Our First Date

Julian’s return to public life took four statements, several phone calls, and a photograph in which he looked deeply annoyed to be visibly alive.

I sent him the photograph with a message.

You could have smiled. People might have found that reassuring.

His answer came while I was choosing clothes for Friday.

I’m saving it for dinner.

I put the phone facedown.

Then I picked it up and read the message again.

That was becoming a habit I would need to conceal from Miles.

***

I tried on three shirts.

The first looked as if I had come straight from work. The second made me feel like I was attending a wedding I didn’t want to pay for. The third was simple, dark blue, and apparently required less thought.

I chose it.

Then I spent ten minutes deciding whether to undo another button.

At seven, someone knocked.

Julian stood outside holding a small paper bag.

He looked at me and forgot to say hello.

I felt immediately better about the shirt.

“Is something wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“You’re staring.”

“I’m aware.”

He smiled then, the one he had promised to save.

I stepped aside before I could embarrass myself in the hallway.

The bag contained a pastry from the café where we had met.

“For tomorrow,” he said.

I looked at it.

“A practical gift. You’re improving.”

“I thought flowers might annoy you.”

“They’d have required a vase.”

“That was my concern.”

I put the pastry in the kitchen, then turned back.

Julian was still looking at me.

I had spent years assuming every prolonged look from him preceded a complaint.

Now I understood why he sometimes took so long to find one.

***

The restaurant was small and familiar.

I had chosen it because the food was good, the tables didn’t require a month’s notice, and I knew what half the menu meant without assistance.

Julian let me choose where to sit.

Then he took the chair opposite me and looked slightly more nervous than he had when I questioned him about college.

That pleased me more than it should have.

The waiter brought menus.

I opened mine even though I already knew what I wanted.

For the first few minutes, we discussed food with unnecessary seriousness. It was easier than acknowledging that we had been alone together hundreds of times and this was somehow different.

Julian reached for his water.

I noticed the small scrape on his knuckle had healed.

“Are you nervous?” I asked.

He glanced up.

“I’d prefer this evening to go well.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

He set down the glass.

“I’m nervous.”

I smiled before I could hide it.

He looked faintly resigned.

“You’re enjoying that.”

“A little. It’s nice to know I’m not doing all the work.”

His expression softened.

“You’re nervous, too?”

“I changed my shirt three times.”

The admission escaped before I considered whether I wanted him to have it.

Julian looked at the shirt.

Then at me.

“You chose well.”

My face warmed, and I returned to the menu as though a new section had appeared.

***

Dinner became easier once the food arrived.

I told him about a client who had finally accepted a design after requesting so many changes that we had nearly returned to the original.

He told me about a meeting where nobody knew how to greet him without mentioning the death report.

“One person said it was good to see me looking well,” he said.

“That was diplomatic.”

“Another asked whether I’d had time to reconsider the expansion schedule.”

I laughed.

He watched me with a pleased expression that no longer made me want to argue.

Or at least, not every time.

I caught myself leaning forward while he spoke. He did the same, his hands resting close to mine on the table.

At one point, his fingers brushed my wrist as he moved the bread basket.

The contact was brief, but neither of us pretended not to notice.

I thought about reaching for his hand.

Then I looked around the room.

There were couples at other tables. Friends. A family trying to keep a toddler interested in something other than the salt shaker.

Nobody was watching us.

I put my hand over Julian’s.

He paused in the middle of a sentence.

Then he turned his palm beneath mine.

That small response made the decision feel worthwhile.

***

We ordered dessert.

Julian didn’t ask whether I intended to finish it. He had learned enough to order a second fork.

Halfway through, he mentioned the design position at his company.

My hand stopped.

He noticed immediately.

“I’m not making the offer again.”

“Then why bring it up?”

“I wanted to say that I understand why you refused. I mixed wanting you near me with something that should have been about your work.”

I put down my fork.

“I like what I’m building. It isn’t as reliable as a salary, but it’s mine.”

“I know.”

“If I ever work with your company, it has to be because we need each other professionally. Not because you want to know where I am at lunchtime.”

He smiled faintly.

“That’s clear.”

I studied his face.

He wasn’t waiting for an opening to persuade me.

I picked up the fork again.

“Good. You can admire my career from a respectful distance.”

“I’ve been doing that for years.”

The answer landed more softly than I expected.

I let myself enjoy it.

***

After dinner, we walked.

The air was cold enough that I put my hands in my pockets. Julian stayed beside me, matching my pace.

We passed a shop window that reflected us back: two men walking close, one slightly taller, both looking more serious than the conversation deserved.

I stopped noticing the reflection when Julian’s hand brushed mine.

He didn’t take hold.

I pulled my hand from my pocket and caught his fingers.

For a few steps, I was aware of everything around us. The passing cars, the couple ahead, the man locking his bicycle to a railing.

Then I became more interested in Julian’s thumb moving against my knuckles.

It wasn’t that I had suddenly worked out everything about myself.

I had simply decided that holding his hand was worth being seen doing it.

Julian looked down once, then squeezed gently.

He didn’t make me discuss the decision.

***

Miles was waiting outside my building when we returned.

He held a food container and looked delighted by our joined hands.

I considered letting go.

That would have pleased him even more.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“Returning the container I borrowed.”

“You could have waited.”

“I could.”

His gaze moved to Julian.

“Good dinner?”

“Very good,” Julian said.

Miles looked at me.

I narrowed my eyes.

“If you start talking about how you knew all along, I’m taking the stairs.”

He lifted the container innocently.

“I haven’t said anything.”

“You’re enjoying yourself loudly.”

Julian’s hand tightened slightly around mine.

I looked at him and found he was trying not to laugh.

Traitor.

Miles hugged me, handed over the container, and left before I could ask why returning plastic required waiting outside after nine.

Julian watched him go.

“He’s happy for you.”

“He’s happy he gets to be right.”

“Both can be true.”

I sighed and unlocked the building door.

***

Upstairs, Julian paused near the kitchen.

My apartment still had no couch. The delivery was scheduled for the following week, and the blanket remained folded beside the television.

He looked at it, then at me.

“I enjoyed tonight.”

“I noticed.”

“I’d like to do it again.”

“You can ask without sounding like you’re presenting a proposal.”

He smiled.

“Would you have dinner with me next week?”

I stepped closer.

“I’d like that.”

He reached for my hand.

For a moment, I watched our fingers fit together.

Then I asked the question I had been avoiding since he kissed me.

“What are we calling this?”

Julian’s expression became careful.

“What would you like to call it?”

I rolled my eyes.

“Don’t make me do all the work just because you’ve discovered restraint.”

He laughed quietly, then lifted my hand.

“I’d like to be your boyfriend, Evan. If that’s what you want.”

The word felt unfamiliar.

It also felt unexpectedly right.

“I think I’d like that.”

His smile arrived slowly, as if he was trying to make sure he had heard me.

I pulled him closer by his coat.

“You don’t get to ask again every five minutes to confirm.”

“I’ll try to remember.”

“And you’re still not choosing my furniture.”

“That condition seems permanent.”

“It is.”

I kissed him.

When we separated, I went to the drawer beside the kitchen and took out an envelope.

The new spare key was inside.

I had asked the locksmith for it without knowing exactly when I would be ready to give it away.

Julian looked at the envelope, then at me.

“This time, I’m giving it to you,” I said. “Use it for arrangements we’ve actually made. And if I haven’t told you to come in, knock.”

He took it carefully.

“I understand.”

I watched him put the key on his ring.

It looked ordinary there.

That was what I wanted: something ordinary we had chosen, rather than another secret either of us had to explain.