You Know Me Well(2)

Not untrue. I am shy. Sometimes painfully shy. And it’s especially painful when someone reminds me about it.

“Can we look around some more?” I ask. “Maybe dance a little?”

“You know I don’t dance.”

What he means is: He doesn’t dance when other people are watching. This was his excuse when I wanted to go to our junior prom together. It would have been a big step for us, and he looked at me like I’d asked if he wanted to make out in a shark tank. In front of his parents. Instead of saying we couldn’t go to the prom because he wanted to keep us a secret, he wrapped his refusal in a blanket dismissal of dancing. I knew he wasn’t going to put me through the indignity of watching him go with someone else—he wasn’t going to try to live that lie, at least. But he wasn’t going to go with me, either.

I ended up staying home instead. He came over and I thought he was going to make it up to me, but instead we watched There Will Be Blood. Then he went home.

I can understand not wanting to dance in front of everyone we know. I can see that’s a big deal. But I was hoping it would be different here. I was hoping that being among all these happy, happy strangers would change the game.

“C’mon,” I say, trying to keep my tone light. “It’s Pride Week!”

Ryan’s eye has already moved elsewhere. I follow his gaze to find this very pretty college guy in Clark Kent glasses and a simple blue T-shirt with a slight rip on the left shoulder. He’d be the apple of any bookworm’s eye—he’s much more Ryan’s type than I’ll ever be. He senses Ryan looking at him … then senses me looking at him and meets my eye instead of Ryan’s. I quickly look away.

“I saw him first,” Ryan mutters. I think he might be joking, but something in the pit of my stomach tells me he’s not. Then he says, “Oh man.” I look back up, and Indie Bookstore Clark Kent has his arms around a boy who’s wearing a ski hat even though it’s June. Hat Boy leans in for a kiss and Clark gleefully obliges. If it were manga, hearts would be rising like balloons over their heads.

“Happy Happy is depressing depressing me,” Ryan says. “You promised me fun. Where’s the fun?”

That had been my big argument—it’ll be fun. What I didn’t add was that I thought the idea of sneaking out of my house, tiptoeing to the train, and coming into the city where no one else really knows us would be … romantic, I guess. On the ride in, it was almost like that, like it was an adventure we were sharing. I pressed my leg against his and he didn’t move away. We sat there making jokes and imagining the look on my mother’s face if she checked up on us and found the room empty. (My mother gets upset when a pillow is out of place on the sofa.) I thought that people looking at us would see a couple, and I got a sense of confirmation from that.

Now I’m guessing we look like two friends. I probably look like Ryan’s wingman.

“I want a drink,” he declares.

“You’ll get caught,” I remind him.

“No, I won’t. Have some faith. Some of us aren’t Timid Timmys.”

I follow him as he presses into the crowd and makes his way to the bar. I wonder what would happen if I stopped walking, if I let the crowd fill up the space between us. Would he notice? Would he wade back to find me? Or would he keep going, because forward is his destination and I am not?

I falter for a moment, and in that moment he reaches for my hand. As if he senses my doubts. As if he doesn’t need to turn around to know exactly where I am. As if everything we’ve been through has at least constructed this connection, this much of a bridge.

“Stay with me,” he says.

So I do. And when we get to the bar, Charming Ryan returns. The shadows fall from his mood. When the bartender comes over, Ryan tosses out his words like he knows they’ll float into the ears of anyone who hears them. The bartender smiles; he can’t help but like Ryan. This is the boy I fell for, about eight years after we first became friends. This is the boy who made me want to be who I am. This is the boy I can borrow my confidence from.

The bartender comes back with two flutes of champagne, and I can’t help but laugh at how silly it is. Even though I don’t drink, Ryan slides one of the glasses over to me.

“Just one sip,” he says. “If you don’t, it won’t be a toast. It’ll just be a burnt piece of bread.”

I relent and raise my glass. We clink, and then I sip while he downs. When he’s done, I give him mine to finish off.

“I wish you’d live a little,” he says when the bubbly’s been popped.

“What does that mean?” I ask, even though we’ve had this conversation before.

“Nothing.”

“It’s not nothing.”

“No, it is. It’s precisely nothing.”

“What’s precisely nothing?”

“The degree to which you put yourself out there.”

I have no idea why this has become the subject.

“What are you talking about? A failure to finish my champagne makes me—what? A Cowardly Connor?”

“It’s not just that.” He points his empty glass at the crowd. “This room is full of attractive men. You are a fine specimen of boyness. But you’re not even looking around. You’re not trying. That guy gave you a card you’ll never use. Other guys keep looking at you. You could totally work it. But you don’t want to.”