21. Between the Grooves
I run through it again in my head. I’ll sit on a bench in the open-air square at Ansley Mall, just outside the bookstore across from Fitness Factory—the spot where he first saw me.
A paperback in one hand, sunglasses in the other.
I’ll sit there, casual and nonchalant. I don’t want to startle him or let him believe I’m stalking him. The goal is to see him.
It’s been six days since the kiss. Six long days of silence.
The kind of silence that can’t be overthought and doesn’t wane.
Calling Kevin or dropping by the IBM building downtown was a possibility.
I even considered pretending I was near Emory by coincidence, near the Aquatic Center, or even at the business school building entrance.
But instead, this became the plan. For the second day in a row, I’ve spent my lunch hour sitting here, with a half-hour before and a half-hour after added on.
And somehow, today, it works.
Kevin appears as if summoned. This time, he’s dressed in blue slacks and a white Oxford, sleeves rolled up on his forearms, carrying the same backpack I’ve seen before.
He’s sweating through his shirt like the summer heat hit him the second he left his air-conditioned office.
He looks tired, as if he hasn’t slept well or has been working too hard.
Maybe he’s hyper-focused on something. None of that matters, though. He’s here .
Kevin slows when he sees me, and there’s a pause between us. Then he smiles. It’s not a broad smile, but it’s enough. Standing with my book in hand, I say his name like I’m surprised.
“Daniel.” He says it like a fact, not a question. Then, after a breath, “Hey.”
There’s another short pause. Kevin’s eyes narrow slightly—not suspicious, just curious. “What are you doing here?”
Shrugging, I hold up the paperback and answer. “Lunch break. I figured I’d read a little. My next client’s just a few streets over.”
He nods slowly. “Nice spot for it.”
“Yeah. Here in the shade, it’s a good place to people-watch. You know me. I’m a sucker for the smell of old books and vinyl.”
Kevin looks at his watch when I suggest we duck into the bookstore. “It’s cooler and more private,” I say. Sensing his hesitation, I promise it will only be for a minute.
We browse around the front tables as we chat, running fingers along the spines of books as we circle the displays.
“So, how’s work?” he asks.
“Sweaty,” I say. “Pool maintenance in the Georgia heat. You know how it is.”
I catch Kevin’s gaze at the paperback in my hand— Giovanni’s Room , the one Naomi gave me nearly nine months ago, back when I pretended to be interested and told her I would read it.
She said it would crack me open, not because it was about being gay but because it was about loneliness; the kind that hums under your skin no matter where you are or who you’re with.
I haven’t made it past chapter three, though.
The sentences feel too sharp, as if Baldwin knew precisely where to press.
Every time I try, it’s like the book is watching me.
Like it already knows I’m still orbiting someone I was intimate with four years ago when I was straight and can’t seem to let go .
He smiles politely but doesn’t make eye contact. His fingertips linger on a new release hardcover, The Prince of Tides . He quickly glances at me, then slides his finger past it.
“And you?” I ask.
“Busy. Always busy.”
There’s a pause. Then I say lightly, “This kind of place always reminds me of you.”
Kevin exhales softly through his nose. “That was a long time ago.”
“Not that long,” I rebut.
He doesn’t argue as he circles the tables in the same manner he’s circling the topic.
“Josh asked me if I was hiding something,” Kevin says suddenly.
I look at him. “Last Thursday, after the films?”
He nods. “He picked up on something.”
“So he knows we went together? I thought he suggested you invite me.”
“Sure, he suggested it in passing,” Kevin says, “but I doubt he meant it.”
“What did you say?”
Kevin doesn’t answer. He just looks down at the book he has just picked up from the classics table, Invisible Man . How fitting, I think—a novel about identity and what it means to be seen or unseen in this world.
“Did you deny it?” I ask, quieter this time .
Kevin flips the book open, then closes it, setting it back on the shelf. “It was just a moment, Daniel. Let’s not make it into more than it was.”
His words cut. They come from a place I didn’t expect, as if it meant nothing.
For a second, I freeze—part of me is afraid he’s serious, that I read it all wrong—that the kiss, the silence, the way he looked at me that night was only mine.
But then I see it—the way he won’t meet my eyes, the way he closes the book, how his voice sounds like someone trying to control the temperature of their own heart.
He’s not indifferent. He’s afraid. It’s not the truth—it’s a defense.
It’s a lie he needs me to believe so that he doesn’t have to say more.
“Was it nothing to you?” I ask.
He doesn’t reply.
I step closer to him, not enough to touch but enough to be felt. “You don’t get to rewrite that night, Kevin. We both felt it.”
His eyes flick to mine, then away. “I can’t do this. Not now.”
“Why did you kiss me, then?”
The question escapes before I can filter it.
I hear the edge in my voice, too sharp and too naked.
My chest tightens as the words hang between us.
Shifting my weight, I’m suddenly aware of how still Kevin has gone.
Part of me wants to reach for him. The other part wants to take it back.
I hate that I need the answer more than I want to protect my pride.
“Because I—”
“Then have lunch with me,” I blurt out before he can end the sentence, turning regret into an apology. I need more time with him: time to soften whatever has hardened, time to repair whatever has cracked, time to stop the backslide before it settles.
“I can’t today,” he says. “I really need to get in the gym and back to work. ”
The rejection lands hard, but I don’t push.
“No, not today,” I concede. “I need to get back, too. Sometime soon, then.”
He hesitates. “Maybe.”
“Good. I’ll page you.” I turn to leave before Kevin has a chance to give me a firm no. That’s all I need.
Walking out into the bright sunlight before him, I replay the moment he said he wanted to.
He’s already lying to Josh—already tearing himself in half.
I can see what he won’t say out loud. He’s slipping, and the silence between us is just another kind of music—one I refuse to let fade without hearing the whole song.
That’s not the sound of rejection.
That’s how fear spins—like a needle stuck between two grooves.
I can work with fear for now.