Chapter Nine #3
I’m suddenly aware of the presence of a clerk beside me who is beaming, and apparently heard me announce my purchase plans. I’m sprung from the spell of the bouquet, and I’m trying to dig for my wallet. I can’t figure out how to hold both my sourdough loaf and the floral arrangement while doing so.
“Can you even deliver them to your secret person?” Brad is asking, ever thinking of logical details. “I mean, do you have a way to send flowers?”
My quest to pay is not thwarted by his painful, but truthful, logic. I casually thrust the flowers into Martin’s face and say, “Can you hold these please? I need to get my wallet.”
He freezes. He doesn’t reach for the flowers. He doesn’t blink.
I’m frozen now, too, holding out the bouquet, loaf swinging as I stare at him. We lock eyes and try to communicate, but I can’t read it. He won’t touch the flowers.
Jeannie leaps in, reaching for the bouquet. “I’ll hold them,” she blurts, but before she can grab them Martin snatches them from my hand gracefully and says, “I can hold them for you. I got it.”
Both Jeannie and I stare at him as he seems suddenly transfixed by the bouquet, pulling it to his face to breathe in the fragrance. She and I look at each other briefly before I go digging through my pocket for the cash I need, handing it to the clerk.
When I turn back around, Martin has already started moving down the sidewalk in small steps, enchanted by the flowers in his possession.
I catch up to him, reaching out to retrieve the flowers, which beckons him back from whatever mental voyage he had been taking. “Thanks. I can get them now.”
He smiles at me, following the flowers with his eyes as he places them in my hand. “Those are beautiful,” he says finally.
I couldn’t agree more.
Before I know it, we’re on our way down the sidewalk again, pastries and flowers in tow, each of us smiling in our own way.
The human body, it turns out, can only consume so much bread at one time, so my loaf of sourdough becomes something I carry all day.
The bouquet finds itself in the same situation: still inspiring, still beautiful, but completely undeliverable and needing to be carried, my hand clutching the fragile stems with sweaty perseverance.
Our pastry desires at Oven & Bloem are incredibly realistic when we arrive, so we end up splitting a few danishes and Martin orders several sourdough bread-bowls which he intends to use when he experiments making clam chowder in upcoming days - which I hope to be there to experience when he does.
By the time we reach The Cedar and Fig, none of us are wishing for bread, no matter how tantalizing the smell of naan seems, so we just order dinner and eat instead.
I love Indian food, but I’m a stickler to what I know, whereas Martin always goes crazy and orders something he’s never heard of with the intent of broadening his life experiences.
Today it broadens all of our lives when he lets us try it.
He orders Kosha Mangsho, which is a goat curry with a dark, intense gravy.
It is a deep burgundy like I’ve never seen in Indian food before, and is so intense that I’m glad to be sampling it only.
I’m relieved to be back within the comfort of my butter chicken, but Martin savors every bite, exploring life to the fullest.
I can’t help but admire his sense of adventure and novelty, and for some reason today I can’t stop watching him do it. The way he smiles and thinks and explores and takes it all in. He catches me staring several times, but only responds with a smile and never judgement or wonder.
I’m not so lucky with Jeannie, though. At some point during dinner, I excuse myself to use the restroom and Jeannie follows. She throws her arm around my shoulder, tucks in for a personal conversation and says, “So, Liam. What’s up?”
I don’t slow my pace, but since she’s attached she keeps up. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, Liam…” She whispers, “Why have you been staring at Martin all night? You haven’t looked away from him all during dinner.”
I try to make my face express confusion, but I’m not sure it’s successful. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“What’s going on with you two?” she asks. We arrive at the ante-room outside the two bathrooms which results in a natural freedom from her arm, but we both pause outside our respective doors, waiting for the conversation to resolve. “There’s something you’re not saying.”
Her eyes are sparkling with equal parts concern and enchantment and I have to look away, inspecting the intricate pattern on the rug. “It’s nothing. I don’t know what you’re seeing, but it’s nothing.”
She tilts her head and exhales. “It’s your secret person.”
It’s not a question and the statement quality of her words make me look back at her. “My secret person?”
“Yes, Liam.” She enunciates my name like it’s hard to say, “How does he feel about you having a secret person?”
“This has nothing to do with my secret person! Why would that affect him at all?” I’m trying to keep my voice low in this tiny room outside the restrooms, but the attempt makes my words come out in a hiss.
She doesn’t respond, she just looks at me and stares, I’m not even sure she is blinking anymore. I turn and move slowly toward the bathroom door.
“You should have a conversation with him about it.” She says, and I freeze with my hand on the door. “Have you had a conversation with him about it?” Her eyes demand an answer.
“He’s fine. He… We talk about my secret person.” I’m saying the words, but my mind is trying to find replays of our conversations, trying to find the one where I’ve told him how I’m feeling. “He doesn’t care about it at all.”
Now she’s pointing a finger at me. “You mean you’ve shared with him all of your adventures and what they mean to you? You’ve both talked about this?”
I take offense at her insinuation, but also floored by the truth of it.
My brain flips through every conversation between Martin and me and one thing is clear: I don’t share with him how I feel.
Our conversations about my secret person are shallow and vague and he never encourages me or teases me, or...
It’s almost a non-thing between us. A thing we acknowledge only on a superficial level.
I’m stunned at the realization and have a strong urge to push the bathroom door open and run inside to escape it.
Instead, I create a defense: “Why are you asking this? Why does this matter at all?”
“Liam,” she sighs and steps toward me. “Have you seen the way he was looking at you today? The man is lost in thought about everything you say or do. And you too. Everything he does sends you into another world. Something is up.”
I can’t process this information. My brain refuses, so I don’t try. Instead, I acquiesce quietly. “I will talk to him about it.” I feel my body hang loosely with the words like I’ve accepted defeat, and I fix my gaze on the floor again. “He’s my best friend. We should talk about this.”
I feel her approaching me and I flinch a little when she leans in to kiss me on the cheek, which erases the defeat in my posture. “We just care about you both, is all.” I nod my head as a gesture of thanks, and smile at her a closed-mouth smile. “We just want you both to be okay!”
With a small squeeze on my bicep, she turns and disappears through her bathroom door with a glancing smile back at me.
“We’ll talk about this,” I find myself sighing to the rug.
After dinner and a long retracing of our steps, the sky is starting to darken and we are nearing the Village Bakery where our crawl started and Martin’s car is parked. Brad and Jeannie will follow me back to my place, so we start our goodbyes to Martin as we approach his car in the dwindling light.
“This was fun, guys,” he’s saying and we’re all genuinely agreeing and giving thankful glances to Jeannie for the idea.
Starting our goodbyes, there’s hand-shaking and Jeannie’s hugging and kissing cheeks and warmth all around.
I find myself looking at the bouquet I’ve been carrying all day, their weight in my hand almost unbearable now.
I hold them out to Martin instead of hugging or shaking hands.
“I want you to have these, Martin. Will you please take them home and enjoy them?” He looks at me, but doesn’t reach for them.
“It was silly of me to buy flowers for someone I can’t give them to.
” I look over at Jeannie who has no expression, same for Brad.
“I can’t possibly take them home and have to explain that to myself all night.
Please take them. I want you to have them. ”
I look into his eyes, glistening in the overhead lights.
His hand slowly reaches for the flowers, but his eyes never waver.
Next thing I know, the flowers are in his grasp and he’s smacking me in the back with them as he pulls me in for a tight hug.
It warms my core and I find myself grasping his back muscles with my fingertips.
The sound of bouquet wrapper sliding against my back is immense, the soft brush of tendrils on my neck is electric.
He pulls away slowly and doesn’t look away as he moves toward his car door.
“Thank you, Liam. They are spectacular.”
I hear Brad huff and turn away. The flowers are still a sore spot with him, apparently.
“They’re probably a little sweaty,” I say with a fractured laugh, “from holding them all day.” We smile and chuckle together.
The moment lingers long enough for Brad to be huffing again, signaling the inevitable end of our goodbyes. Jeannie is squeezing his arm for sure. Martin climbs into his car and we’re on our way before we hear him pulling out of the parking lot.
The rest of the walk home is quiet, even free of Brad’s huffing.