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Neither of us spoke for a while. We just watched the Zambonis. This wasn’t the first time he’d asked me about meeting Nick. Probably wouldn’t be the last, either.
And lately…
Lately, I’d been leaning toward doing exactly that.
I glanced at my phone, which was still dormant on my leg, and gnawed my lower lip. Nick and I had so much in common. We chatted endlessly about anything and everything—politics (which was how we’d crossed paths in the first place), movies we both enjoyed, our love of animals, and the latest historical documentary we were obsessing over. He was as rabidly into hockey as I was, so we could talk forhoursabout the sport.
Well, “talk.”
Four years in, we’d never spoken on the phone or webcam. We’d never seen each other’s faces. Early on, we’d sort of danced around the subject, with both of us making excuses for keeping it to avatars, and then we’d just… never brought it up again.
I waspainfullycurious what he looked like. What he sounded like. The more we connected, the more he took up space in my mind… and the more I craved a look at him.
But there was a reason I had that account, and there was a reason I kept it separate from my real name, my real face, and my real life. If I met him, I’d be breaking the barrier between those two worlds, and that terrified me.
Squirming in my seat, I looked at Darren. “Okay, so hypothetically, what if I do meet Nick? What if things go to shit?”
Darren pursed his lips. “You don’t want to lose your friend.”
“Exactly. But also… I mean, there’s a reason I use an anonymous burner account, you know? What if things go to shit between us, and he tells the school district about my account or something?”
“Oh. Yeah.” Darren blew out a breath, deflating a little. “That would suck.”
It would. In fact, Darren was the one person in my entire world who knew about my account (though not my specific username). I’d confided in him about its existence both because he understood firsthand the stress of keeping aspects of one’s personal life out of the school district’s sight, and because I trusted him more than anyone else. I also had enough dirt on him to disincentivize outing me, which was why we’d joked for a long time about mutually assured destruction.
Had Nick and I crossed paths in any other realm—a gaming account, one of my real-life accounts, a dating app—then I wouldn’t have thought twice about meeting him or sending a photo. But I’d opened that account specifically so I could be a lot more outspoken about political issues than was compatible with my career (and do some less-than-professional shitposting when I was bored). The most I’d dared to do in my real life was moderately support certain political candidates and causes. Even that was enough to get people wringing their hands about me being “part of the woke mob” or “a leftist radical trying to indoctrinate our children.” Right. Because Itotallyhad the power to brainwash the same kids I had tobegto finish assigned reading and properly format citations.
If my students’ parent ever found out the things I said when I was “Ian,” someone would need to bring fainting couches to the next schoolboard meeting. I didn’t even think I was that outrageous, but when you taught in a district where an innocuous rainbow decoration was interpreted as queer grooming, well, it wasn’t a good idea to broadcast that you believed certain lives mattered or that a few amendments might need some more modern interpretations. Add to that being openly gay and vocally pro-queer rights, and I was just asking to be professionally screwed over.
Hence… Ian.
And Ian was the person Nick knew.
If we met…
If he met Isaiah the middle school history teacher…
If the line blurred between Ian and Isaiah…
I shivered just thinking about those worlds colliding.
Okay, forget it. Meeting wasn’t a good idea. I had, for the millionth time, talked myself out of it.
Movement and activity pulled me out of my thoughts. People were starting to come back down to their seats with fresh beers and snacks, and the ice crew was cleaning up a few puddles from the Zambonis while someone put the nets back in place. The clock above center ice was counting down the last eight minutes of the first intermission. Thank God. I was wired now—the clash of fear over what could happen if I met Nick versus worry over what I might be missing by not meeting him had me twitchy and frustrated, and the fast pace of hockey would be a welcome distraction.
With seven minutes left on the clock, Darren said, “You’ve been talking to him for, what, three years now?”
I swallowed. “Almost four.”
“Right. And in that time, he hasn’t pushed at all for your name or a picture, or meeting—any of that. Right?”
I nodded.
Darren turned to me. “Maybe that means he’s got as much to lose as you do.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, like you always joke that I’ll never out you because you’ve got dirt on me.” He shrugged. “You’ve got dirt on him, too, right?”
