And I’ve got zero interest in venturing down this path. “I don’t want to involve the world in my dating-or-not-dating woes.”
“Declan,” she says in a tone that brooks no argument. “You need to talk to my brother, not me.”
Ohhhhhh. Fitz is the surprise. I don’t know what I expected, except I’ve been conditioned to expect the worst. “But you’re the only one who understands all my stuff . . .” She’s the one person I’ve shared the real shit with.
“Yes, and I know, too, that you don’t open up that easily to people,” she says in the understatement of the century. “But I’m as alone as you are. I don’t know the first thing about how to fall in love or win back the man of my dreams. And I also don’t know how all of that differs for two men.” She sets a hand on my arm. “You need advice from two men who are very happy together.”
When we reach the café, Fitz has his arm stretched across the back of his chair while he laughs at something Dean said. I sit with the guys, and we shoot the breeze on sports and work while we order coffee. But before long, Fitz cuts through the small talk. “All right, what’s the story? You want to get back together with your guy, and you need to figure out how to do it?”
This feels like too many moments I’ve tried to escape, ones where people think they know me. But Emma’s right. She’s smart and sensitive, but she isn’t navigating the same waters I am.
I swallow the knot of awkward in my throat. My voice sounds weird to my ears, but I say the uncomfortable words anyway. “He’s coming to New York next week, and I don’t know how the hell to pull this off. I don’t know the first thing about . . .”
When I falter, Dean jumps in. “Love? Relationships? Putting your heart on the line?”
“I don’t even know how to ask him if he’ll give me the time of day,” I say, feeling terribly exposed.
Fitz doesn’t seem fazed by my cluelessness. “Don’t overthink it,” he says. “Just call him and tell him you want to talk to him when he’s here. It’s that simple.”
But is it? “What if he says no?” I ask in a strained tone, scratching the back of my neck.
“Then you’re in the same spot you’re in now. But if he doesn’t . . .” Dean offers a hopeful smile.
“And you’ll regret it if you don’t try,” Fitz says, then drapes his arm around his husband. “Look. I very nearly lost this guy back in London because I was chicken-shit like you. It’s hard to crack open your heart and let someone see it. I didn’t know what to say, or how to do it. But I couldn’t risk losing him, so I figured it out on the fly.” Fitz looks at Dean like he’s the answer to all his prayers, then turns back to me. “I told him how I felt.”
But telling Grant how I feel isn’t going to be enough. Grant will want to know why I iced him. He deserves to know not only the details about my father, but also what it cost me when I was younger.
How I almost lost the things that mattered most.
But as Fitz takes Dean’s hand, I’m sure they’re what I should aspire to—honesty, communication, and putting it all on the line.
Couple goals, not a couples’ trip.
Screw being chicken-shit.
Later that night, when I’m home alone, I pace through my living room, staring at the East River, the lights from the skyscrapers twinkling over the water as I dial Grant.
“Hey,” he says, answering on the third ring.
Someone shouts “Split!” in the background. Who is he with? What is he doing?
“Did I call you at a bad time?”
“It’s fine. I’m at my grandparents’. We were playing Bananagrams.”
I smile at the image of him with his family in California. But I can’t linger on it. I have to say why I called, so I lay it on the line. “Can I see you when you’re in New York next week?”
He pauses, then I hear footsteps and the noise receding as if he’s walking away. A door shuts. A car passes close by. He must have stepped outside.
“What do you mean, ‘see me in New York’?” He sounds wary. “What are you asking for, Declan?”
Yup. Knew this wouldn’t be easy. “I want to talk to you, Grant. Alone. You and