From what I saw in the New York Times, Mac merely argued that gay-rights activists were squandering their resources and energy battling for the right to participate in a failing institution rooted in subjugation and conformity. We’d all be better off if we fought for other causes that improve everyone’s lives. Gay, straight, and in between.
“Are you upset? You seem upset. I hope you’re not upset! Because Percy thought you might be upset.