“It’s a date,” I answer with a laugh.
Davis walks me to my bicycle, and after a quick hug, we part ways. It does feel good to have someone like him express interest in me, and on the short ride back to the library, I scold myself to open up and give him a chance.
Sure, I kissed Rafael, but that doesn’t change my relationship with my best friend. He’s been acting appropriately weird since it happened, anyway, and probably regrets the whole thing, considering I got so carried away, crawling up on him like a horny teenager.
I tell myself all of that because it’s probably true, but also because I need something to hold onto, to root me in reality.
That kiss was exactly as perfect as I’d always hoped. It was gentle and then harder. It was a fantasy that slipped into reality, electrifying the air, and then it was over.
I’m not sated at all. I’m just desperate for more, pining even worse than I used to. That’s the worst part, and that’s why I need to snap the hell out of this and get over Rafael. Davis offers me the chance to try for something, and I’m going to screw it up because I’m so pathetic. I can’t get over one fake kiss.
Luckily, work is busy enough to distract me. There are two researchers there to access the archives in person, and since the publications they both want are rare, old pamphlets and photographs, it takes some extra time to handle everything. I busy myself after at the computer, tracking photographic records down, then scan some letters, excerpts from the correspondences between the directors of a couple of gay health organizations in the 1980s, which I forward to an academic in Peru.
It deeply satisfies me to help other people navigate the fussy old archives. Queer history is fascinating, so spending all my time helping other queer history nerds is basically a dream come true. But not even the pleasure of tracking files down in the archives is enough to totally distract me from my problems.
Namely, the problem where I can’t stop thinking about the sound Rafael made when we kissed. It was so close to a groan, but not quite.
I get home a little late and find him watering the house plants in the living room. He’s got his earbuds in, and he’s dancing around and singing along to something, but I can’t tell what the song is because he’s not actually saying words, just kind of humming noises with his sweet voice.
After a couple failed attempts to say his name, I reach out to tap Rafael’s shoulder, and he jumps. “Oh my god, Alexander. You gave me a heart attack,” he laughs.
Our eyes latch, and time seems to freeze, like right before we kissed. There’s a smile of surprise on his face, and we’re both looking to each other with expectation. But then Rafael reaches out and hugs me, and the moment breaks when he turns back to water the English Ivy that spills its little green leaves down the bookshelf.
“Why do you have earbuds in?”
“I didn’t want to wake Madame President with the speakers.”
I glance over and see her, curled up in a fluffy gray ball on the couch, snoozing. “Of course.”
He sets the bronze watering can down and tilts his head at me. Rafael has the Fiona Apple T-shirt on again, and I realize that was what he was singing, his moody humming making much more sense. “Hey,” he says, “how was coffee?”
“I don’t even get a minute before you grill me?” I laugh.
Rafael crosses his arms over his chest. He catches my eye, and for some reason, that makes both of us laugh.
“What?” I say, looking away. “I mean, it was fine.”
He goes to sit on the couch, and I join him. The inherent awkwardness of talking about stuff like this with the guy who I secretly love, that is something I’ve gotten used to. But the added weirdness that comes from having just kissed him makes me squirm.
“Fine as in you’ll see him again?” he asks.
I pull one leg up and mutter something like a yeah. “How was your second-to-last day at the coffee shop?” I ask louder, a desperate ploy.
Rafael laughs. “You really don’t want to talk about it?” I guess he sees how wiggly I am because he rubs my knee, which is simultaneously calming and exciting. “Okay. I’ll make us tea and then tell you what I’m learning about tattooing. Sound good?”
The wave of relief I get from him letting it go is something else. My biggest fear is that I’ll let my feelings screw up our friendship somehow. I’m grateful that even when I’m spinning around in my head, now like always, he’s chill and gives me my space.
By the time we’re drinking tea and Rafael is filling me in on the left turn his career has taken, I’m settling into our friendship again, like crawling into a warm bed.
“You’re really going to be a tattoo artist,” I say, smiling at him. “That’s amazing.”
“I need to figure out how to be on time. How to keep organized, all of that.”
I nod. I’ve tried to organize him a few times, never successfully, and I kind of just accepted that he wasn’t going to get himself together in that way. I don’t want to doubt him, though. Rafael never judges me, or anyone for that matter, and I figure he deserves the same acceptance and encouragement.
Sure, I sometimes can’t resist secretly scheduling his dentist appointments for him, but I don’t want him to feel bad about any of it.
I drum my fingers across my lips. “If I beg, will you let me buy you a day planner?”
