But his voice had gone crisper and cooler, and he took out his phone to check it.
“Yeah.” I hunched my shoulders, shoving my hands deep into my pockets. “I guess.”
Fiona: I just have to ask you this once. Is there any chance you’ll want to come back to me? Have a real relationship? I’m sorry to sound dramatic. I won’t make a habit of it. I just need to know
It was the last day of January. I was working a shift at the café and had just helped drag in a delivery of coffee beans. I stood immobilized next to the stack of fragrant boxes, staring at my phone.
My first impulse, oddly, was to forward it to Andy and get his feedback. But no—that was stupid. This obviously was a question I had to answer alone.
I put the phone in my pocket and started carrying boxes of coffee to the kitchen.
Well, no. The answer was no. Though … maybe? I might return to the UK in five years and meet up with her again, and things might go differently that time.
Probably not what she was asking, though; I expected she meant anytime soon. So I should say no. But a flat refusal felt too insensitive. How would I prefer to be turned down if it were me?
After piecing together and tearing apart phrasing in my head for half an hour, I composed an answer.
Sinter: I’m so sorry, but with the distance and being involved with other things right now, I don’t think so. It just doesn’t feel right, and I’m happy here. But I like you and I’m so glad to know you, if that helps at all. Gah, I’m sorry
Fiona: No, I wanted to know the truth. Thank you
Sinter: I’m not worth any regrets. You’re going to be fine
Fiona: I’ll sort things out I suppose. Anyway I’ll be in touch. Take care
Sinter: You too. Hugs
I was not ordinarily a written-hugs kind of person, but I honestly wished I could hug her if it would help.
She didn’t answer.
When I returned to the apartment that evening, Andy was back from work, on the couch playing some computer game involving what looked like mazes, caterpillars, and raspberries. “Hey,” he said.
“Hey.” I took off my boots and thumped down by his feet with a sigh. “Fiona messaged me. She wanted to know if I was interested in coming back to her.”
He kept his gaze on the screen, but the look on his face became … complicated. Tense, hurt, sympathetic? I thought I caught glimpses of all of those. “Oh. Wow.”
“I said no,” I added. “Told her I’m happy here.”
He went on screen-staring, but his expression evolved into a friendly wince. “Those conversations are never fun.”
“I’d hoped she was over it. But I guess she’s doing postproduction, so she’s probably having to watch footage of me for hours every day.”
“That would delay the recovery.” The reflections of the game’s colored lights scooted around on his glasses. “Are you sure, though? You could go back if you wanted. You’re not … tied down or anything.”
For some reason, that troubled me almost as much as Fiona’s messages had. I studied him. He scrolled the screen, face neutral. “No, I’m honestly happy,” I said. I took hold of his foot in its C-3PO-patterned sock. “I’m not calling this arrangement done yet. But you can end it too, if you want. No drama.” I maintained a casual tone, matching his.
He wiggled his toes in my grip. “Nah. I won’t kick you out yet. I mean, the weather’s been so cold, and you keep the bed nice and warm.”
I had let myself fall asleep in his bed many nights during the past week or two, and I sometimes woke to find him curled against me. It was quite adorable.
“Okay then,” I said.
“Here.” He spun the laptop toward me. “See if you can beat my score.”
Work kept us busy: Andy was in talks with a former coworker who’d started her own video game company, and he was considering making the leap to a new job with her. Meanwhile, I served coffee and kept auditioning for stage and film roles. As predicted, it took me twenty auditions (twenty-one, actually) before I landed a role. A few days into February, I sent the happy news to Andy.
Sinter: I got a part!! In the one about Shakespeare at Green Sea Theatre
Andy: Omg woohoo!! Be thinking about how you want to celebrate ;)
When I arrived at the café that day, I told Chris I now had evening rehearsals that would conflict with my shifts.
“Big-time actor guy,” she said. “Fine. We knew the risks.” She opened the work schedule on the computer to shuffle employees around. “What’s this play?”
I hung my jacket on a wall peg. “It’s called The Fair Youth. It’s about Shakespeare’s life.”
She looked over. “You’re going to play Shakespeare?”
“No, the other guy—the fair youth. A nobleman who … okay, do you know anything about the sonnets?”
“Neee-ope. I did not study Shakespeare.”
“So the first, like, hundred or so of the sonnets are actually written about a guy, this ‘fair youth.’ That’s who I’ll be playing.” I had vaguely recalled this from my college theater and lit courses. It had intrigued me to learn that all the “compare thee to a summer’s day” was about another man. “There are theories about who he was, but no one’s sure. This play takes one of the theories and makes it into a love story.”
Chris tapped her pinkies on the edges of the keyboard. “Ah, right. I remember hearing Shakespeare might’ve been gay or bi or something.”
“They’re going with bi, yeah. Same with my character. Which, uh …” I fetched an apron to put on, my heart suddenly racing. “I am too, so that works out.”
“Huh.” My coming-out apparently meant very little to Chris. She looked at the screen again. “I’d much rather make out with Ariel Salisbury than some dude dressed as Shakespeare, but that’s just me.”
There, I defended to myself. I had come out to someone else. Sure, a woman who had a wife, and who worked on Broadway and therefore saw a thousand more shocking things than me every day, but still. I wasn’t hiding.
One step at a time, right?
CHAPTER 23: ONLY YOU
AT THE BEGINNING OF MARCH, ANDY TOOK THE NEW JOB AT HIS COLLEAGUE’S VIDEO GAME COMPANY. It meant a slight pay cut, but he still had a short commute, and got to do work that he loved. They were even hoping to win a contract for a tie-in video game to one of Andy’s favorite TV series, a Japanese anime, which had Andy bouncing against the ceiling in excitement. We had a couple of celebratory dinners in his honor, one with his new boss, Dakota, and her husband, and one with his sister Emma. Family who wanted to celebrate your job achievements: imagine that.
We still bounded along in our bed-sharing arrangement too, and by the end of the month had tried nearly everything there was to try, at least without a shopping trip to a sex-toy store. Of which there were a few in our neighborhood, so there was always that possibility. My experience with being on the receiving end of anal, by the way, was similar to my early experience with eyeliner: “Ow, fuck fuck fuck, ow” on the first try, but once I learned proper procedures, it became something I could pull off with style and pleasure. (Andy was considerate that first time, just a little over-eager.)
Between those activities and my rehearsals, which involved wooing and kissing the actor playing Shakespeare (no weirder than kissing Ariel, as it turned out, except that he had a beard), Andy declared I had levelled up in guy/guy action.
“So I mean, if you want to try Girasol,” he said one day, “I think you’d be a total catch there.”
Since it was the second time he’d suggested it, I took it to mean—with a sinking of heart I didn’t dare analyze—that he wanted to go to Girasol.
No drama. Not tied down. Though I still couldn’t bring myself to kiss him on the street, I was going to be kissing a dude onstage for whoever bought a ticket this spring, so I might as well walk into an LGBTQ bar and see what it was like. Maybe I’d even meet someone who turned me on more than Andy did, though I was beginning to doubt that was
possible.
We went on a Friday night. I wore eyeliner, double necklaces, temporary tattoos, and all-black clothes. Might as well present the me they should know about.
Andy instructed me to hang out by the bar (if I didn’t want to dance, which I didn’t), check out attractive people, and rely on eye contact to lure them toward me. In the crowded, bass-thumping, light-flashing room, we bought our drinks and swiveled to face the options.
In a few minutes, Andy, with his friendly smile and opened top shirt button, got drawn into dancing with a bearded guy a few years older than us. I watched for a minute, then remembered I should be checking out other people. Of the few women there, most were cuddling with each other, so I let my eye rove over the guys, which was theoretically the point of my being there anyway.
The first one to approach me was tall, with a jogger’s build and stylishly tousled short hair. With the loud music, we practically had to mash our mouths to each other’s ears to talk, which gave me a noseful of his cologne. It was pleasant, but I liked Andy’s better. When jogger guy learned I was bi, he seemed to get wary, like maybe I wasn’t serious about this “getting with guys” idea. Before long, he wished me a good time and drifted off.
The bearded guy nuzzled Andy’s neck on the dance floor. Andy smiled and spoke into his ear. Something inside me felt jagged.
I cut my gaze around, my back against the bar, seeking anyone attractive.
A skinny boy met my gaze, beamed, and weaved his inebriated way over to me. He looked barely twenty-one, maybe there under false ID. He wore a pink polo shirt, and his blond hair swooped down to one side over his cheekbone. In our conversation shouted into each other’s ears, he was excited to learn I was an actor, congratulatory at my coming out as bi, and determined to tell me all about the drama with his conservative parents. Which, of course, I sympathized with.
But I didn’t particularly feel like kissing him. And Andy still smelled better.
The blond kid said he was off to the bathroom and asked if I wanted to come.
There we had it: I could probably get off with some guy in a bar if I so desired.
I looked around and found Andy walking toward me, alone. I shook my head at the blond guy with a grateful smile. “Not tonight. Maybe another time, okay?”
He twisted his mouth wistfully, said, “Hope so,” and loped off.
“I might be done,” Andy yelled in my ear when he reached my side. “You want to stay?”
I shook my head and shoved my half-full beer bottle onto the bar. “Let’s go.”
Instead of returning straight to the apartment, we ambled along Broadway, not saying much. My ears were still ringing from the club noise. It was cold, but a hint of flowers fragranced the air. We turned a corner and climbed a quieter sidewalk toward Volunteer Park.
“Well, now you’ve tried it, at least,” he said.
The ringing in my ears had faded enough to maintain conversation.
“Yeah, thought I should. And it seemed like you wanted to go, so.” I made sure to sound unconcerned so he wouldn’t take it as an accusation.
He sounded a tad distressed anyway when he answered. “I didn’t really. I just thought you should have the chance, in case you were … getting tired of …”
“Oh. I’m not, no.”
“Okay. No, me neither.”
A tender happiness bloomed inside me. “You were doing okay with the bearded guy,” I teased.
“Heh. I guess.” Entering the park, we passed beneath tree branches and into the paved area in front of the Asian Art Museum. “Wasn’t feeling it, though. I kept thinking, ‘Eh, I’d rather go home with Sinter.’”
The warmth spread all through me. “I could’ve followed the blond kid into the bathroom, but … yeah. Didn’t appeal.”
We gravitated toward the huge, black, donut-shaped sculpture in front of the museum, the one you could look through and frame the Space Needle in. No one else was around except a guy walking his dogs on the other side of the street.
In the shadows, I caught Andy’s hand. He wrapped his fingers around mine at once, though we’d never held hands before. We slowed to a stop at the donut, looking through it at the skyline.
“I know I could’ve gone to a club like that in London,” I said. “Found someone there, or in some other city. I came here because … I wanted to try being bi with you. I just wanted you.”
“And I went along with your crazy idea because I just wanted you.” He said it so easily, like he didn’t mind sharing this sentiment at all.
Tugging him down with me, I sat on the low concrete wall beside the sculpture.
Andy wrapped his arms around my waist. “Hey. Do you really think of the day I left for college when you need to cry for a part?”
“Yeah. I never told you or anyone, but I totally broke down and, like, sobbed after you left.”
He pressed his cheek to my shoulder. “When I got to Stanford, I cried every night for the first few days. Trying to be all quiet, in my pillow, so my roommate wouldn’t hear me.”
I nestled my lips into his hair. “Because you were homesick?”
“Partly. But mainly because I missed you.”
I closed my eyes and held him tighter. My chest hurt from his words. The wall we sat on was cold and hard. My feet were sore from walking around in these leather boots. The smell of the club still clung to our hair.
A night had never been as perfect as this, and I wanted to feel this way always.
“I’m fine with this arrangement going on awhile,” I said.
“Same.”
Oh, tread carefully, man, I told myself as we walked home from Volunteer Park, neither of us speaking much. I breathed in the spring night smells of chilly flowers and seawater and traffic, and felt pleasantly dizzy, not from alcohol or weariness but from the glow of emotions swarming me.
That night felt different, not just sexual anymore, not just hanging out with a friend. It felt … romantic. Like I had caught feelings for him. And from what he had said, he might have caught some for me too.
Which was not allowed. No drama, we had agreed. No broken hearts. No crying in our cars. No radio silence where once we had exchanged hilarious daily text messages.
So yes, I had to tread carefully, especially since I wasn’t ready for anything like a relationship with him. How could I claim to be, when fear still bubbled up inside me at the idea of introducing him to anyone—let alone my parents—as “my boyfriend”?
Even so, this romantic mood intoxicated me. It swept me up, the way a stage role could sweep me up in the best of performances. So I played the part, just for one night. It felt too good to resist. Cold reality could wait until tomorrow.
Other queer-culture kids flowed around us as we descended the hill: same-sex couples holding hands, groups in clubbing attire laughing and chattering. We blended right in. At the corner across from our building, I caught his hand again, between our hips. Our fingers interlocked. Though my pulse pounded, we held hands all the way across the street and up the steps to the door of the building.
When I let go to get my keys out of my pocket, Andy leaned over and kissed my neck, a look of pride on his face. I kissed him on the ear in return.
In the apartment, once we’d stripped each other down, we spent longer than usual just kissing. We lingered in a naked tangle in bed, flushed and heated. He stroked my hair back from my face, and his hand trembled. So did mine as I traced his collarbone to the hollow at the center and kissed him over the heart.
Afterward, we stayed wrapped up in each other’s arms rather than disentangling and joking as we often did.
“Hey,” he said. “Happy birthday.”
I smiled. Now that it was after midnight, it was indeed my birthday. I hadn’t brought it up, but of course he remembered. “Thanks. Twenty-six, wow.”
“What do you want to do tomorrow? Or today I guess. After sleeping.”
“Machiavelli’s for dinner?” It was a restaurant nearby with fabulous Italian f
ood.
“Sounds good,” he said. “Let’s do it. After my work thing and your rehearsal.”
Though the next day was Saturday, Andy was going in to his new office to help Dakota set up a server, or something like that—I wasn’t the one to ask about technological details. Meanwhile, I had rehearsal all afternoon for The Fair Youth. Theater rehearsal followed by awesome Italian dinner with Andy would already be a great birthday by my standards.
But this fondness I was indulging in felt like the best gift anyone could have given me—even if I was only playing a part, and with the sunrise it was going to blow away like the vapors from a fog machine.
CHAPTER 24: SHELLSHOCK
FIONA EMAILED ME THE NEXT DAY.
I need to talk to you. When would be a good time to phone?
Well, that didn’t sound good.
Andy had gone to work. I was at the apartment alone, having an early lunch at the small kitchen table. I re-read the message, my jaw slowing as I chewed my peanut butter sandwich.
Something to do with the film? Or, given her message from a month earlier, something more relationship-centered?
Already nervous, I typed back:
I’m free for another hour or so. I can call now if that works?
A minute later my phone started buzzing. She was calling.
I swallowed the bite of sandwich, washed it down with tea, and answered, “Hello?”
“Hi, Sinter.” She sounded wistful. The London accent sent a pang of nostalgia through me.
“Hey, what’s up?”
“Oh, I’m sorry to bother you. I really am. It sounds like things are going well for you over there.”
“They are,” I said. “But what’s … is something wrong? The film?”
“Not the film, no. That’s nearly done, and it looks excellent.” She didn’t sound near as pleased about it as she should have. “It’s … well, you see, I’m pregnant.”
I was already sitting down when she said it. Good thing, as a weird, jelly-like feeling shot from my stomach into my legs. “You are?” And though I hated myself for it, I started counting in my head: how long ago had we had sex, what were the chances …
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