“How do you feel about that?” I ask him, nervous that it might’ve been too serious of a conversation for us and where we are right now.
“I’m grateful,” he says, moving the pan to another burner. “I’m thankful that you can be so honest with me. And,” he adds, “my anxiety is taking over a little, and I’m terrified that I’ll let myself love you, only for you to leave me because I can’t meet your needs.”
I nod. “I’m anxious, too. But I think that’s where the work for a relationship comes in. Speaking about our needs, hoping they align—working to meet each other where and when we can. It might take a lot of work.”
He doesn’t look at me, but I believe him when he says, “I think I’m ready. I had to do work on myself before I could be. But I think I’m ready now.”
I think that he’s ready, too, just from what he’s shown me, and that I might be ready also, from the calm that I feel with him. But I’m still afraid to ask the question now, to say the words. Slow and steady has been working for us. Maybe it’ll take another month before I ask him, officially, if he would like to be my boyfriend again.
Logan brings over plates of vegetables in red curry and jasmine rice. He might’ve used too much ginger, but it’s delicious and bright. “I’m impressed.”
He blushes. “Thank you.”
I take a sip of water. He was able to become the person he is now on his own—with tools and support and community, yes, but mostly on his own, of his own volition, because he wanted to change. “I have another apology to make,” I tell him.
Logan looks genuinely surprised now, like he’s wondering what else I could have possibly done.
“I had such a hero complex with you,” I say, stirring my vegetables around. “I thought it was my responsibility to save you. I should’ve known that you could save yourself.”
There’s a long pause before he reaches across the table, taking my hand so that I look up at him. “I saved myself,” he says, “but I didn’t even know that change was possible before you. I never would’ve tried without you, Mattie.”
I squeeze his hand. He lets go, and we eat in a comfortable silence.
Logan
It’s only been a few days since Matt came over for my first attempt at vegetables in red curry (way too much ginger, I’ll cut back next time), but I already want to meet with him again. Our conversation, his apologies—me telling him that I think I might be ready…I’ve appreciated the slow pace. I’ve needed it. But I know what I want now. I need to know if Mattie feels the same.
I invite him over to Central Park on a Saturday afternoon. His play’s production is in two weeks, so I’m mindful of how much time I’m taking up in his schedule. It’s okay if you’re too busy, I texted. But he promised it was all right. I’ll set my boundaries and say no if I can’t Touché. He really has been focusing on taking care of his needs. It reminds me of the glimmers of power I’d seen from him years back. Mattie’s so powerful now. It’s amazing to see.
Matt grins as he sees me, waving and walking down the path. I stand from the bench where I was waiting. An awkward pause, where it feels like we could hug or kiss, but instead we just smile and start walking.
“So, why the park?” he asks me.
I meet his eye. “Remember when you said you wanted to go running through a field naked?”
He bursts out laughing. “I can’t believe you remember that.”
“Here’s your chance.”
Matt shakes his head, still smiling. “Maybe another time, Logan.” A moment of walking and peaceful silence. “I’m glad you invited me out,” he says. “I needed to escape my apartment.”
And I just wanted to see him. “Good.”
He nudges me with his arm. “You okay?”
I don’t like seeing the worry in his eyes—the worry that I won’t communicate, maybe. I take a breath. “Yes. I’m okay. I’m just—nervous, I guess.”
“Nervous? Why?”
We pause and face each other. It’s a quiet path, no one else around, breeze rustling through the trees. I swallow and force myself to say the words. “I’ve been thinking a lot, recently,” I say. “I—”
He’s waiting, hope fluttering across his expression.
“I really want to try again.”
Matt pauses. I’m not sure what he’s thinking. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Yes. If that’s something you want, too.”
“It is,” he says. I don’t think either of us mean to step closer to each other. It’s more like gravity has us leaning in. “I’ve been waiting to ask you the same thing.” His voice lowers. “I wanted to make sure we weren’t moving too quickly.”
“I know. I’ve appreciated that.” I’m whispering, too. He’s biting his lip, maybe too afraid to ask for what I’m pretty sure we both want. He’d always been the one to ask for consent for every little touch. I can do the same, too. “Is it all right if I kiss you?”
A small smile—he nods.
We meet in the middle. It’s been years since I kissed Matt. The kiss feels so familiar, so nostalgic, so much like home that I might start to cry. The kiss feels like all the comfort he’d shown me, the love when I needed it most, the joy I’d allowed myself to feel with him, the peace I learned I deserve. And it reminds me, too, of how much I fucked up and lost it all.
I pull back. I would’ve hated that I’m crying, once. Matt touches my hand with a finger. “You okay?” he asks, but when I look up, I see his eyes are wet, too.
I nod. “Yeah.” I take his hand, and we both slide our arms around each other, holding our bodies close. We hug like that for maybe a minute, maybe ten. Just holding each other and breathing.
He pulls away first, kissing my cheek. “I don’t know how slow or fast you want to go with—with the physical…”
I’m not sure either. This would be my first time having sex in a few years. I’d had random hookups at the facility, at first, before Amy convinced me that sex with strangers was a part of my trauma response. The break from sex was necessary for me to heal. I’m nervous, ending my celibacy. I don’t know how I’ll react. This is uncharted territory. But maybe it’s okay, to figure it out together.
“Do you want to come over?” I ask him.
His eyes are hooded. “Are you sure?”
I squeeze his hand. “Yeah.”
*
We hold hands and sit quietly on the subway. We have a couple of double glances—people who might recognize Mattie, people who might remember me—and I worry that a photo will be snapped, Matt pulled into a firestorm again. But he doesn’t seem to care. He rubs a thumb over my knuckles. That would’ve scared the shit out of me once, but I intertwine our fingers now.
When we get to my apartment, Matt hovers uncomfortably by the bedroom door as I pick up clumps of dirty clothes and toss them into the hamper. I’ve never returned to the states of mess I had when I was trapped in my depression—but I’ve also discovered that I’m just a messy guy, and that’s fine.