“There you are.” It comes out of my mouth before I can stop it and it’s all I can do to steer the words in a more playfully casual direction so he isn’t saddled with the importance I’ve placed on them. I think it comes off okay, but, as I know from my time at sea, sometimes big ships turn slowly.
Byron chuckles and gives a little pump of his fist. “YES! IT’S! ALL! HAPPENING! FOR! US!”
I want to stop in my tracks, but I’m already leaning in for a hug and he comes the rest of the way and the warm embrace of seeing him standing there is now an actual embrace and it is no less sincere.
He must feel me gripping him tightly because he asks, “Is everything okay?”
“No. Yes. Everything is great. It’s just . . .” I play it back in my head, what he said, the way in which he said it and the enthusiasm that had only a month ago gone silent. “You reminded me of someone, is all.”
“Hopefully in a good way.”
I smile, but it takes just a minute to speak. “In the best possible way.”
I don’t break the hug first, but maybe at the same time. This is a step. Jenny will be proud. I look in his eyes, which I expect to be brown like Lily’s, but instead are deep blue like the waters lapping calmly against the outboard sides of Fishful Thinking.
“Is frozen yogurt okay?”
“Frozen yogurt is perfect.”
We sit across from each other with our yogurt, which is a better choice in the August sun than coffee. His is plain and mine is pomegranate. I’m surprised that he looks both exactly like and nothing like his pictures. The way he moves, the way he smiles, it makes him more handsome than anything a still photograph could capture. We run through the usual first-date banter and I start to tell one of my stories and even though it comes off okay, when I finish I tell myself to stop it.
This one is worth being present for.
He is from New Orleans. He used to be a TV news reporter in Las Vegas and I wonder how that is because his hair curls and it moves in the breeze and he kind of looks like the poet his name suggests and nothing like a TV news reporter, at least any that I’ve seen. He’s an uncle like I am an uncle. He’s close with his mother, but not his father. He’s sad about the death of Whitney Houston.
He loves dogs.
“Have you ever been in love?” Byron asks.
I pause and think of Lily, even though I know that’s not what he means. I answer yes because, even if there had never been a Lily, it’s true. I even go so far as to try to mask the pain of it. “You?”
He looks sheepishly at his feet. “I don’t think so.” And then he adds a hopeful “Not yet.”
I recognize in his face the look of someone who has been on a lot of these . . . dates, and I admire his ability to remain hopeful.
“How long was your last relationship?” he asks.
“Six years.”
“How did it end?”
I pause.
“I mean, if you don’t mind me asking.”
“I don’t mind,” I say. “I ended it.”
“Why?” And then with a chuckle, “I have a tendency to be direct.”
I look at him and weigh the advantages of several lines before deciding the best way to answer directness is by being direct in return. “Because I thought I deserved to be treated better.”
“GOOD! FOR! YOU!”
I look around at the crowd and wonder if someone is playing a cruel practical joke. Like I might see the octopus in human form five tables away, sipping an iced latte and saluting me with one of his tentacles. But the octopus is dead; I know that. And I don’t think this is a joke—I think this is who this guy really is.
“When did you know it was over?” he asks.
“In the days leading up to the election when marriage equality was on the ballot in California, he talked about us getting married. I had such a visceral reaction to tying my life to his that I thought about casting my vote to make gay marriage illegal, denying all gay Californians their basic civil rights, just to avoid an uncomfortable conversation at home.”
Byron laughs.
“I guess that’s when I knew it was over.” I put my hand on his forearm. I don’t know why I do this—and it’s not exactly natural, although it’s not unnatural—except that I really want to touch his skin. It’s smooth, and tanned just a little bit, and feels like summer—like something familiar and warm and good. Like my skin did on the first days aboard Fishful Thinking, before it salted and burned and peeled. “We broke up three years after that.” I sit back in my chair and give a sly smile. Relationships are complex, and sometimes you can’t really explain them to an outside party. “I can’t believe I just told you that.”
“YES! YOU! ARE! LIVING! YOUR! FULL! LIFE!”
A third time. I’m not imagining it.
There you are.
This time my heart does skip a beat. I look down at his arm and we’re still touching and he has made no attempt to retract his arm or retreat.
All my surroundings—the red Formica tabletop, the pink yogurt, the blue sky, the green vegetables in the market—they all come alive in vibrant Technicolor as the sun peers from behind a cloud. I am living my full life.
“Honesty in all things,” Byron adds, lifting his cup of yogurt for a toast of sorts.
I pull my hand away from him and
