“You’re not a mistake,” I told him, less affectionately than the words suggested. “But I’m starting to wonder if you think I am.”

“That’s not in question. I just want to talk to you about…about how I’m feeling, I suppose.”

I sat up and stabbed resentfully at my rotolo. “How you’re feeling about rainbow balloon arches?”

“In essence, yes.” He gave an anxious little sigh. “Because, in a way, you’re correct. I will never truly know if the reason if I am discomforted by the trappings of mainstream LGBTQ culture is because I was raised in an environment where they were viewed negatively. Or because I simply don’t feel included by them. Or, indeed, because I have legitimate concerns about their origins and increasing commercialisation. And, honestly, I don’t think there’s any way to disentangle those things.”

This was turning into very much the opposite of the romantic meal I’d envisioned. “Okay? That’s good for you, I guess?”

“I just want you to…understand.”

He was looking at me kind of the way he had when he first told me he worked in criminal defence. And it made me feel…weird. Mostly good weird. Like, even after three years with Oliver, it still did strange things to my head and my heart that someone could care that much about what I thought. I put my fork down. Because, suddenly, I really did want to y’know… “Understand what?” I asked.

“That I’ll never be…that I’ll never express my identity in the way you express your identity. And while”—his mouth turned up wryly—“that doesn’t come from a wholly uncomplicated place, it isn’t a flaw in who I am. It’ s just who I am.”

I thought I did understand that. But then again I’d clearly given Oliver the impression I didn’t, and Oliver was way smarter than me. “I–I do get that,” I tried. “It’s just sometimes hard to get my brain around.”

“That’s the problem. I’m not sure I want to be something that’s hard to get your brain around.”

This felt like it was teetering on the edge of a serious place. A potentially relationship-ending, marriage-breaking serious place. So I gambled. “Okay, but I think that ship has already sailed.”

“How reassuring.” He was giving me an arch look, but he seemed to be listening.

“Not like that. I just… You know you think about things differently from me. About life, about the law. Hell”—I speared a piece of rotolo and waved it at him—“even about food. I don’t want to be in a relationship with somebody I always agree with.”

“I’m not sure that being vegan is the same as processing my identity in a way you can’t access.”