I see how happy he is. I see how eager he is to talk to me. And I realize with a painful clarity that comes from years of studying his face: This has nothing to do with my message. This has nothing at all to do with us.
He doesn’t sit down next to me. He stays by the desk, fiddling with the racket.
“So the thing is, Taylor is throwing a party tonight and he really, really, really wants me to come. It’s not like a rager or anything—it’s just a Pride thing his friends do. Watching movies and hanging out. It sounds so awesome. I mean, we’ve been texting so much it’s like I already know most of the people who are going to be there. He’s friends with so many artists—there’s this one girl who’s a puppeteer. Like, that’s her life’s work. How cool is that? And Taylor’s cooking—did I tell you he cooks? He’s not braggy about it or anything, but I have this sense that he’s awesome at it, too. I mean, you don’t make the food for your own party unless you’re good, right?”
I don’t even buy the potato chips for my own parties, so I can’t begin to answer that question.
But Ryan’s not looking for an answer. He just wants me to listen.
“I know it’s last-minute, but I would love it if you could come with me. Taylor’s really excited to meet you, and honestly I’m not sure I’m ready to go back and forth from the city solo. Taylor would’ve come and picked me up, but it’s his party, so he has to do all the pre-party things. And like I said, some of his friends sound really cool, so who knows—maybe you’ll hit it off with one of them. And even if you don’t, we’ll just be watching movies, so it’s not like you’ll be forced to have awkward conversations if you don’t want to.”
He is so blithely happy and I can’t stand it. I honestly can’t stand it.
He keeps talking. “I know it’s not as exciting as the party you were at on Saturday night—which you still need to tell me all about, by the way. But yeah. It’ll be fun. Really.”
“So let me make sure I’ve got this right,” I say. “You made me come back here from the city just so I could go back into the city with you?”
“I didn’t know you were in the city until you told me you were on the train! I thought you were at home. Maybe working on your Plath project.”
“What does that mean?”
“Why don’t you tell me? I think you’re the one with the secrets here.”
He says it playfully, not meanly. He’s in a good mood. He’s having a ball. The world is his oyster, Taylor is his pearl, and I’m somewhere on the other side of the shell.
I want to play along. I want to be his friend here. I want to be able to smile and laugh and slap him on the back and go along with whatever he says.
But I can’t. I just can’t.
“No,” I say.
Ryan looks at me strangely. “No?”
“Yeah. No.”
“What do you mean, no?”
“I mean I can’t do this. I really, truly can’t do this.”
My heart is in full panic mode. Of all the things I’ve imagined saying to him, why is this the one that’s coming out? I’m already figuring out how to backpedal, how to pretend I’m only kidding. It’s not too late.
Then he asks, “You can’t do what?” And it’s too late.
“Are you serious?” I say. “Can you possibly be serious?”
He puts down the tennis racket, as if doing this suddenly makes him serious. He’s looking at me like I’m a pet that’s gone feral.
And, fuck it, maybe I am.
“Look,” he says, “I’m sorry I yanked you back here to go into the city again. Had I known you were there, I would’ve just met you. You understand, right?”
“No,” I say. “No no no no no no no. This isn’t about that. You can’t possibly think this is about that.”
This is where he should ask, Then what’s it about? But he doesn’t. Because he knows. And asking that question will take us one step closer to the answer.
I give it to him anyway.
“When I say I can’t do this anymore, I mean I can’t continue to trample over my own feelings just to keep things okay with you. I can’t. And that means I can’t sit here on your bed and tell you that, sure, I would love to go with you to your new boyfriend’s party. The fact that you could ask me to do that means you’ve done a much better job separating yourself than I have. But there’s only one me, Ryan. And he’s so fucking in love with you it’s scary.”
I’m starting to shake. I can’t believe this is happening.
“He’s not my boyfriend,” Ryan says.
“That’s not my point!” I shout.
“I know.” Ryan’s voice is quieter now. “I know that’s not your point.”
There. I’ve done it. I’ve defeated his good mood. And it doesn’t make me feel any better.
“We talked about this,” he says gently. “We knew what we were doing.”
“We were lying!” I tell him. “The whole time, we were lying.”