“As in the value of my socks has greatly declined due to the fact that half of them have holes in them.” I gesture to the pile on my left. “And the other half don’t have a match.” The sad, single socks sit on my right. An apt metaphor for my life.
Drew assesses the situation before dropping to his knees and doing his damnedest to find a perfect, put-together pair. How sweet and naive he is to think I haven’t scoured. Haven’t hunted. Haven’t prayed to Saint Anthony even though I’m as unreligious as they come. “How did such a deficit come to be?” He’s evidently flummoxed by this, even if my general brand of disorder is commonplace by now. “Did you buy a million single socks or something?”
“Honestly?” I give him my best deadpan. “I blame the candle.”
That gets a laugh out of him. “I’ll be right back.” He edges out of the room slowly. “Don’t cause any more chaos while I’m gone.”
I cross my heart with my pointer finger and wait seconds for him to return from his own bedroom. It’s a sneeze-and-it-shakes small apartment.
“What do you need the dress socks for?” he asks once he’s back, gracing me with a neatly folded pair of navy blues.
I flop way down onto my mattress, which doesn’t have a bed frame (I like it like this, I swear), and slip the socks on, pausing over what to say. Drew and I have a no-lie policy as all the best best-friendships do, but in this case, I have to tread lightly. The last thing I want to do is let Drew, the bestower of blue socks, know that I’m slightly embarrassed and a little miffed over my evening plans. “I’m, uh, meeting someone.”
His expression sours. “I thought we had plans to catch up onDrag Racetonight. This is the second time you’ve canceled this month alone. You didn’t put anything new on our Google calendar…”
It’s funny how so much of my life isoursregarding Drew and me. This isourapartment. What he’s referencing isourjoint online social calendar. These blue socks, for all intents and purposes, are nowours.
A lot ofours,but there is nowe.
“Sorry. It was a last-minute thing,” I say, not meeting his eyes while pretending to be amused by how big his socks are on me. You know what they say about guys with big feet…
“It takes two seconds to update our calendar.”Bigamounts of skepticism.
He’s right on all counts. It would’ve been exceptionally easy to add a blue color block, the same shade as these socks, to the shared calendar that’s meant to make our lives easier by blocking out work shifts (red), nap schedules (purple), nights we may want to bring another person home so the other should make themselves scarce (blue), et cetera, et cetera.
But the truth is, Nolan Baker using the blue is a rarity. Almost unheard of recently. “I have a…date.” I nearly choke on the word.
There is an excruciatingly lengthy silence. “What happened to the wholeI’m not going to date anyone until I’ve become a successful stand-upthing?” he asks with a jagged edge to his voice.
The other truth is, Nolan Baker using the blue is a rarity (almost unheard of) because he’s been in love with Drew Techler for a little over two years. But that’s an admission only someone with a decent pair of matching dress socks is allowed to make. Love is not for those without a bed frame. Or so I’m told.
“That was all before my sister decided to be selfish and go and get herself engaged.” I groan, crawling over to the open closet. I struggle to prepare myself for the onslaught of shoes. Being crushed by Mount Ve-shoe-vius sounds better than having to face Drew about my feelings.
“Ah, yes. Love. The most selfish thing you can give another person.”
I don’t even justify that with a proper response because I can’t. I snort…or grunt…or something else stupid comes out of my mouth while I sort through the wreckage that is my belongings and try not to think about the inconvenient, nebulous love lodged in my stupid heart.
When my sister and her coworker announced their engagement to my whole family and told them Doop was footing the bill for an all-expenses-paid wedding as a marketing stunt, everyone else shrieked with excitement while I dutifully smiled, participated in the toast, and then sprinted to the bathroom to comb through my contacts for a suitable date. Even though the little audience in my brain was chanting:Drew! Drew! Drew!
Ted Grindr was a no-go because of his BO. Bill Tinder was a ghosting situation. Lamar Bumble was a chronic dick-pic sender. My phone was a long list of failed connections and missed opportunities, but I couldn’t give up the search so easily.
Baker family functions, for me, go a little something like this:
Well-Meaning Family Member: “Are you still doing that comedy thing?”
Me: “Yes, Great-Aunt (think of the oldest, crotchetiest name you can think of), I am.”
Well-Meaning Family Member with an Old, Crotchety Name: “That’s nice. Your Uncle (insert creepy, generic name here) showed me one of your videos ontheFacebook.”
Me: “Oh, that was nice of him.”
Well-Meaning Family Member with an Old, Crotchety Name: “Yeah…it wasn’t my cup of tea.”
That’s not even to touch upon the “Isn’t New York City expensive? How do you afford it?” and the “Isn’t New York City dangerous?Do you carry pepper spray?” and, by far my favorite, “Isn’t New York City full ofthegays? Shouldn’t you have a boyfriend by now?”
All that passive-aggressive care is uncomfortable. I need a buffer by my side. Especially for an occasion as lovey-dovey as my sister’s wedding to her well-to-do, Connecticut-bred boyfriend. Without a plus-one, I’m going to stick out like the black sheep who can’t stopbaaaaaaaaah-ing loudly for attention.
“So, you’re dating again because your sister is getting married?” Drew asks, obviously not grasping what I’m getting at.
