Martin shifts in his seat, realigning his seat belt, seeming taller. He props his elbow on the window ledge, and faces me fully. I can’t read his expression, but it feels oddly like... excitement. I feel like he’s studying me. Neither of us speak.
The left blinker clicks louder than I’ve ever noticed before, the orange arrow flashing in the dash.
“That makes sense,” he says calmly at last, not turning away. I really want him to say something more. Something to help me know what he’s thinking, but he doesn’t.
Actually, I don’t know what I’m wishing for.
We drive for a long while without speaking, and then I hear him start: “Do you…” then he stops himself. I glance at him, I still can’t decipher his expression, and then back to the road. He starts again, “Are you…” Then he starts to laugh nervously, looking at me. I try to match his laugh, mostly as a courtesy. “I don’t know what I’m trying to say.”
“It’s okay,” I tell him, exhaling slowly.
But it’s not okay, because I know what he wants to say:You don’t need to categorize or label your life, so just go with it. Let it be what it is.But he doesn’t say that. I’ve heard him tell me a million times, so why doesn’t he say it? What is he thinking? His silence is searing. I force myself to breathe.
We drive the rest of the way to his apartment without talking. Words keep spinning around my brain, but they just won’t land. The passing world seems extra blurry through the windows. Martin doesn’t move.
When we arrive at his apartment, I pull into a spot, flip the shifter into park, and realize I may not have been breathing for a while. Martin seems to understand, too, that we need to sit here for a bit. The silence holds us.
“Can I ask you a question?” I venture quietly. He looks at me and nods slightly, eyes widening. “Why don’t you and I ever talk about relationships? I don’t even know what kind of person you’re into.”
He blinks slowly, and I feel like I’ve crossed a line we’ve silently promised to never cross. I panic inside momentarily.
“You’re right, Liam,” he says. “We don’t talk about relationships. That never occurred to me. Why don’t we?”
“I feel like I can talk to you about anything, so maybe I should.”
He smiles, but looks away.
“I think I’m really bad at relationships,” I say. “Maybe that’s why. Maybe I’m just thinking that it’ll never happen. Maybe I’m so blinded by what I think a relationship should look like that I can’t see it for what it really is. Like, when you’re looking for something red in the refrigerator, but can’t find it, even though it’s right in front of your face, because it was blue all along.” I laugh a little at my stupid analogy.
Martin laughs too, and our eyes make brief contact.
“I don’t think that makes you bad at it,” he says. He attempts to start a sentence several times before landing on one: “Maybe you and I just are too busy looking for the wrong thing. Maybe we’re just good at not seeing the things that might be too much of a risk.”
“Like I’m afraid of what it might mean, so I don’t see it, which is safer.” I can’t tell if I’m asking questions or making statements. His eyes flicker.
“Maybe. It’s like not saying the thing you’ve been thinking: putting it to words is terrifying because it makes it become something real and tangible. Something you can’t unthink.”
I ponder this for a minute. But instead of thinking, I notice the warmth I suddenly feel, and I let it wrap me tightly. Martin always makes me feel… whatever this is, and I don’t know how he does it. How can I feel so grounded and apprehensive all at the same time? Suddenly, I’m laughing at myself: “I can’t put it into words.”
Martin looks at me and laughs too.
“Me too,” he says. We’re both laughing like we’ve been laughing for hours and are just winding down, pulling ourselves together.
“I really appreciate you, Martin,” I tell him, seeking out his face. I feel my voice quiver.
He smiles at me, a closed mouth smile that moves only his chin. He can’t speak, so we don’t. The silence is grounding and solid, like words aren’t necessary. He finally looks away, and grabs the door handle, pulling it open slowly. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then?” he says, stepping out.
I nod and we exchange a few muscle-memory words of departure that come from the frozen place of the brain, and then I watch him walk away. He turns back, halfway to his apartment, smiles and nods, but doesn’t wave. I don’t take my eyes off of him until he turns the corner and is gone.
CHAPTER NINE
The doorbell rings twenty minutes before it’s supposed to. They’re early.
I throw on a polo shirt, heading toward the door. “Hold on a minute,” I say to the room, eying the kitchen, making sure it’s presentable for guests.
Jeannie has this spectacular idea that we should do a “bakery crawl” this afternoon, which is basically where we stroll from bakery to bakery, enjoying different baked items. This might be a great idea in a city somewhere with bakeries, but we’re making it work in our small town with a stop at each of the two actual bakeries and a third stop at The Cedar and Fig for naan bread, which is technically baked, I guess. It works. Jeannie loves the idea, so we love it too!
“Hey,” I smile, throwing the door open. Then my heart drops out of my chest.
