20. Bryce
TWENTY
brYCE
It’s been a week since the night at the opera.
A week since Emerson and I, well, tore into each other like ravenous wolves.
The unspoken weight of it hangs in the apartment, lingering for days like the time Marsh cooked fish at his place.
Emerson and I have found this odd rhythm of cohabitating where we don’t talk about that night.
Actually, we don’t talk about much or even look at each other for more than a fleeting moment.
Like maybe if we keep pretending it didn’t happen, it’ll magically resolve itself.
So far, it’s working. Sort of. Or at least it hasn’t combusted into a dramatic scene. Yet.
Sneaking out on Emerson the morning after was not my finest moment.
Okay, I was an immature baby. With time to reflect (and lectures from Portia, Data, and Marsh) I’m starting to unpack why I did it.
If I could afford therapy, it probably would’ve happened a lot faster.
But on my starving artist’s income, the advice of friends will have to suffice.
My self-diagnosis: Every time I let my guard down with a man, he bolts.
Starting with my father, who emotionally abandoned me the minute I showed the smallest sign of being a homo.
Don’t all six-year-olds recreate the entire choreo from Britney’s “Stronger” video (including the iconic chair-ography) in their bedrooms and then ask their folks to watch in the living room? Apparently not.
Every boyfriend I’ve had has up and left. Some, like Anthony, stuck around longer than others, but I’m always the one being bid adieu. “Goodbye, Bryce,” has become the ending I expect.
Something about Emerson, that night out, drinking champagne, watching the opera, the kiss, the trip up the stairs, the way we became unhinged with each other, the way his eyes gleamed with excitement the entire night …
it all made the evening electric. But what’s truly unique?
It’s the way he listens, really listens, as if every word I say matters.
He makes me feel seen and understood in a way I’ve never felt before.
That night, amid the opera’s grandeur, it just felt different. Transcendent even.
And frankly, it scares the shit out of me.
Make that scared . Past tense. In the last week, with all the quiet around the apartment, I’ve done a lot of thinking.
I’ve realized relationships are kind of like learning new choreo.
It feels scary as fuck at first, every new step, twist, turn, dip.
Wondering if my body can keep up with my brain and if my brain can remember the timing and moves.
But, with a little hard work and sweat, I always nail it in the end.
But that first run through—it’s a leap of faith.
Emerson deserves the same chance. And so do I.
I stroll past the bodega on the corner at the end of the block and pause to admire the fresh flowers on display.
The vibrant colors seem to brighten up the street, and the sweet fragrance lingers in the air.
They’re way too expensive, but I can’t help stopping to take in their beauty, their delicate petals, and I imagine someone buying them for a loved one.
Someday I’ll be able to afford little luxuries like flowers—or double-ply toilet paper.
I’ve spent most of the last week rehearsing for the comedy pilot with Preeti.
Honestly, I’m having the best time—dancing with a small troupe of talented, diverse dancers.
Preeti was right, all shapes and sizes are represented.
And yes, there’s a twink. It’s in the Queer Manifesto: There must always be at least one twink.
And Ricardo is the twinkiest twink to ever twink.
But he’s a sweetheart, so I forgive him for his god-given supercharged metabolism.
But most importantly, we’re all getting paid.
Could this be my big shot? To dance out from the background and into the spotlight? To create something? Yeah, I want this. I want it bad.
Kind of like Emerson.
It’s been killing me, not talking to him about it.
He’d have some pragmatic insight about why this thing with Preeti is a good idea, but mostly he’d be smiling with that big goofy grin, his soft beard adjusting with his face as he cheers me on.
Since the moment he barged into my, well, his apartment, he’s been supportive.
Even when he could have forced me out on the street, he didn’t.
He even let Bobo sleep with him when the thunder scared him. Emerson is a good man.
Hold up. Wait a minute.
And then the final slap of reflection hits me.
Emerson. Is. A. Good. Man.
I’m so accustomed to dealing with awful men that when a good one comes along, I don’t even recognize it.
My mind has become so wired to expect disappointment, I don’t know how to appreciate someone who actually treats me well.
Crap, I’ve royally fucked things up with him. I just hope it’s not too late.
The sun sets behind the taller buildings in the distance as I enter the Bigby and climb the stairs.
There’s definitely a few butterflies in my stomach, knowing I’m about to see Emerson, but the ball is in my court.
With a deep breath, I open the apartment’s front door, expecting the usual—Emerson, Bobo, and a general sense of avoidance.
But … no Emerson. No Bobo. The apartment is eerily quiet. Maybe he took Bobo for a walk? That would make sense. He’s be en taking him more frequently lately. Regardless of the tension between the humans in the apartment, those two have fallen into a total bromance.
I walk back to the front door and scope out the hook where Bobo’s leash typically hangs. It’s gone, but there’s a small piece of folded paper with my name on it in its place. A note.
I pick it up, my brow furrowing. My heart skips a little, but I’m mostly confused.
Wash your face.
Um, rude. But also, after a full day of dance rehearsal, I probably should shower.
But the note specifically said only to wash my face.
Hmm. I head to the bathroom, splash water on my face, and when I grab the bar of soap on the vanity, I spot another note right next to the soap dish.
Is this a game? Those butterflies in my stomach are now dancing.
My hands are wet, so I quickly dry them and grab the note.
Put on something nice.
Something nice? A grin appears on my face.
What is he up to? It’s been a long day, and I’m not sure if Emerson is pulling some weird prank on me, but I’ll play along.
The only thing I own that would be classified as nice is the suit I wore to the opera.
But with the adrenaline flowing through me, and wanting to figure out this mystery, I’m not putting a whole damn ass suit on. The jacket will have to suffice.
I rummage through my closet until I find it near the back. It was stashed there after the opera like evidence I didn’t want coming back to haunt me. I put the jacket on over my sweaty shirt and shorts. It’s … a choice, but he’s seen me in worse.
As I check myself in the mirror, I notice something poking out of the front pocket. I don’t own a pocket square, and it’s not fabric … another note. My lips curl into a massive smile as I pull it out.
Grab the wine coolers in the fridge.
Okay, this is too cute. But where the heck is he?
I head to the kitchen, and for all that’s good and mighty, I’m skipping.
Emerson has literally put a skip in my step.
When I open the fridge, right in the front of the top shelf, there’s a four-pack of mixed berry wine coolers with …
another note attached. I grab the drinks and read the note.
Your presence is requested at a private party on the roof.
My heartbeat skips in time with my feet as I turn and head for the hallway.
The roof access is separate from the main stairs, so I go around the corner to the entry and climb the steep incline.
Each step is a little tease about what’s waiting for me.
The night air grows cooler as I ascend, refreshing against the warmth brewing under this silly suit jacket.
The faint sounds of the city below are muffled but alive.
With each step, the excitement swells. I haven’t been up here since last summer when the building hosted a potluck.
I push the door open at the top, and the city unfolds against the backdrop of the setting sun.
It’s beautiful. But then my stomach flips, and my mouth drops open.
What has he done?
Fairy lights are strung up around the entire perimeter, soft and twinkling.
There’s a small table set up with dinner for two.
There are plates of pasta with meatballs, and then I spot the bag on the ground—Luigi’s.
There are flowers on the table. He bought me flowers from the bodega.
A small laugh escapes my mouth, and my heart thumps loudly in my chest. And then I catch sight of Bobo.
He’s sitting next to the table, wearing a bow tie.
Bobo. Wearing a bow tie. My heart melts like butter on warm toast.
This is … honestly, it’s too much.
I stare for a second too long, just trying to take it all in when Emerson steps out from behind a wall, looking like a snack. No, make that a whole buffet, wearing the same fancy suit he wore to the opera.
“Didn’t get the memo about dressing up, huh?” Emerson says.
He wiggles his eyebrows, and I chuckle. Between those brown eyes and that beard, he’s so next-level handsome, even when he’s being goofy.
I glance down at my outfit—a blazer over dance gear—and snort. “Give me a break. I was rushing to find out where the notes led.”
“You should know better. This is a date, Bryce Derrickson. A date date.” A little smug grin appears on his face, and I’m tempted to throw him on the filthy ground and take another ride.
I can’t help but smile. “So, this is what? A rooftop rendezvous with Bobo as the third wheel?”
“Well, he’s becoming my emotional support dog, so …” Emerson shrugs, like this whole thing is perfectly typical.
I glance at the table again, the warm glow of the lights, and then back at him. “You really went all out, huh?”
“Yeah, well,” he says, his voice quieter now, more serious. “I want to talk. No—we need to talk.”
I sense the shift. The air between us changes, and for the first time in days, I’m not just wondering how this situation will play out.
I’m ready to explain myself. Apologize. Lay it all on the table.
Next to the flowers and Italian food. It’s time.
The tension that’s been looming over us has finally come to a head.
I take a breath, steadying myself. Emerson’s right. We need to talk. About everything. What happened … and what’s next. Plus, my dog is wearing a bow tie.
“Where did you get the bow tie?”
“Come, sit. I’ll explain everything.”
Emerson pulls out a chair, and I walk over and take my seat. Warmth spreads through me as our eyes meet. I’m ready for this. For him. For us.