“Do we even know if he’s into dudes?” asks Georgie, seamlessly resuming her role as my mildly disappointed therapist. “I thought you said he was straight?”
“I didn’t say he was straight. Nor did he. He said he likes girls. And honestly, who can blame him for that? Women are hot.” Tank and Georgie nod in quiet agreement. “But liking them doesn’t automatically mean you’re not into guys.”
A slight crease between Tank’s brows lets me know I’ve lost him. “Bud,” he says sympathetically.
“Dude,” says Georgie. “Do we need to give you the talk about straight guys?”
I sigh and let my head drop against the back of the sofa. “Look, I know it sounds a bit crazy, but there’s something between us. I feel it, and I’m pretty sure he does too. It’s just… It’s just…my heart beats differently when I’m with him.”
Tank’s and Georgie’s eyes grow wide. They attempt to look serious for two seconds, but cracks start showing quickly. Tank caves first, Georgie follows suit quickly.
“Oh shit,” says Georgie, “he’s gone insane. Tank, grab the blood pressure cuff.”
Tank grabs it off the side table and moves toward me with it. As he does, Georgie jumps to her feet and cages my head in her hands.
“I’m fine,” I insist, laughing. “I swear, I’m fine.” Tank wrangles the cuff and attempts to wrap it around my head. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Well,” he says, trying to sound serious, “if you’re insane, the problem is in your head, not your heart, isn’t it?”
The cuff is too short to go all the way around my head, so the two of them combine their efforts to get it as close to closing as possible. I struggle as Tank hits start. The device hisses and starts beeping an error message. Not dissuaded, the two of them keep it clamped around my head as we fall in a heap, convulsing with laughter. It’s ridiculous and childish and so damn stupid it wouldn’t be funny at all if we tried explaining it to anyone else.
It’s also everything.
It’s friendship.
It’s life.
It’s a collection of small things and shared history that don’t matter on their own, but when combined, they’re what make life worth living.
We stop laughing one by one, hiccuping and catching our breath, and then look at each other in turn. Tank’s eyes are wet from how hard he laughed, and Georgie’s face has gone bright pink.
There’s a pause that often happens when laughter dies, a startled silence that changes the mood and makes it serious.
“These are the moments,” says Georgie, curling herself into a ball on my lap and tucking herself against my chest. As she does it, Tank drops the cuff and his long, heavy arms wrap around both of us. An invisible cord wraps around us. Around and around, and then it tightens. “These are the moments we thought we’d miss.”
“These are the moments that matter,” says Tank, his voice thick with emotion. He’s a beast. A big man, and one of the sweetest people I’ve ever met.
They’re right. These are the moments. This is life. This is what I thought I wouldn’t get to experience. The only thing that matters more than being here to experience them isexperiencingthem. Slowing down. Stopping to notice they’re happening. And appreciating them with all my heart.
I hold on to my friends and close my eyes, letting the moment run through me.
“Con,” says Georgie from under a pile of limbs and muscle. “If you think we’re going to try and talk you out of something that could make you happy, you have us confused with your other best friends.”
“Yeah, Con,” says Tank. “Go get your man. We’ve got you. If it doesn’t work out, Georgie and I will pick up the pieces, but until then, we’ll cheer you on.”
I don’t reply when Tank says it because, like I said, this thing between Lennon and me is fragile and new. I know we’re nowhere near me going to “get my man,” or, at least, Lennon isn’t there yet. He isn’t ready to be pursued. He’s in pain. He’s locked inside himself, and he’s lonely and afraid there.
Now and then, I see glimmers that I read as signs he wants to be saved. That he’s ready.
I don’t know. Maybe that’s just wishful thinking.
I’ve gleaned enough from subtle hints and indirect comments to know that unrequited feelings on Havi’s part were at the crux of their big blowout. I sense that the sexual attention Havi gave Lennon was unwelcome. When he told me about it, he didn’t say much, talking around the issue instead of about it. He looked tired, and more than that, he’d seemed deeply uncomfortable. The sinews in his neck had pulled and his fists clenched.
Most days, I wish I’d asked him more about the fight. At the time, I was so pleased he was opening up that I didn’t want to push in case it made him clam up. Now, I wish I knew what Havi did to start it, and how Lennon’s reaction drove a seemingly unfixable wedge between them.
I wish I had asked, if for no other reason than to make sure that I don’t ever do anything to make his body tense like that.
I think about him all the time. I can’t stop, and I don’t want to. At night, when dreams of dying wake me, I review small interactions between us over and over.
