“Is it weird for you, hearing about acting?” I ask.
Logan looks up from chopping. He’s surrounded by vegetables, oil in a pan already sizzling and what smells like ginger burning. “A little, yeah,” he says. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to hear about it from you.”
He’s so nervous about making a mistake with me again, I can tell he is—and that isn’t a fair pressure to have on him, to think that he’ll never make a mistake again. Of course he will. He’s human. And maybe it also isn’t fair of either of us to act like he’s the only one who messed up. Even though it’s been two months since he apologized, I can’t stop thinking that maybe I have a few apologies of my own to make. I’ve been scared to bring this up, scared to delve back into our past when we’re trying something new…but Logan has been so courageous. Maybe he deserves the same from me, too.
“You know, Logan,” I say. He looks up, surprised, some wavy strands falling into his eyes. “I’ve been meaning to apologize to you.”
He looks genuinely confused, head tilting. “Apologize? For what?”
I take a deep breath. “I’ve been thinking, and—I know I made mistakes, too. When we were together, I mean.”
He frowns, still confused, but he doesn’t say anything else as he listens.
“I remember telling you, once, that I would always be with you, because I accepted you.” I swallow. “That was a promise I never should’ve made.”
The pain in his eyes, for that flinch of a second, is more than enough for me to turn my gaze to the ground. But I take a breath.
“I did believe it at the time,” I tell him, “but I don’t think that’s a promise I can or should ever make. Saying that means I’ll always be there for you and for your needs. It ignores my own. Ignores that my needs might change and ignores the possibility that you can’t or won’t meet them.” I look up at him again.
His intense gaze is more than familiar. He doesn’t speak, waiting for me to continue.
“I don’t know where things will go for us now.” That’s something we’ve said a few times—acknowledged we don’t know what our relationship is, the awkward gray space between platonic friendship and romance, the tentative uncertainty overflowing with memories, both good and bad. “But that’s something I should make clear from the start. I can’t promise that I’ll be by your side forever.”
The silence stretches. The ginger is really burning now. Logan curses and spins to the stove, turning it off with a click.
“How do you feel about that?” I ask him, nervous that it might’ve been too serious of a conversation for us and where we are right now.
“I’m grateful,” he says, moving the pan to another burner. “I’m thankful that you can be so honest with me. And,” he adds, “my anxiety is taking over a little, and I’m terrified that I’ll let myself love you, only for you to leave me because I can’t meet your needs.”
I nod. “I’m anxious, too. But I think that’s where the work for a relationship comes in. Speaking about our needs, hoping they align—working to meet each other where and when we can. It might take a lot of work.”
He doesn’t look at me, but I believe him when he says, “I think I’m ready. I had to do work on myself before I could be. But I think I’m ready now.”
I think that he’s ready, too, just from what he’s shown me, and that I might be ready also, from the calm that I feel with him. But I’m still afraid to ask the question now, to say the words. Slow and steady has been working for us. Maybe it’ll take another month before I ask him, officially, if he would like to be my boyfriend again.
Logan brings over plates of vegetables in red curry and jasmine rice. He might’ve used too much ginger, but it’s delicious and bright. “I’m impressed.”
He blushes. “Thank you.”
I take a sip of water. He was able to become the person he is now on his own—with tools and support and community, yes, but mostly on his own, of his own volition, because he wanted to change. “I have another apology to make,” I tell him.
Logan looks genuinely surprised now, like he’s wondering what else I could have possibly done.
“I had such a hero complex with you,” I say, stirring my vegetables around. “I thought it was my responsibility to save you. I should’ve known that you could save yourself.”
There’s a long pause before he reaches across the table, taking my hand so that I look up at him. “I saved myself,” he says, “but I didn’t even know that change was possible before you. I never would’ve tried without you, Mattie.”
I squeeze his hand. He lets go, and we eat in a comfortable silence.
Logan
It’s only been a few days since Matt came over for my first attempt at vegetables in red curry （way too much ginger, I’ll cut back next time）， but I already want to meet with him again. Our conversation, his apologies—me telling him that I think I might be ready…I’ve appreciated the slow pace. I’ve needed it. But I know what I want now. I need to know if Mattie feels the same.
I invite him over to Central Park on a Saturday afternoon. His play’s production is in two weeks, so I’m mindful of how much time I’m taking up in his schedule. It’s okay if you’re too busy, I texted. But he promised it was all right. I’ll set my boundaries and say no if I can’t Touché. He really has been focusing on taking care of his needs. It reminds me of the glimmers of power I’d seen from him years back. Mattie’s so powerful now. It’s amazing to see.
Matt grins as he sees me, waving and walking down the path. I stand from the bench where I was waiting. An awkward pause, where it feels like we could hug or kiss, but instead we just smile and start walking.
“So, why the park?” he asks me.
I meet his eye. “Remember when you said you wanted to go running through a field naked?”
He bursts out laughing. “I can’t believe you remember that.”
“Here’s your chance.”
Matt shakes his head, still smiling. “Maybe another time, Logan.” A moment of walking and peaceful silence. “I’m glad you invited me out,” he says. “I needed to escape my apartment.”
And I just wanted to see him. “Good.”
He nudges me with his arm. “You okay?”
I don’t like seeing the worry in his eyes—the worry that I won’t communicate, maybe. I take a breath. “Yes. I’m okay. I’m just—nervous, I guess.”
“Nervous? Why?”
We pause and face each other. It’s a quiet path, no one else around, breeze rustling through the trees. I swallow and force myself to say the words. “I’ve been thinking a lot, recently,” I say. “I—”
He’s waiting, hope fluttering across his expression.
“I really want to try again.”
Matt pauses. I’m not sure what he’s thinking. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Yes. If that’s something you want, too.”