The moment Wade takes a couple of steps back, as if the forces of winter have decided to blow him out of my life for good, I feel myself inching to the left to cut him off, but I remain firm until he reappears on my wrong side with freckles of snow on his shoulders and an anxious kind of smile on his face. “How are we doing?”
“It’s probably better not to draw attention to it,” I say, facing forward and refusing to turn to my left. It’s almost impossible for my neck to shift that way. The moment I give in, this experiment falls apart and I’ll disappoint him, which will snowball into something worse. “Tell me a story.”
He starts right up about this Gatorade chugging competition he once got into with his neighbor. After he won, he went home to pee but his mother stepped out and he didn’t have his own keys yet. So, yeah, screwed. He tried peeing at the bottom of the staircase, but someone started coming down and he ran away. It was daytime so he couldn’t go pee in the corner or bushes without getting caught, and he didn’t trust the outside neighbors not to snitch on him. His bladder hurt so badly, and he kept trying to distract himself but failed because puddles of water were around him and it began drizzling a little again, but not fast enough that it would scare everyone back indoors so he could pee outside in peace.
Right when he charged into the staircase for a second shot, his bladder decided enough was enough and unleashed “a fury” on his jeans, soaking them with a “never-ending piss” so great his eyes rolled back with relief before he could fully register how much this was going to suck once piss stopped running down his leg and into his sneakers.
We arrive at Wade’s building and, sort of like his story, I’ve been holding in all my anxiety about his being on my left, except I didn’t reclaim my side (or piss myself). I’m relieved once we get into the elevator and there are no more sides, just us standing opposite of each other. We get into his apartment and go straight to his room. He’s been given his TV back for Christmas break because he already finished all his holiday assignments and college applications, but he’ll lose it once school starts up again. I thought we were going to watch a movie or something and take advantage of his TV while he has it, but instead he puts on the E.T. soundtrack and sits on the bed while I relax into the chair. The first song ends and another plays.
“Wait, play it again,” I tell him.
“Why?”
“It’s relaxing,” I say.
“That’s not it,” Wade says. “Maybe a little bit, but not entirely. You just want it on repeat. I know this game, Griffin. You must hate the radio.”
“I don’t hate it,” I say. “But I wouldn’t call myself a fan, either.”
“Give me your phone,” Wade says.
“Why?”
“I want to introduce you to the magic of shuffle,” Wade says. I don’t hand my phone over, but Wade isn’t shy about going into my coat pocket and retrieving it. “We’re going to play radio with your downloaded music. See, these are all songs you’ve chosen at one point or another and were all favorites for different reasons.”
“So I’m still in control?”
“Not really. But you’re in control of allowing yourself to be surprised.”
“I can’t control being surprised, that doesn’t make sense.”
Wade smirks. “Griffin, your comfort zone is maybe a little too comfortable, okay? It’s like you’ve got a TV with surround sound and every video game and the biggest bed ever so all your favorite people can hang out with you. But that place isn’t real and you should live somewhere a little more realistic.” Wade crosses to the corner of the room and swaps out his phone for my mine for these better acoustics. “Stay in the moments.”
He presses play, and the first song that comes on immediately takes me back.
Then comes “Be Still My Heart” by the Postal Service. We listened to this on the walk home the day we came out to each other, sharing headphones. I feel like I’ve been thrown back to the beginning of time. I haven’t listened to this song in so long, and I didn’t even realize I missed it.
“All Night” by Icona Pop. I discovered this song with Wade the day after my birthday. It was a little after you called me to wish me a happy birthday, feeling the dumbest you’ve ever felt in your life when you realized you mixed up the days. Wade and I were walking to Duane Reade, the same one where my dad gave us all a sex talk, and this song blasted from some parked car’s radio. It only planted itself in my brain for an afternoon, but I enjoyed my time with it—just like I am now.