“Max,” The man says, throwing a hand out to shake.
“Hey Max,” I say, taking his hand. Then there’s handshakes all around.
“This is my friend, Martin,” I tell them, and for some reason the word stings a little, but I keep smiling and shaking.
“Nice to know you,” Martin says, with a smile that makes me wonder if it’s as pasted on as mine, or even for the same reason.
“Did you see the concert?” Matthew is beaming, smacking a buddy palm on Max’s shoulder, who braces himself and smiles. “Max and I just came from The Center. It was great.”
“We did,” Martin begins to say. “James Durn is great. He comes here every year.”
“He is,” I say. “He does.”
A moment of awkward silence passes before Matthew says, “Well, we better head out. It was good to see you, Liam.” He nods at Martin who nods back.
“Maybe we’ll see you around.” Max says, then turns to Martin, “It was nice to meet you, Martin.”
The two of them head off down the street.
Martin and I turn, and follow at a slower pace. The silence between us feels wrong, but I can’t figure out what to say, so it continues.
“That’s Matthew?” Martin asks softly.
I nod a sideways nod at him.
“That’s the first time I’ve seen him wearing clothes,” Martin says, a Cheshire grin exploding across his face, his teeth glowing.
I snort a belly laugh and shove my shoulder against his. “Yeah.”
“It works for him, the clothes.”
I suddenly can’t stop laughing, shaking my head. “Until there’s a fountain nearby.”
We laugh our way down the street, and I let the laughter settle into all the empty spaces.
“We should meet.”
That’s what the latest message from my secret person says. There’s actually more to the message, but my brain doesn’t move past the first three words. My insides are hurricaning. I knew this day was coming. Eventually. Some day. One side of my brain keeps channeling Martin’s Japanese words. Treasure the moment. It won’t happen again. The other side of my brain cowers. What if I mess it all up? What if this only works in secret. With distance and mystery. I can follow adventures with my secret guy, but how will we do at things like “where do you want to eat?” or “How was your day?” kinds of things. I’m spiraling.
I do read the rest of the message and it’s perfectly on-point from him. It says, “You pick the place and time. I’ll make the arrangements.”
I’m never trapped. It’s always my choice to feel comfortable with this guy. Which makes me wonder why, ironically, I’mfeeling uncomfortable. Why can’t we just leave things the way they are? Can’t I just keep my secret guy a secret guy? Why does everything always have to have a next phase?
I know that’s silly, so I change my line of thought. I’m not sure what to do, and I understand how the absence of a reply seems. So I seize the moment and text, “Let me think about this. I’ll get back to you,” and send.
I feel good about what I’ve done. I feel like we’re communicating even if I might be panicking inside a little. Mostly, I know when I say “think about it,” I actually mean “talk to Martin about it,” so that’s top priority.
On Saturday night, Martin invites me over to his place to watch the game and hang out. He’s a soccer fan, which I can watch or not, but I’m always a fan of eating good food and hanging out, so I’m here. We’re sitting on his living room sofa multitasking. The game is on, we’re chatting about basically nothing in-between Martin’s comments to the screen, and we’ve both got our phones in our hands, scrolling. I decide to bring it up.
“He wants to meet,” I say, “My guy. He asked me to pick a place and a time and we can meet.”
Martin looks up from his phone. “He wants you to meet?”
I just stare at him for a minute, blinking. “He thinks it’s time for us to actually meet. In person.”
Martin’s got his right arm stretched out on the brown leather arm of the sofa holding his phone, his feet on the redwood coffee table, but his posture changes with the news. He sits up straighter, sliding back into the cushions, dropping both feet to the floor. His tone changes too. He’s suddenly serious. “How do you feel about that?” he asks, eyes scanning my face. I know he’s looking for something my words can’t articulate. I think he sees it. He looks away.
“I want to,” I say. “I want to meet him, but I’m also terrified. I have a million questions: What will we talk about? What if we don’t like doing things together, only separately? What if I don’t actually like guys and I’m just leading him along terribly? What if…” I trail off.