“Oh. So … why’d you want to see it so bad?”
“I dunno. I just always have.”
He gives me a searching look, but doesn’t reply.
Up ahead, there’s a small stall selling something called stroopwafels.
“What the hell is a stroopwafel?” I ask, as I point at the stall.
“Want to find out?”
I nod, and go up and buy a packet for us from an excessively cheery saleswoman in a blue checkered outfit. Luckily the stall accepts credit cards, and I go back to Ruben with my haul. They look like small, compressed waffles, but sort of seem crispy, and are sold in stacks wrapped in clear plastic.
“I love this word,” I say. “Stroopwafel.”
“Please don’t write a song called ‘Stroopwafel.’”
I grin, and feel my notebook in my jacket pocket. “Don’t tempt me.”
Up ahead is an iron bench, overlooking the canal. It’s lit by one iron streetlight.
It’s a perfect spot.
I know we don’t have much time, but sitting on the bench, with a stroopwafel, seems exactly right, the kind of moment I’ve always wanted to have here. I can think about my parents and everything that happened, and hopefully try to understand them both a little better. Normally I just think of my dad as an asshole, but maybe he wasn’t always one. Maybe he was a different guy when he was here. He got Mom to like him, so he must not have always seemed like a selfish dickwad.
Golden lights run along the edges of the canal and cross the closest bridge. I can hear the gentle movement of the water and the occasional sound of a passing car.
“Stroopwafel?” I say, offering Ruben the packet, making the plastic crinkle.
He opens it, and takes out one of the waffles. I take one out, too.
I take a bite of my stroopwafel, and then let out a moan, and lean back against the bench. Ruben tries his, and does exactly the same thing. It’s sugary and crispy and just the right amount of chewy.
“So, these are fucking delicious,” he says.
“Right?”
Silence falls while we eat.
He said we don’t have to talk, but if it were ever going to happen, it’d be here. Maybe I do get the power of this place, now.
“I really am sorry, by the way,” he says, out of nowhere.
“Oh, that’s okay. Interviews are stressful, I get it.”
“I’m not talking about the interview.”
“Oh. What are you talking about?”
“That night.”
Oh.
Oh.
Even though it’s terrifying, I can’t keep running from it. I’ve done that for long enough. I’ve known Ruben for years. He used to be my best friend. I can and should be able to talk to him about everything.
But it’s him, though. He somehow feels like both the easiest and hardest person to tell.
“You don’t have anything to be sorry about.” I want to say: I liked it, because I’m bi.
“Yeah, I do. We were both drunk, and it wasn’t a big deal, and I shouldn’t have taken it so personally. I mean, I know you’re straight. It’s not like you lied to me about it. And I want you to know we don’t have to talk about this if you don’t want to, but I wanted to get that out of the way first.” He picks at his waffle, then gives a strained laugh. “We can change the subject now if you want.”
I cross my arms. I hope if he notices that I’m shaking, he’ll think it’s because of the cold, not because of nerves. What I want to say is: I’m not straight.
“I’m not upset it happened or anything,” is what I actually say.
“You aren’t?”
“Nope.”
“You’ve seemed pretty mad.”
“I haven’t been mad. I’ve been, um, scared I guess.”
“Oh. Oh.”
I chew my lip.
“Zach, you know you can talk to me about anything, right? Even if we’re fighting. If it’s important, I’m here, no matter what.”
“Yeah. I guess that’s why I’ve been keeping my distance, because I know we could talk about it, and it freaks me out.”
“Why?”
I’m hunched over, and suddenly I’m very distracted by my leather bracelet. “I know it’s not normal, but like, talking about this stuff scares the crap out of me.”
“What do you mean? Like, your feelings?”
“Yep.”
“What’s scaring you about it?”
“I have this fear, I guess. Of like, telling someone I care about something about me, and having them stare at me. Or they’ll point and laugh and not want to be friends anymore.”