I don’t know what to think. Something must have gone wrong. My secret person hasn’t left me hanging a single time. He wouldn’t just leave me stranded. I know it. I trust it.
I decide I’m going to text him. On our app. This shouldn’t feel weird, but for some reason it does. I pull out my phone and send a brief message. “Went to Halloway’s. It wasn’t there.” I click send and stare at my phone, surprised at myself: I didn’t overthink it. I didn’t edit and reword it. I just sent it.
This realization lights a warm fire in my core, as I start the walk back to my truck. Me and my “special someone” have grown close enough to skip the edit-and-revise phase of our relationship. We just communicate and don’t think about it too much. It makes me feel puffy inside, and I feel like I’m floating down the sidewalk.
Well, maybe a little diminished from being turned away at the jewelers. And a little defeated because there’s still no response. I guess I thought he would respond immediately, so I’m feeling a little letdown. And exposed.
By the time I reach my truck and I still haven’t heard back, I find myself texting Martin. “Is this a good time to call?” I text. No response from him either.
I have a mental block that prevents me from driving, like I can’t drive and receive a text at the same time, so I sit. And think. Until I ultimately realize that I can do both. But I don’t need to multi-task because my phone still doesn’t require my attention.
By the time I get home, I still haven’t received a text. This concerns me a little, but I put my phone away and let it go. Martin will text me when he gets a chance.
A day passes. I keep checking my phone all day at work. Still nothing from my secret person, but my growing concern is that I still haven’t heard from Martin. It’s not like him to ignore me.
It’s two days later when my phone rings, and it’s Martin. Something feels off. I don’t make any jokes about his neglect, and when he speaks, my heart sinks. “Liam … I’m so sorry I didn’t call,” his voice breaks. “It’s my mom… she passed away. Last night.”
The rest of our conversation is a blur. I can’t even process thoughts. All I can think of is how his mom had been doing so much better, and how hopeful he was, and how close they were. I’m blurting without thinking, “Where are you?”
“I’m at my parents’ house, Liam.” I pocket my phone and am on my way. I’m not even sure I said goodbye.
“Martin! There’s a man here to see you!”
That’s how I’m welcomed at the door of Martin’s parents’ home.
His sister, carrying two infants while holding the door open, is looking at me but screaming into the house.
Sighing, she says, “Come on in,” and motions me into the modest living room with a polite smile. I step inside the dimly lit room looking for Martin. The house is one of the older ones in the east side and is made up of a bunch of small rooms connected by a hallway that parallels a staircase. The only space I can see is the living room, I guess, where several people are sitting on old sofas, trying to understand who I am and why I have interrupted whatever conversation they were having, or maybe not having.
I smile, and several of them smile back, but no one speaks. Or blinks.
“I’m here for Martin,” I say.
There may have been blinking.
I’m wondering if I should ask the sister to call out again for Martin, when she suddenly heads down the hallway into the room beyond.
From above, I see a figure emerge from the dim staircase and begin to descend. It’s Martin. He looks exhausted. He also looks confused.
“Liam?” he asks in a soft voice, continuing down the stairs. “What are you doing here?”
“I, um.” I hadn’t thought this through exactly. I just knew I wanted to be here. “I wanted to make sure you were okay, to see if you needed anything.”
He is standing now in front of me below the staircase, the living room occupants still staring at us. He looks at his feet, “I really appreciate it, but you didn’t have to come.” His eyes tilt up slowly.
“I’m sorry about your mom,” I say. I watch tears well up as he tries to blink them away.
“Come with me,” he whispers, turning. We’re heading into the hallway, and he speaks quickly to the living room saying, “Everyone, this is Liam.” Then we’re headed away.
We pass another room, dining room presumably, and enter a small, but fancy kitchen area with its own table and a giant window overlooking a porch and a small yard beyond. Behind the counter is an older man, looking worn, and a man about Martin’s age. They have matching genetics and so I start making assumptions about their relationship.
“Dad, this is Liam,” he says pointing. The older man tilts his eyes toward me and nods without smiling. “Liam, this is my brother Michael, and you met my sister Maggie at the door.”
I smile and say “Hi, I’m Liam,” which feels redundant, but it’s all I can think of to say.
“Let’s go out on the patio,” Martin says and motions toward a glass panel door in the corner of the room. We arrive at a space directly outside of the giant kitchen-area window where there is a set of small patio sofas and chairs. Martin sits in the corner of one sofa and I snag a nearby chair. I lean in so we can talk without broadcasting and he does the same.
“Thanks for coming,” he says.
