One night in May, when Theo was in Morocco, as our call ticked into its fourth hour my fatigue gave way to giddy delirium and I screwed up the courage to ask the question I’d been wondering. “What about the girls?”
“Are you asking if I call Hannah and Priya on our off nights? I regret to inform you that I’m a one-man man. And you’re it. Purely monogamous with my insomnia, I’m afraid.”
“No, I was asking about the girls you . . . you know . . . date? Do you still date girls?” I squinted my eyes shut as I braced for his answer. Maybe I was only a failed experiment.
“Do you ever have an incredible conversation with someone, like so good you’re turned on by the way their brain works? Not because they’re smart necessarily, though that’s hot, too, but just the way they see the world?”
I thought of the conversation we were having and wondered if he was using coded language to talk to me about myself. “Mhmm,” I said, not wanting to interrupt wherever this was going.
“To me, it’s about that feeling. I’m attracted to the person, not the package.”
“See, to me the package is very important.” The words slipped out of my sleep-addled brain, and I cringed as my crude joke ruined the moment if he had been talking about me. Here was proof my brain worked like that of a horny seventh grader.
“So are you saying you’re pansexual?” I asked to make sure I was clear.
“If you want to put a label on it, I suppose you could say that.”
He changed the subject to the proprietary color blue of Yves Saint Laurent’s house in Marrakech. It’s called Majorelle blue, he told me, and I opened my eyes and blinked at the ceiling of my bedroom, both disappointed by the subject change and relieved because the conversation had been edging closer to the line in our friendship that we never discussed, but by mutual unspoken agreement never crossed either. Not since the first night we met.
Over the past year, I’ve gotten very little sleep, but I’ve learned in addition to being hot and mysterious, it turns out Theo is also kind, generous, funny, and functions on four hours of sleep a night, at best.
“Have you two really never talked about how you met?” Hannah asks.
“Of course we haven’t!” I retort, horrified by the thought of that conversation, which could only result in my rejection.
“Well, this isn’t exactly shocking news, Finn. Priya and I talk about your crush on Theo all the time,” Hannah reports with a glance toward where he is stationed in his Santa costume beside Chicky’s gilded throne. “We weren’t sure if you knew or if it’s a subconscious thing. But you know you talk about him nonstop, right?”
“Sure, because we’re friends.”
“No, you, like, gush about how great he is all the time.”
I feel myself blush. “Does Theo know?” I hold my breath as I wait for Hannah’s answer.
“I don’t know,” she says. “Probably.”
This is so bad. If Theo knows, it means he doesn’t reciprocate my feelings. Because if he knew and he felt the same way, we’d just . . . be together, right?
“Also, you haven’t dated anyone since you met him,” Hannah continues.
“Not true!” I snap back. “I went on a Hinge date last week.”
“And how did it go?”
“He lived in Hoboken, so it would have been a long-distance relationship.” Her look tells me she’s not buying my excuse. “Nothing happened, but it could have if I wanted it to.”
“But you didn’t want it to, because you have a crush on Theo. I think you should tell him. Look, he’s obviously attracted to you. You met because you went home together, so he doesn’t think you’re some hideous bridge troll.”
“Right, but maybe he was only looking for a hookup.”
“Sure, maybe, but the two of you are attached at the hip. He enjoys spending time with you, he was attracted to you enough to go home with you. I think you’re being dumb.”
I’m not being dumb. I’m being cautious. I remember how easily my father rescinded his love. If he taught me one thing it’s that, no matter what people say, love is conditional. And what if Theo doesn’t like the new terms I propose? Even the thought of a Theo-less life leaves me feeling hollow. It’s better to have him as a friend than nothing at all.
“We’re kind of in the middle of something here. I don’t want to be stuck on a parade float with someone who rejected me.”
“So, tell him after. Promise me you’ll tell him today.”
“Why today?”
“It’s Christmas, and I kind of feel like Christmas is lucky for us. Don’t you? I mean, it brought us together.” Hannah has a dreamy look in her eye, and for a moment I let myself believe that maybe today is lucky for us. On the plus side, I can say with absolute certainty I’m not cold anymore. My body has broken out in a nervous sweat. Am I finally going to do this?
* * *
? ? ?
?When the parade ends, we make our way to the nearest bar, an Irish pub between Penn Station and Herald Square. Our only criterion is that it has bathrooms, which we sprint to on entering.
Even though it’s Christmas and the bar caters to the commuter crowd, it’s doing solid post-parade business. There’s a fireplace in back, and the warm, beer-tinged air has fogged the front windows creating an aura of coziness. It’s so warm, in fact, Theo has stripped down to his Santa pants and suspenders and is holding court half-naked at the bar beside Priya, looking like the December page of a charity fireman’s calendar.
Every ten minutes, someone interrupts their conversation and asks to pose with Theo for a photo. The first to ask is a middle-aged waitress. She shimmies into his lap, juts her chest into his face, and whispers what I can only imagine is a proposition into his ear. Theo throws his head back and laughs at whatever she said as the bartender snaps a picture.
I watch from the booth where Theo abandoned his Santa coat in a pile with the girls’ purses and reusable shopping bags filled with everyone’s street clothes. I’m being held captive by Keith, who changed out of his Chicky costume into a pair of too-wide jeans and a threadbare red flannel. Keith is a mechanic in Mount Kisco, which I learn is up in Westchester County.
“I didn’t see myself becoming a parade person,” he tells me. “But my wife liked it. She passed from ovarian cancer five years ago, and I keep coming back. It makes me feel close to her, I guess, and it’s not like I have anything better to do on Christmas.”
“I’m sorry about your wife,” I tell him.
He waves off my sympathy and dives into a detailed history of his rise through the parade’s ranks. We’re on year seven, the year Keith held one of the Snoopy balloon’s strings.