“Are you okay?” Connor asked, as Sam fidgeted, drumming his fingers on the wheel. “Is something wrong?”
“No, no. I’m just…” Just what? “I’m meeting someone new while you’re in class.”
“Making friends is scary,” Connor said solemnly, and unzipped the backpack he carried with him everywhere, rooting around, finally producing his stegosaurus. “Here. You can take him. If you need something to talk about, just ask if the other boy likes dinosaurs.”
Sam thanked him. He slipped the dinosaur into the glove compartment, sent Connor off to class, and got to the coffee shop ten minutes ahead of time, approaching the door with his heart fluttering madly, a little bird trapped in his throat. He got a coffee, found a table, and watched the entrance, feeling his armpits prickling, trying not to panic; telling himself that he had nothing to be afraid of, that it was just a conversation with a man, like thousands of conversations with hundreds of men that he’d had in his life.
A few minutes later, Tim arrived, greeting Sam with a wave and a smile. He wore jeans and a plaid shirt. Without a baseball cap, Sam could see that his light-brown hair was thinning, and that his teeth were a little crooked, but when he smiled he was very appealing. Could I kiss him? Sam wondered. Could I kiss any guy? And why am I assuming that he’d even want to kiss me?
“You made it,” Tim said, offering his hand.
Sam swallowed hard as he tried to tell if the touch of the man’s hand made him feel anything. “Did you think I wouldn’t show?”
Tim’s eyes crinkled at their corners. “I figured there was a chance. What can I get you?”
Sam indicated his coffee. “I’m fine for now.”
“Okay. Be right back.” He got in line. Sam’s heart thumped even harder. Was he supposed to offer to buy the drink? What was the etiquette here? Had he screwed things up already?
“You look,” Tim observed as he came back with his coffee and took a seat, “like you’re about to pass out.”
Sam exhaled in a rush. Tim patted his shoulder. “Breathe,” he said. Sam felt relief, but no particular spark at the touch, and wondered if he’d been wrong about the whole thing.
“So,” said Tim. “You grew up in Boston, right? How’d you end up in LA?”
Sam told him his story—UC Berkeley, Marcus, Julie, and Connor, and what his life was like now. Tim told him about his year in art school in Miami—“my misspent youth”—before he’d gone into hospitality. They talked about sports, and their favorite hiking trails in Los Angeles, and then, somehow, a pleasant half hour had passed. Tim was easy to talk to, with a sharp sense of humor and that appealing smile. The longer they talked, the more relaxed Sam felt. When Tim asked if he wanted to walk a little—“there’s a park nearby”—Sam checked the time, then agreed.
As soon as they’d made it outside, he felt his fears returning. The sun felt too bright, and the world felt crowded. Moms pushed double-wide strollers; kids ran up and down and over an elaborate wooden climbing structure, chasing each other in games of tag. Tim and Sam sat on a bench. “So,” Tim said, “what do you think?”
“About…”
Tim put his hand on Sam’s shoulder, eyebrows raised. Sam could feel the weight of the other man’s palm; the press of his fingers. “Can I kiss you?”
Sam hesitated, thinking. Then he told himself not to think, to just try, for once, to feel. He nodded. Tim’s palm slid up to Sam’s jaw. Sam felt his face cupped in a hand that was bigger and stronger than any hand he’d ever felt there before, and then Tim was kissing him. Sam could feel the familiar sensation of warm lips and the novelty of stubble, the way Tim smelled like male sweat and some subtly spicy cologne. He felt the other man’s lips move against his; then Tim pulled away, with a teasing crinkle around his eyes.
“So? What’s the verdict?”
Sam found that he was smiling and that his knees were wobbling. He was feeling the strangest rush of contradictory emotions, fear and arousal, confusion and excitement, all at the same time. His belly was full of butterflies; his feet were shuffling, antsy, ready to run. Tim sat, regarding him calmly, waiting for an answer. “Huh,” Sam managed. “Wow.”
Tim smiled and thumped him on the back. “Welcome aboard, baby gay.”
* * *
Sam and Tim quickly realized that they were going to be friends and not lovers, and Sam’s next attempt at meeting someone, a few months later, was considerably less successful. When Connor agreed to spend a Saturday night with the one babysitter he liked, Sam and Tim had gone to a dance party, an underground bash held in what was literally a bar’s basement. Sam had presented his proof of vaccination, gotten his hand stamped, then stood in a corner staring as, less than a foot away, men in underpants made of less cloth than their face masks and body glitter were gyrating on platforms. This is how men our age meet each other? he yelled to Tim, hoping the other man could read lips.