“What?”
“I guess the world works differently for me.” He shifts his weight and looks away. “The rules are different for gay men.”
I become a mouth breather and stare.
I’m floored by two things: The term. Martin is not a labels kind of person. And, what? His label has nothing to do with a secret person! “What are you talking about?” I demand.
“Well,” he starts. “There are different rules for gay men and how they meet and build relationships and get to know each other. It’s different.”
“You think a secretgayperson would be any different than my secret, what, straight person?” I can’t believe he is actually thinking this! “What if my secret person is gay?” I’m speaking without thinking, and Martin freezes. We stare at each other for a moment. “I didn’t mean that,” I stop mid-thought. “I, just…”
He turns toward the truck and the overhead light illuminates his profile. “I guess it’s safe to say that everybody has their hangups.” His voice wavers, “I’ve got mine. You’ve got yours. I’m sure your secret person has their own secret hangups, too. We’re just people. Which is actually the reason I think I’m not with anyone. I’m just people, and just haven’t found the right person yet.”
“Me too.” I’m inspired by his resolution. “This seriously isn’t something that should be over-thought.”
“You just have to enjoy the moment, right?” He smiles a one-sided smile and looks at me.
“The moment. Right.” I notice he’s fidgeting with the pendant at the end of his gold necklace, it’s a small gold puzzle piece.
“I gotta tell you, Martin, I think you’re great and I think you should have a secret person too. A gay secret person. With gay secret person hangups.”
He laughs and looks at his shoes. “This conversation has taken a turn, but thanks,” he says. “I wonder where all these secret people live?”
“I’ll tell you,” I say, whispering and pulling close to him. “Come here.”
He distrustfully leans in.
I whisper loudly in his ear, “It’s a secret!”
He shoves me in the shoulder, pushing me away. I can’t stop laughing, which must be contagious because he’s laughing now, too. Our bouncing shadows wrestle on the asphalt beneath us.
After regaining myself, I tell him seriously: “You’re a great friend, Martin. I’m glad you and I have hangups together.”
He locks eyes with me. “Me too,” he says. “The friend part, not the hangup part.” He smiles. The moment flashes brightly in the passing headlights.
The app is called GoodWord and I find it in the app store. It’s free. The app was originally designed as an encouragement device, like someone can send a single encouraging message per day, intended to be received and never reciprocated. It’s a way to receive a daily personal boost from a friend or loved one or, in my case, complete stranger. There is a companion app called GoodWord Maker, which presumably my secret person can use to send me a message, one per day.
As the app downloads, I’m deeply moved by its description and sample images. Some code writer out there thought it would be great to have a way to send encouragement out into the world without reciprocity. Maybe the world is a tiny bit less selfish than I think. I also spend a minute thinking about my secret person and how she even found this app, and what that meansabout her character. Or maybe I have it all wrong and she’s just misusing a great invention for something sinister like playing with my mind so deviously.
I decide it doesn’t matter; I’m pressing on. And pressing the “Open” button when the app installs. The million questions I have about how the app will know which messages I’m supposed to get from whom are answered when I see that I have “One GoodWord” waiting in my inbox. I have logged in with my email address, so I’m assuming that’s all my secret person needs to know in order to make this work.
Which is something to think about.
I open my GoodWord and read it. Over and over.
“Ready for adventure?” it says. “It feels like you might just be up for personal challenge, so this one’s for real—Karaoke Night at the Palm Frond. Show the world your song, enjoy the moment, challenge yourself. I believe in you, William.”
My heart sinks further into my stomach with every re-read.
First of all, she keeps using my full first name. I haven’t been called William since high-school, so that clue keeps taking me all kinds of weird places. Does she know me from before college? Is she just trying to mess with me? I spend little time dwelling on this matter, because I can’t stop hearing the word “song” echo through my skull.
Karaoke.
Singing in public.
This is so out of character for me. There is no way in God’s green earth that I would ever get myself onstage and sing in front of people. Sure, I’ll belt out tunes in the shower or in the car or even around my apartment, even secret performances where I imagine I have great moves. But, in public? With other people? Hell, no.
Which brings my eyes back to the words “challenge.” This person knows this about me. I feel special and small all at once,like I’m being loved and spied on simultaneously. It’s a weird feeling and my brain spirals around the contrast.