Page 29 of All Our Almosts

It was a yes or no question, so I simply said, “No.”

He said nothing else, and eventually I drifted back into sleep.

By the time I awoke the next morning, Andy was already up and dressed and acting like nothing happened. But I couldn’t stop it. That old longing had bubbled back to the surface.

I tried to remind myself that I’d already humiliated myself with him once and gotten an answer: we’re just friends. Just. Friends. I refused to humiliate myself a second time.

It was moot anyway, because a few months later I met a guy named Elliot at a conference and we hit it off. He was handsome in that old-money, waspy kind of way. He took me out to nice restaurants and had season tickets to the symphony and made me feel special, for a while. And it was just so nice to have someone. Even if there was no magic. Even if—in between our “I love you”s—I was never sure if he actually liked me.

Maybe that was enough, I thought.

Maybe that’s all I could ask for.

But even so—even after all that—didn’t my heart still catch with every innocent touch that passed between me and Andy? A tap on the arm, a pull of the hand, a head on a shoulder.

And when I woke with my cheek pressed to Elliot’s chest, didn’t I sometimes keep my eyes closed for just a minute longer, imagining it was someone else?

Didn’t I even—sometimes—think of him when Elliot was pushing inside me?

No. Definitely not.

Andy and I don’t interact again until it’s time to head across the river to the brewery. It’s pretty much right off of the 86 bus route, so we take the cheap transit option. When we plop down onto the hard blue plastic seats, Andy seems lost in thought.

“Hey, where are you right now?”

He shakes his head a little. “I’m here.”

But he’s not. And there’s a (growing) part of me that worries it’s because of the combined moments of weirdness between us recently, not the least of which was my fault earlier today.

“Sorry about earlier,” I try. “I didn’t mean to like… completely stare you down this morning.”

“No, that’s okay.” He blushes the slightest bit as he says it, but otherwise seems unaffected. So alright, if that’s not what’s bothering him, time for guess number two.

“How are you feeling about the Owen thing?”

Andy shrugs, then turns to look out the bus window. “He wasn’t sure if he could even come.”

Bingo.

I tuck my arm into the crook of his. “If he shows up, do you want me to stay with you or do you want time alone with him?”

“I don’t know.”

“We can play it by ear.” I know he’s freaking out, but I also know he doesn’t want me to make a big deal about it, so I just rest my head on his shoulder in solidarity. “Maybe we can stick together to start, but if you feel like you want to talk to him alone you can squeeze my hand and I’ll take it as a cue to clear out.”

“Okay.” He tilts his head down at me, and a small smile tugs at his lips. “Nice earrings, by the way.”

I smile back. “Thanks.”

We walk up to the large red brick building only a few minutes after the event is supposed to start. Gigantic, colorful banners reading Art Pop Your Pussy are hanging everywhere, depicting a mandala of repeating iconography with little to no apparent theme (horses, skull and crossbones, cacti, and flaming hearts among them). There’s music playing from the crappy outdoor speakers, and a steady stream of hipsters flowing through the doors.

Inside the cavernous open-concept space, we’re met with an assault on all senses: the smell of fried food, the glare of neon lights, the twangs of an obscure singer-songwriter over the sound system. The bar is in the very center of the room, with vibrant fiber artwork hanging from all the walls.

“Look who it is!” someone cries from our left, and Lia runs over to squeeze us each in a hug. She’s wearing a tight black skirt, bright purple thigh-high boots, and a purple crop top turtleneck (a garment that begs the question: what weather is this designed for?). Her hair is up in a high ponytail, and she’s wearing purple eye makeup with shining silver earrings. She looks gorgeous, so I tell her as much.

“Thanks for getting here on time so I can actually say hi to you,” Lia says. “We’re expecting it to get crazy soon.”

“This isn’t crazy yet?” Andy murmurs.