I’ve become an expert on my would-be boyfriend. I log every time he texts me, and when I hit a wall in my research, I go back to his text thread. I try to analyze the words he writes. Are any of them full of hidden meaning? Has he dropped any hints that I missed the first time around? Scrolling back through the blue and green text bubbles, I reminisce.
In the beginning, our texts were hesitant. We were each trying to impress the other. The more recent ones are much more elaborate, with entire paragraphs describing our feelings and our memories. I can tell that he stays up until one or two in the morning sometimes, and that he wakes up early as well. This means he’s probably not sleeping very much. I’m not sure whether that’s good or bad, or if it has any significance at all.
I usually wake up around eight-thirty because I’m not a morning person. If I have to be in the office by nine, that gives me half an hour to wake up, get dressed, drink some coffee, and drive. I’m always a few minutes late, but no one has ever said anything.
When I arrive at work, I decide to reach out to Frankie. I’m getting nowhere with my research, so I have time on my hands. Mario is waiting for me to deploy him on another assignment, but so far, there’s nowhere else I want him to go. And Mr. Harlan is still waiting for that article, and I only have a few days left to put something on his desk.
I stare at my screen for a few moments, composing a text in my head. Finally, I type, trying to make the question relaxed rather than pushy.
Me: Do you want to meet at the library?
There’s no reply for almost an hour. I’ve almost forgotten about the invitation when my phone buzzes.
Frankie: Sorry. Got caught up in something. Are you at the library yet?
Me: Not yet.
Frankie: Meet you there in two hours?
Me: Sounds good.
I have two hours now to finish up my work, but since it isn’t going so well, I decide to go home early. I change into something I hope will impress Frankie. It’s a little more formal than what I usually wear. I have to remember that we’re going to the library. That means we might study together or do something else equally unromantic. But the thought of seeing him again fills me with joy. I’m skating dangerously close to something like love, and it should frighten me. But instead, all I’m feeling is a sense of satisfaction and anticipation of the night to come.
I waste an hour and a half going over my notes and getting ready for my date. I need to come up with something to do if we aregoing to work at the library. I decide to double down on what Frankie thinks is genealogical research. I pull up a few articles about previous mayors and print them out so that I can show him. It’s a simple distraction that will allow me to pull the wool over Frankie’s eyes.
I feel a little guilty about that, but only slightly. There’s no way in the world I can be honest with him, so this small lie seems inconsequential. I get into my car with my laptop in a carrying case. Driving to the library, I rehearse my story in my head. Instead of working on an article about his family, I’ll tell him I made little to no progress on my city history project. I’ll deflect any direct questions and make the whole evening about Frankie. Who knows, maybe I’ll even get some intel out of the arrangement.
I park on the street and walk up to the library. I’m expecting to find him studying inside, but he’s waiting for me on the steps. He takes me in his arms and kisses me before I can even say hello. I’m astonished. He’s never been affectionate in public before. I wonder if something’s changed.
“You’re in a good mood,” I say, when he finally lets me go.
“I had a good day,” he remarks.
“What was so good about it?” I ask, linking my fingers together behind his neck. I’m gazing up into his eyes, astonished by the joy within them. He’s really and truly happy, something that I don’t know if I’ve ever witnessed before.
“I don’t know,” he responds. “Just seeing you makes everything better.”
I put my head against his chest and hold him tight. That isn’t an answer to any of my questions, and it doesn’t give me anyinsight into his daily activities. But that doesn’t really matter. He’s happy to see me, and I’m happy to see him. Whatever else is going on in our lives can’t hold a candle to that.
“What do you say we skip the library and go for dinner?” Frankie suggests.
“Sure,” I agree. “I actually did a lot of my work already.”
“You spent the day working?” He guesses.
“Pretty much,” I respond. “Although I spent a few hours getting ready for our date.”
“A few hours?” he gasps, looping one arm around my shoulders and leading me away from the library steps.
I link my arm around his waist, and we walk down the street, officially a couple. If anyone sees us now, there’s no mistaking what’s going through our brains. I don’t even look like an undercover journalist anymore. I’m wearing nice clothes and practically hugging my mark as we walk and talk. I hope Mario isn’t around somewhere taking pictures. Mr. Harlan would yank me from the story faster than a lightning strike if he found out.
“There’s a tiny little restaurant just around the block,” Frankie says.
“How is it you know so much about restaurants in this city?” I ask.
He shrugs. “I’ve been busy.”
“Busy eating?” I tease.
