Chapter Fourteen #2
I realize I have no idea what to do with my hands as they just hang there awkwardly.
He reaches down and grabs them, his thumbs sending an electric pulse through the top of each hand, his fingers in my palms. My breath catches.
And then he slowly steps back, eyes on the concrete below us.
I think my eyes are pleading when he looks up, still holding both my hands and he says softly, “Sorry,” then turns to face the stage again, dropping my hands.
Time begins moving at hyper-speed and I need to say something.
I need to express something. I need this moment to never end.
What comes out instead is, “This is a great concert!” I’m defeated, and I can’t look at him.
His hand is right there, nearly brushing mine.
I can grab it and hold on. I can interlock our fingers and smile at him.
I can, but then what? What would happen after that?
I can’t face that moment. I wouldn’t know what to do with it.
So I do nothing. I mean I melt into goo inside, but other than that I do nothing. Moments are too hard to treasure. They are much easier to let slip away.
And this one does.
The music picks up again and we sway with the crowd and smile at each other and truly enjoy the music, but I never really know what to do with the gooey, melty mess I have become inside.
So I smile and sway. And brush my hand against his occasionally and melt some more with each jolt of electricity it brings.
The beat of the concert picks up again, the splotches of revolving light returning, but I’m not sure I’m fully present.
I keep trying to steal glances at Martin, trying to see inside his mind.
I do my best to try to enjoy the rest of the concert and I plant a giant smile on my face, but it doesn’t flourish there.
It isn’t long before we’re celebrating the encore, the blobs of light are the brightest they’ve been and the crowd is most alive.
And then the street lights come back up and we are transported back into the packed street as the crowd dissipates.
It’s the first time I’ve actually had the space to see Martin, and I realize that he’s wearing his western boots, tucked neatly into the jeans that are doing great things for his thighs.
It dislocates my brain in a strange way.
He strides along slowly beside me as we make our way up the street to wherever our vehicles are, somewhere we never actually declare.
“I’m glad I ran into you tonight,” he says, running a hand through his hair.
I watch his hair fall back into place. “Me too.”
He tucks his hands into his jean pockets, only a few knuckles deep, and then takes them out again.
It feels like he’s deep in thought as we make our way down the street and the density of the crowd dissipates, making the sound of his boots on the pavement audible.
“There’s something I was hoping to talk with you about,” he starts, then looks at me briefly.
“Sure. What’s up?” A lump grows in my throat.
“I was wondering if…” he stops and starts again. “Would you be…” He can’t look at me, and then he does and won’t look away.
I suddenly stop walking, turning to him. “What is it?” I search his face for the thoughts he can’t express.
He huffs and laughs a nervous laugh, wiping one palm over his mouth and down his chin. “I just wanted to…” He stops again mid-sentence. He’s searching for something in my expression, and I can only hope it’s there. “I really…” he huffs again, turning away, brushing a hand through his hair again.
We both stand there, avoiding eye contact mostly, as stragglers make their way past us in groups, some clinging together laughing.
Suddenly there’s a commotion behind me and I hear my name. I turn to see two people catching up to us, one of them waving a one-arm wave, saying my name: “Liam!”
“Matthew?” I find myself asking until their growing proximity answers. “Matthew!” I declare, “and…” I can’t remember the name of his companion, but it’s one of the engineers from the bar the other night.
“Max,” The man says, throwing a hand out to shake.
“Hey Max,” I say, taking his hand. Then there’s handshakes all around.
“This is my friend, Martin,” I tell them, and for some reason the word stings a little, but I keep smiling and shaking.
“Nice to know you,” Martin says, with a smile that makes me wonder if it’s as pasted on as mine, or even for the same reason.
“Did you see the concert?” Matthew is beaming, smacking a buddy palm on Max’s shoulder, who braces himself and smiles. “Max and I just came from The Center. It was great.”
“We did,” Martin begins to say. “James Durn is great. He comes here every year.”
“He is,” I say. “He does.”
A moment of awkward silence passes before Matthew says, “Well, we better head out. It was good to see you, Liam.” He nods at Martin who nods back.
“Maybe we’ll see you around.” Max says, then turns to Martin, “It was nice to meet you, Martin.”
The two of them head off down the street.
Martin and I turn, and follow at a slower pace. The silence between us feels wrong, but I can’t figure out what to say, so it continues.
“That’s Matthew?” Martin asks softly.
I nod a sideways nod at him.
“That’s the first time I’ve seen him wearing clothes,” Martin says, a Cheshire grin exploding across his face, his teeth glowing.
I snort a belly laugh and shove my shoulder against his. “Yeah.”
“It works for him, the clothes.”
I suddenly can’t stop laughing, shaking my head. “Until there’s a fountain nearby.”
We laugh our way down the street, and I let the laughter settle into all the empty spaces.
“We should meet.”
That’s what the latest message from my secret person says.
There’s actually more to the message, but my brain doesn’t move past the first three words.
My insides are hurricaning. I knew this day was coming.
Eventually. Some day. One side of my brain keeps channeling Martin’s Japanese words.
Treasure the moment. It won’t happen again.
The other side of my brain cowers. What if I mess it all up?
What if this only works in secret. With distance and mystery.
I can follow adventures with my secret guy, but how will we do at things like “where do you want to eat?” or “How was your day?” kinds of things. I’m spiraling.
I do read the rest of the message and it’s perfectly on-point from him. It says, “You pick the place and time. I’ll make the arrangements.”
I’m never trapped. It’s always my choice to feel comfortable with this guy. Which makes me wonder why, ironically, I’m feeling uncomfortable. Why can’t we just leave things the way they are? Can’t I just keep my secret guy a secret guy? Why does everything always have to have a next phase?
I know that’s silly, so I change my line of thought. I’m not sure what to do, and I understand how the absence of a reply seems. So I seize the moment and text, “Let me think about this. I’ll get back to you,” and send.
I feel good about what I’ve done. I feel like we’re communicating even if I might be panicking inside a little. Mostly, I know when I say “think about it,” I actually mean “talk to Martin about it,” so that’s top priority.
On Saturday night, Martin invites me over to his place to watch the game and hang out.
He’s a soccer fan, which I can watch or not, but I’m always a fan of eating good food and hanging out, so I’m here.
We’re sitting on his living room sofa multitasking.
The game is on, we’re chatting about basically nothing in-between Martin’s comments to the screen, and we’ve both got our phones in our hands, scrolling. I decide to bring it up.
“He wants to meet,” I say, “My guy. He asked me to pick a place and a time and we can meet.”
Martin looks up from his phone. “He wants you to meet?”
I just stare at him for a minute, blinking. “He thinks it’s time for us to actually meet. In person.”
Martin’s got his right arm stretched out on the brown leather arm of the sofa holding his phone, his feet on the redwood coffee table, but his posture changes with the news.
He sits up straighter, sliding back into the cushions, dropping both feet to the floor.
His tone changes too. He’s suddenly serious.
“How do you feel about that?” he asks, eyes scanning my face.
I know he’s looking for something my words can’t articulate. I think he sees it. He looks away.
“I want to,” I say. “I want to meet him, but I’m also terrified. I have a million questions: What will we talk about? What if we don’t like doing things together, only separately? What if I don’t actually like guys and I’m just leading him along terribly? What if…” I trail off.
Martin’s eyes move from the floor to my face. I see the soccer game flicker in the dark of his irises. He says nothing.
I say nothing. Weeks ago I was looking for some secret woman-of-my-dreams at every coffee house and bookstore and train station, and here I am deciding to meet my secret guy.
It’s all so overwhelming. What’s most overwhelming, is that I can’t stop thinking about Martin.
About the warmth of his body against mine, the flex of his muscles when we hug, that one brush of his eyelashes against my cheek.
These are all things that I can’t get out of my head, but could be the death of our friendship if he doesn’t think the same.
Which, I’m sure he doesn’t because he’s said nothing. Even in an eye-lock.
Then again, neither have I.
I say none of this. Instead I say, “I’m worried that if I meet this guy I’m going to mess it all up.” My body sags into the sofa. An advertisement must be on the screen because the colors of the room turn a pale purple. Martin’s eyes swim as the light shifts.
“I’m sure you and he can work things out. I mean, won’t it be like you’re just getting to know each other, so you can start there. Right?” There is a deep, contemplative hum to his voice.