Martin’s eyes move from the floor to my face. I see the soccer game flicker in the dark of his irises. He says nothing.
I say nothing. Weeks ago I was looking for some secret woman-of-my-dreams at every coffee house and bookstore and train station, and here I am deciding to meet my secret guy. It’s all so overwhelming. What’s most overwhelming, is that I can’t stop thinking about Martin. About the warmth of his body against mine, the flex of his muscles when we hug, that one brush of his eyelashes against my cheek. These are all things that I can’t get out of my head, but could be the death of our friendship if he doesn’t think the same. Which, I’m sure he doesn’t because he’s said nothing. Even in an eye-lock.
Then again, neither have I.
I say none of this. Instead I say, “I’m worried that if I meet this guy I’m going to mess it all up.” My body sags into the sofa. An advertisement must be on the screen because the colors of the room turn a pale purple. Martin’s eyes swim as the light shifts.
“I’m sure you and he can work things out. I mean, won’t it be like you’re just getting to know each other, so you can start there. Right?” There is a deep, contemplative hum to his voice.
“That’s not what I mean,” I say. What do I mean? How can I say this? “I mean mess things up between you and me.” Something inside me ignites and I make solid eye contact with Martin, breathless.
His body reacts before his face. “What do you mean?”
What do I mean? I really want to tell him that I think he’s the greatest person that’s ever been and if I am going to bewith a guy, it should definitely be someone like him. Or maybe actually him. I feel like I’m on a trajectory to mess everything up. I hunt for words, the right not-mess-everything-up words. “I feel like you and me,” my voice breaks, “have gotten so much closer recently.” His mouth drops open slightly and he doesn’t look away. “And, I appreciate you so much and what you mean to me, and if I meet this guy, I’m afraid that will mess up everything that we have.” We are both mouth-breathing now.
The room changes colors again, although I have no idea what’s actually on the screen. The television audio has become white noise.
“Liam,” he starts, a flicker of something in his eyes I can’t read. “You mean so much to me, and I treasure everything we have together. Do you…” He stops himself but doesn’t look away, his eyes blown. “Are you…”
We stare across the couch at each other and I can’t tell if the gap between us is getting bigger or smaller, but it changes somehow.
Without blinking, he finds his words, but they are softer: “If you like this guy, then you should do this. You shouldn’t let me get in the way of anything. You deserve to be happy. You deserve the best.” He looks away.
“I’m going to meet him, then,” I nearly whisper. “I’m going to treasure this moment like it won’t ever happen again. I won’t let this moment slip away.” My words show resolve, but my tone sounds defeated.
He suddenly has an energy to his tone, “You should do it! Ichi-go Ichi-e,” he says like he’s cheering on a sports team. I’m not a sports team, nor am I inspired like I usually am by his hope and caring. I secretly want him to say, “Ditch this imbecile. I’m here for you instead.” He doesn’t.
This realization hits me hard. That’s my answer. Martin, no. My secret person, maybe. My emotions whirl like a board-gamespinner before landing on resolve. Maybe even happiness. I’m going to do it. I’m going to meet this guy!
I try to match Martin’s sports energy when I repeat my thoughts aloud, “I’m going to do it! I’m going to meet him!”
“Just do it.” More sporting energy. I’m searching through the flicker in his eyes, wondering if they agree with the words he’s saying.
“I’m going to text him right now. At this moment.” I don’t mean it like a dare, but I think it sounds that way. Like I’m daring him to stop me.
“Right now. Good idea,” he cheers softly.
I pull out my phone, open my secret person app, and type two words: “Let’s meet!” then click send.
I look up to see Martin’s reaction, when the phone in his hand chimes. Three small beeps, with a small flash. My face twists slightly.
“Your phone just beeped,” I say.
He doesn’t move. He doesn’t look. “It’s nothing.”
Just then I realize. I need to name the time and place. I look back to my phone. I’m on a roll now, so my decision-making processes are firing on all cylinders. “Saturday, 7 pm at The Black Walnut,” I text. My secret guy and I are going to eat steak.
The phone in Martin’s hand chimes again with another tiny flash and I hear it vibrate. I look from Martin’s face, to his phone, and back again. He doesn’t move.
I motion toward the phone weakly, “You going to check that?”
“It’s nothing,” he says. He doesn’t look away from me. “I’ll check it later.”
I’m stuck in this moment. I think I’m becoming irrational, and my brain is sparking. I turn to my phone again and start typing again.
“What are you doing?” He tenses, peering over my screen.
“Sending a text.”
