Despite my intimidating exterior—made even more intimidating with Reuben’s burgeoning tattoo skills—my true passion had always been writing.
I wrote all kinds of things that I shared across a number of online forums, but young adult fantasy-slash-science fiction novellas were my jam. By the time I was seventeen I had a preferred forum, an established pen name, and a small but rabid following.
Then, just before my eighteenth birthday, my favorite Star Trek actor and long-time crush reposted one of my stories, and it went viral. The rest of the stories, written in the same world, soon followed.
With people clamoring for more, I’d taught myself to self-publish and my brother did the artwork for my first cover. I’d saved every penny so I could have a nice place for Reuben once he aged out of the system, and by the third book in the series, I had enough to put a down payment on a starter house.
Twenty years after I’d anxiously posted my first story on a free forum, I still couldn’t believe that the imaginary people in my head had saved us from certain poverty. I now lived in one of the big historical homes in Georgetown’s historical district, just a few blocks off the main square.
Reuben, now a full-time tattoo artist, still lived in our starter home with his girlfriend and three pit bulls. He’d begun therapy a few years ago to work through the mess of our childhood and, after sticking with it for a while, encouraged me to do the same.
I’d considered it for years but had been too chicken to try it on my own. I’d wanted to give up after the first couple of failed attempts to find a therapist I vibed with. With Reuben’s encouragement, though, I found Jackson. Unlike those saccharine therapists with their clear boundaries and clinicallysalient topics, Jackson was a friendly sort of asshole who cursed frequently, gossiped like a social media influencer, and was quick to let me know when I’d gotten my head stuck up my own ass.
I liked him a lot.
Jackson was the one who insisted I put myself out there on dating apps. It turned out you weren't supposed to spend weeks on end in the four walls of your own home. He said something about needing to go outside and touch the grass and feel the sun on my face.
I supposed he had a point.
Anyway, I hoped Alfie was okay with my size. We didn't discuss it, but I’d added full body shots on my profile, so he knew I was a bigger guy. He was also long-limbed, but kind of soft. I liked soft.
Either way, I was managing my expectations. I'd learned the hard way that people who were witty in instant messages were often shy or even antisocial in real life.
It’s me. I’m people.
Something told me, though, that Alfie wouldn't let the conversation go stale. I pulled on my jeans and motorcycle boots, then decided on the royal-blue button-down that brought out my eyes.
Sure, it was a little fancy for a quick coffee date, but I wanted to impress him.
I brushed and trimmed my beard, then finger-combed my unruly hair. I was well into my thirties, and it was starting to get a bit gray and silver in spots. Given my background, I wasn't always convinced that I'd live long enough to have silver in my hair, and it was a reminder of just how far my brother and I had come.
My eye landed on the bedside table as I gave myself a light spritz of cologne. Hah. I'd forgotten about the Star Trekcommunicator my brother gave me last year as a gag birthday gift. I pinned it to my button-down and looked in the mirror.
God, I looked like I was trying too hard.
I walked back to the closet and shoved things around until I found...oh, what did we have here?
A plain red T-shirt.
I put it on, liking how it emphasized my chest and arms. Bonus, Alfie’s profile said he loved tattoos, and there was no missing my ink in this.
Trying not to overthink it, I pinned the communicator on my shirt and walked out the door. Five minutes and two blocks later, I arrived at Addiction, my favorite coffee shop. Early, of course. My phone buzzed in my pocket.
Alfie: I'm a dork. I'm already here. I hope you didn't mind that I got us a table outside. They've got a misting system that keeps things cool.
I darted a look outside and immediately saw his black, corkscrew hair and his hunched cell phone posture. I set my fingers to typing out a pithy response.
Me: Then I'm a dork too. I just walked up. Outside is great—my therapist says I'm supposed to see the sun every once in a while, but what does that asshole know?
Alfie: Therapy? How very modern man of you. I approve.
I approached, and he grinned as he typed out another response. God, he was fucking adorable. His hair was trimmed tight to the sides and back with longer curls on top, and he waswearing ripped black jeans with flip-flops and a T-shirt featuring Benjamin Sisko on the front. His arms were kinda skinny and in his seated position, I spied—fuck, yes—a bit of pudge around the middle.
I stood right beside him as he hit Send, laughing to himself. I did a quick check, and it was a GIF of Napoleon dynamite.
"I was always Team Pablo," I said, grinning down at him.
He startled and dropped his phone in his lap, then looked up...and up.
