“All right.” He turned to go, and I grabbed his arm. He didn’t flinch or pull away, just paused and glanced back at me. For one terrifying moment, I thought this might be the last glimpse I’d have of him, of him walking away from me.
“Please, don’t stand me up.” I didn’t think I’d survive it.
I saw a flicker of something in his eyes—sorrow—when he said, “I wouldn’t.”
I went home after that and tried to sleep, but I couldn’t, so I got up and went for a run, then took another shower. It took me forever picking out something to wear. I wanted to look nice, but I didn’t want to overdress and make him think this was a date or something, not that I would mind it. I just had no idea what he was thinking or how he felt. I felt like I was groping for him in the dark, unsure that we were even in the same room.
The blind painter.
I arrived at Daniela’s early and ordered him a pastelito and café con leche, then worried that he might think it presumptuous of me to order for him. Or maybe he didn’t like his coffee that way anymore. I was on the verge of a panic attack when he finally arrived.
He looked casual and cool, wearing jeans and a T-shirt. My Andre, model beautiful without even trying. His hair, which had been covered by the bandana, was woven into tight braids, drawing more attention to the angles in his face. I rose and hugged him. I couldn’t stop myself. He hugged me back, and I didn’t want to let go.
We sat down and I spent, like, five minutes explaining that I didn’t mean to presume to know what he wanted when I’d ordered, I’d just gotten there first, and it was a habit of mine. He stopped me before my blubbering got too out of hand.
“It’s cool, Martin. Thanks.” He picked up the pastry and took a big bite as if to prove it. But the way he addressed me felt so formal. There was no teasing or flirtation in his voice. Everything about him—his tone, the angle of his body, the way he sat back instead of leaned forward. He was keeping his distance.
“I was wrong,” I said, launching into my apology right away. “About you and Fang—I mean, Roger. I shouldn’t have assumed anything or said the things I did. I was mean and stupid and I wish I could take back that whole night.” I didn’t talk about Simone or Melissa or the revelation that I’d killed him in a past life in a jealous rage. I didn’t want to scare him off, or overwhelm him. Besides, none of that mattered as much as the fact that I’d made a huge mistake and I needed to atone for it.
“I was wrong too,” he said. “After I left I imagined it from your perspective, how I’d have felt. And I get it. I was sneaking around, even if it wasn’t what you thought. That’s how I survived living with my dad. I guess I just couldn’t get it out of my system.”
That made me feel even worse. But then, why did he stay away? “Why didn’t you come back? That night or even the next day?” At any point he could have come back to me.
He glanced out the window at the people walking by on the street. “I don’t know.”
“Did you think I would hurt you?” Maybe some part of him remembered what I did to him before.
“You did hurt me, Martin. You followed me. And called me a liar, made me out to be Roger’s fuck boy. You threw me out.”
“I was mad at you, but I didn’t want you to leave.”
He rubbed his forehead like he had a headache.
“Why didn’t you call or text? Something.”
He stared at me like the answer was obvious. Maybe it was to him.
“You don’t want to tell me,” I said.
He brought up his hands like he was holding a ball. “It’s like eating a filet mignon, or like, the best meal of your life, then waking up to powdered mac and cheese, knowing you’re never going to see another steak like that again. Makes you think, maybe you should’ve never had that filet mignon in the first place. Then at least you wouldn’t know what you were missing.”
I considered the implications of what he said carefully before responding. “I think that while you may miss that particular filet mignon, you would still have the chance to experience other gourmet meals, like lobster or pork tenderloin, or a really delicious chocolate mousse. And if macaroni and cheese isn’t what you’re looking for, then you shouldn’t settle for it. Because you deserve more, maybe even more than that filet mignon.”
He sat back and studied me, his hands on the edge of the table, and then he folded into himself with his head in his hands.
“Why do you say shit like that, Martin? It just wrecks me.”
I reached out and laid my hand on his shoulder. “Because I believe it, Andre. When you were mine, I woke up every morning thinking how lucky I was to have you and every night I prayed that you wouldn’t decide you’d had enough of me. It made me crazy, though. Crazy enough to invent scenarios where you did leave me, because I didn’t feel like I was good enough for you.”
“You were,” he said simply. “You were better than good.”
“Then why did you leave me?”
He was silent for a long moment. I searched his eyes, saw the uncertainty and knew there was something else he wasn’t telling me.
“You can tell me, Andre. Whatever it is.”
He took a deep breath, then said, “I’ve been with other guys since you.”
