“He gets careful,” I add. “Like he’s suddenly aware of everything.”
I let out a breath.
“I thought it was just him,” I say. “Just how he is.”
Arthur nods slightly.
“But sometimes,” I continue, my voice thinner now, “it feels like he doesn’t want people to know.”
The words sit between us.
Too heavy to ignore.
I shake my head quickly.
“That’s stupid,” I add. “He told you about me. I know that.”
Arthur says nothing.
Which makes it worse.
I force myself to look at him.
“Do you think…” The question catches halfway out. I almost stop it. Almost let it die where it belongs.
“Do you think he could be embarrassed?” I ask quietly. “To be seen with me.”
The moment the words exist, I regret them.
“I don’t mean—” I shake my head. “He’s never said anything. He’s never done anything wrong. I just—”
I stop.
Arthur frowns.
“Embarrassed?” he repeats. “Christina, what on earth would he have to be embarrassed about?”
The question is gentle. Genuine.
Which somehow makes it harder.
I look down at my hands.
“My mum’s family is from Jamaica,” I say quietly. “My dad’s English. I grew up in London. It was never…” I hesitate, searching for the right word. “It was never unusual there.”
Arthur listens without interrupting.
“Here,” I continue, “people have been kind. Truly kind. I don’t feel unwelcome.”
That part is true.
“But I know I’m different,” I add. “I know I’m more visible here. There aren’t many people who look like me.”
Arthur’s jaw tightens.
“And sometimes,” I say, my voice thinner now, “it feels like he remembers that when other people are around.”
I force myself to keep going.