Come Out with Your Hearts Up

Chapter One Welp

I guess the person I have to thank for what happened is whoever owned the construction company that was pile-driving the ground outside my lab building that day.

They’d been doing work for about a week, but I’d been able to tune it out, thanks to my noise-canceling headphones.

That day, though? Was worse than just noise.

The whole building was vibrating. Books were falling off shelves, cupboard doors were popping open, and every filling in my mouth was buzzing.

I tried to tough it out, but it was almost impossible to focus.

By the afternoon, my coworker Trish was done.

“It’s like Godzilla tap dancing out there!” she yelled.

“Godzilla’s got no musicality then,” I said.

She didn’t laugh. Nobody got my dance jokes. Which was why I didn’t make too many of them at work.

“I’ve had it!” she said, and she jumped out of her chair. “I’m not working here another second!”

And she marched off to the admin’s office, apparently. Ten minutes later, she was back with one of the office laptops she’d signed out for the day.

“We’re going to work at my place.”

When Trish made up her mind, you didn’t argue.

Not that I wanted to argue with her. She was pretty cute, and hanging out at her place sounded like a nice way to spend the afternoon.

I wasn’t planning to make a move or anything.

She had a boyfriend. Which I knew, because she talked about him constantly.

But I’d been single for nine months, and it was kind of getting to me, and I could use the ego boost of being flirted with by someone who seemed to like me.

Trish lived in the Annex, which was walking distance from the lab.

She had a decent-sized place, too. We set up our stacks of data sheets and the laptop on the coffee table in her living room.

I read out the numbers, and she checked that they’d been entered correctly.

When we got bored, we’d switch jobs. Sometimes, Trish would get bored, and we’d talk.

I hadn’t paid much attention to what Trish had told me about her boyfriend because I was never gonna meet the guy, and I was interested in her, not him. I knew he’d acted in some indie films, but that was about all that had registered. I didn’t even remember his name.

And then, well, I met him.

He came in as we were finishing up. I didn’t look up, because I was busy putting the worksheets in order, so my first impression of him was from the corner of my eye. He wasn’t as big as I thought he’d be. He was about the same size as me.

I put on my best I-totally-haven’t-been-flirting-with-your-girlfriend-all-afternoon face and shook his hand. “I hear you’re an actor.”

“Sometimes,” he said.

“No shit. I’m sometimes a musician.”

“Yeah? What instrument?”

“Keyboards. Do you play?”

“My ex-boyfriend used to,” he said.

He said it casually, like coming out to a stranger was no big deal.

That was when I really noticed him, even though I’d been looking at him the whole time.

He was sprawled crookedly in his chair, relaxed and cool, wearing a shirt that might have been black fifty washes ago.

And ripped jeans. Not fashionably ripped—just worn.

And everything inside me clicked, the way my brain lit up when I heard a song in 4|4 time—instant recognition. Even though we’d never met before.

“What’s your band called?” he said.

“Undeclared Mustard.”

“Of course it is,” he said.

He deadpanned so perfectly I laughed, and then he laughed, and we were like old friends sharing an in-joke. And I thought, Who is this guy?

Trish invited me to stay for dinner. She ordered pizza. I spent most of the evening talking to him. I didn’t remember what we talked about. We laughed a lot, and we really seemed to click.

Then suddenly, it was late, and I had to go home, and I realized I’d never see him again, so I asked them to come to this club called Deep Ice the next evening. I wasn’t a club guy, but what was I supposed to do? I had to see him again.

Walking to the subway station later, I was bouncing because he’d said yes. Okay, they both did. But, whatever.

I barely slept. I spent most of the night tossing and turning, feeling like I was trying to solve an impossible equation. One that only he had the answer to.

Next morning, I had to go to work. The construction guys had left, so there was no excuse to go to Trish’s place.

I was so tired and also excited for our night out I could hardly focus.

I tried to remember everything Trish had ever told me about him, which wasn’t much because back when she’d told me, I hadn’t cared about her boyfriend.

Boy, did I care now. I spent the day trying to get Trish to talk about him without being too obvious that was what I was doing.

Then I went home and stood in front of my bedroom mirror trying to figure out what to wear. Like I was going on a date. I knew I wasn’t, but it felt that way.

He’d been wearing a black T-shirt when I met him.

Figuring he liked black, I put on my black pants and long-sleeve shirt.

Then I shaved again and spent fifteen minutes getting my hair to sit right.

After that, no way was I wearing a hat. Or a coat.

After all, it was Toronto February, not Timmins February. And maybe I was hoping to impress him.

I surveyed myself in the mirror. My nose tipped up at the end.

My sister called it a “girlie nose.” My last girlfriend, who was into jocks, told me it looked like the nose of some pro tennis player I’d never heard of.

I didn’t know if she meant it as a compliment, and I didn’t ask.

She dumped me for a guy on the varsity basketball team. He had a straight nose, so, whatever.

My phone rang. Thinking it was him, even though I hadn’t given him my number, I pounced on it.

It wasn’t him. It was my best friend, Bexley.

“Wanna come over?” he said.

“Can’t. I’m going to a club tonight with someone from work.”

“Who?”

“Trish.”

“Doesn’t she have a boyfriend?” Bex remembered everything I told him, which was usually handy but sometimes, like now, really awkward.

“He’s coming too.”

“Huh,” said Bexley, and he let that sit for a beat. “Just. Be careful, man.”

Which was good advice, even though he didn’t know why.

Before I left, I looked in the mirror again, the way I used to when I’d psyche myself up before a dance competition.

Don’t fuck this up, Porter.