“Mom and Dad both worked at the school, so they loved educational stuff like this. You know, hikes at the nature center, story time at the library.” I shrug. “It was nice when I was young. Once I hit my teen years and decided I was a rebel, they let me drop the extracurriculars.” I chuckle as I think back. “Mom even drove me to band practice in my friend’s basement the first year, before I saved up enough to buy a shitty old car.”
“That’s nice,” Spencer says. “And you’re still close?”
“Closer to Mom than to Dad, but yeah. I’m currently bankrolling their life dreams, which means Mom is spending a year in Paris with her best friend Maxine, and Dad’s fishing his way around the world. I have at least a quick phone call with each of them every week or so.”
“You’re a good son,” he says.
“I guess,” I say with a shrug. “I try at least. They always stood by me, and when fame tried to gobble me up, they were steady and supportive. They’re good parents.”
Spencer’s eyes are warm, but I see sadness there, too. I’m self-conscious to talk about how good my parents are when he’s going through it with his dad, and I definitely don’t want to make him uncomfortable when we’re in public.
He must have a similar thought, because he straightens his back and tilts his eyes behind me. “I know the point of this date is to be seen, but still, whenever I think we’re not being photographed for one second, I turn around and see a phone out.”
“This is more attention than I’m used to for sure. For you? Ever experience similar?”
He shakes his head. “Not exactly. My father would get mobbed by fans sometimes. I’d go with him to see baseball, football, whatever, and we’d always get circled as he signed autographs. But that was about him. The fans tended to ignore everyone who wasn’t Douglas Wilchins, me included.” He sighs and lays his hand on my elbow as we start walking forward, acting like a perfect gentleman.
We pause and smile, posing without looking like we’re posing as more phones turn to us.
“I’m used to signing a few autographs at the airport, posing for photos outside a restaurant. But this new level of attention is tiring,” he says.
“It is,” I agree.
He shakes his head as we cross to a large, spiraling walkway. “I try to ignore it,” he says. “It can’t be undone. It is a bit odd that the only thing anyone asks me now is where you are.”
I laugh. “That’s true. I’m so sick of saying Boston over and over to strangers.”
Spencer chuckles. “The last time I pretended to date someone, it was much more relaxed than this.”
I’m glad he’s joking about it. I know Spencer is carrying a lot of pain, too. I’m not sure if riding a motorcycle and laughing at my bad jokes could help somehow, but I’m trying anyway.
Smile, smile. Spencer, smile,I sing in my head.
“Do we need to be less endearing together?” I ask. “People might like us too much. I could stop brushing my hair. You could find a pair of pants that don’t make your ass look like a billion dollars.” I shake my head. “Sorry. Strike that last one. Any pants at all are going to have that problem. Same problem with no pants.”
He laughs as we pass a bunch of small starfish. “My butt and your hair? Are those our best features?”
I push my hand through my hair. “Duh.”
When a twenty-something aquarium worker rounds the corner and recognizes us, he freezes, and his eyes widen.
“We love the fish you have here,” I tell him.
“Uh, thanks?” He tilts his head sideways at Spencer. “You’re like my favorite tennis player,” he says, ignoring me entirely. “Your serve is legendary.”
Spencer’s photo with the worker turns into more photos of us as a couple. A few autographs and some sea lions later, we return to the front of the aquarium, part one of the date nearly complete.
“Ready for a brief surprise interview on the street outside?” I ask, offering my hand.
Spencer takes it. “Mostly the part where you do all the talking.”
“It does tend to go that way, doesn’t it?”
We walk outside, and the last of the daylight is starting to fade. It’s chilly, but not bad, and the sounds of the ocean wash across the city.
“The happy couple,” a man in a blue suit says, stepping toward us. “Do you have a minute for my viewers?” He knows the answer, of course, which is why it’s not rude that his phone is already on us.
“I’m taking my husband around the city,” Spencer says. His arm goes over my shoulder, our winter jackets annoyingly between our bodies. “Showing him my favorite spots.”
