Golden Boys (Golden Boys, #1)(25)

I follow the sounds of music. I don’t recognize the song, but it seems fairly recent, and I’m sure whoever’s in charge put on a Spotify playlist to set the mood. Apparently, the mood is supposed to be up-tempo, pop fueled, with a steady beat. Do they think we’ll be dancing at this? I almost laugh at the thought.

Stepping into the lobby, I see they’ve thrown a pretty decent event together in the few hours that passed after I first walked these halls. Amazing what a few well-placed streamers can do. Looking around, I see tables with refreshments, standing bar tables scattered throughout, and even a few servers walking by with passed appetizers.

I pan across the crowd, and a sort of fear strikes me when I see someone who’s far more dressed up than I. He looks a little older than me, but maybe that’s because he’s wearing black slacks and a white button-up. I get the urge to duck out and find nicer clothes, but as my eyes flick to the other attendees, the tension in my shoulders starts to ease. One person’s wearing a short skirt with an edgy tee; another guy’s wearing a zip-up hoodie and shorts.

I turn on my timer. Ten minutes, one conversation. Totally doable.

I walk in a meandering way—from the outside, it probably looks casual, like I’m getting the lay of the land or smoothly making my way to the refreshments table. But what I’m actually doing is more strategic. I put a round table in between me and the group of two looking up at me from their sodas; I slide casually behind someone whose back is closest to me; I walk in a path where I can evade conversations but still not be rude. It’s right where my anxiety is calmest: a place where I can be present but also fade away.

I get to the registration table, where a cute older girl with a Boston Save the Trees shirt is checking off names and handing out our badges. As I arrive, she plucks one out and hands it to me.

“Oh, thanks,” I say. “You’re the person I interviewed with, right?”

“Yes, I’m Ali! And you’re the intern from Ohio, right? Hope your flight went smoothly. I’m really excited to be working with you this summer.”

She slides me a name tag and a marker. “Just write your name and pronouns here and go meet some new people. I promise they’re all really cool. Twelve summer interns, plus about five of my colleagues are joining me here. Super-small gathering, not much programming, it’s all about having fun today!”

I’m unsure about a lot of things, but I obviously know my name. But when I put my Sharpie to my name tag, I hesitate. It dawns on me that I came here to redefine Gabriel. To be a new person, or at least an enhanced version of myself.

“Careful,” she says, noticing my hesitation, “you only get one chance to define yourself here. If you’re going for a nickname, you’ve got to commit. One of my friends decided to go by his middle name, Keith, one summer, and it stuck with him forever. And Keith is such an awful name.”

I laugh and thank her for the warning.

It’s more than a nickname, though. When I think of who I want to be here, I think of Sal. I think of the person he sees me as. And that’s not Gabriel. I’m Gabe to him, and I think that’s who I need to be.

I write Gabe on the name tag. Then my pronouns, he/him.

Then I turn toward the party. Since that chat with Ali doesn’t count, I have about eight minutes to make my one conversation before I can officially duck out. So I scan the rest of the crowd.

My heartbeat thuds against my chest, so much that if I looked down, I’m sure I could see it raising and lowering my shirt in a sharp rhythm. I veer around the chatty guy who’s too dressed up for the occasion, but he doesn’t seem to mind as he’s deeply involved in a conversation about hydroponics with a cute guy who looks like he has no idea what that is, based on his blank expression and erratic nodding.

I do my dance, weaving between tables, knowing I could keep this up for the full ten minutes. I shouldn’t do that, but I simply don’t know how to start the conversation. What if they don’t want to meet me? What if I barge into a really good conversation, and it gets awkward after that? What if …

My therapist’s voice reminds me that shaming myself for feeling so scared right now isn’t helpful, and that I need to turn those what-ifs around:

What if it’s not the worst thing ever?

What if I have a really good conversation?

What if I even make a new friend?

“Hi!” A short Black girl stops me in my tracks. She’s got a subtle, almost shy look about her, which doesn’t match up with the fact that she definitely just jumped in front of me. “I’m Tiffany.”

“Hi, Gabe.” I reply. “I’m Gabe, I mean.”

My brain already feels fried, and I’ve barely had any conversations tonight. She gives an awkward chuckle, then waves me over to a table where another intern stands. A napkin sits in the center with about ten toast points with avocado sitting on it.

“I know it looks weird,” the other person at the table says in lieu of an introduction. Thankfully, I don’t need an introduction because we have name tags, and theirs says Art, they/them. “But they only have one vegan appetizer here, which is basically ridiculous because half of us seem to be vegans—I mean, we’re all interning to save the damn trees? I swear I’m a good person, but I am not a good hungry person, so please don’t judge me for the avocado toast hoarding I’m doing. Would you like one?”