“Come again?”
“I know that makes me sound like I’m in preschool or something. It’s not even the main question, but I feel like we should establish a friendship before I ask you what I really want to ask you. I’ve spent the whole day, the whole school year, really, realizing that I might not actually like my friends all that much. Which is why I’m at a bar by myself on a night when everyone else is with other people. I wasn’t supposed to be here, but here I am, and then here you are, and it’s like a flashing arrow is pointing at you, telling me that you are someone I should know.”
“Uhm,” Mark says.
Ryan mutters something about invisibility, but I don’t ask him what he means because I’m too focused on Mark’s face.
“I guess?” he says. “I mean, if you want to.”
“Okay, good. So now for the real question: Have you ever wanted something so badly that it sort of takes over your life? Like, you still do all the things you’re supposed to do, but you’re just going through the motions because you are entirely consumed by this one thing?”
The blush that was beginning to fade comes rushing back to his face, even deeper than before, and his eyes dart toward Ryan and then quickly away. Interesting.
Mark nods, and he really looks into my face as he does it, and I look hard back at him, and it is clear: We understand each other.
“I just ran away from a girl I don’t know yet,” I tell him.
He smiles. “She sounds that bad?”
“No,” I say. “She sounds amazing. She’s supposed to change my life.”
“So what happened?”
“She’s all I can think about all the time,” I say.
“Yes,” he says. He understands.
“Have you ever wanted something so badly that when it’s about to happen, you feel this need to sabotage yourself?”
His eyes stay fixed on mine and I can tell that he’s trying to follow me to this place, but he ends up shaking his head.
“No,” he says. “I don’t think I work that way.”
“I didn’t think I did, either. I’ve been waiting for this night for months. And then, I just…” I shrug. I feel my eyes well up.
“Wait, wait, wait,” he says. “Don’t give up. It’s still tonight. Where were you supposed to meet her?”
“At this party.”
“Okay, and is it close?”
“Yeah, just through the park and over a few blocks.”
“Has anyone tried to get in touch with you?”
I groan. “I’m afraid to look.”
“Then hand it over.” He waits. I dig my phone out of my bag and place it, screen down, into the broad palm of his hand.
“Whoa,” he says, the light of the screen illuminating his face. “Twenty-three texts from Lehna Morgan.”
“Go ahead.”
“Want me to read them all or just the highlights?”
“Just the highlights.”
He scrolls down the list.
“They’re mostly variations on ‘Where the fuck are you?’ A few ‘Are you okay?’s.’”
“Keep going.”
“One says: ‘Violet just got here.’ Is that the girl?”
I nod.
“Okay, hold on.… Oh.”
“What?”
“She left. About five minutes ago.”
“Is she coming back?”
“Lehna doesn’t say.”
I look into my drink. Mostly empty. Just some remnants of ice cubes.
“Maybe I should order another one.”
“Or we could try to find her.”
Mark’s face is open, hopeful—a perfect antidote to the despair slowly settling in me. I’m about to ask him how we’d go about finding her, but the music gets softer and a man’s voice booms out that the winner of the midnight underwear dance contest has been determined.
People cheer and I cheer with them, rooting for my new friend, Mark, who is not looking toward the bartender but is instead scanning the room, the hope on his face now mingling with concern as the bartender says, “Defeating our reigning champ, Patrick, Mark takes the crown tonight. Mark, are you still out there? Get your all-American sexy butt up here to collect your prize.”
And then the music is loud again and everyone is dancing.
“Aren’t you gonna go up there?” I ask him. “The prize could be something good. You know, penis-shaped lollipops, rainbow-patterned condoms…”
But Mark doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t move. So I turn toward where he’s looking and I finally spot Ryan, who is now across the room from us. He’s with a few cute college boys, one with thick black glasses, another in a ski cap, and another who I can only see from the back, tattoos peeking out of his shirtsleeves, one hand holding a glass of beer, the other hand settled in the curve of Ryan’s back. One song fades into the next and Tattoo Boy and his friends are feeling it. He turns, takes a few gulps of beer, sets the glass on a nearby table, and starts moving with the rhythm.
I’ve probably kept Mark to myself for too long. Here he is, out in the city on the kickoff of the year’s gayest week, winning underwear contests, the object of quite a few lustful gazes, and I’ve trapped him in a corner with my crisis.
“You should go over there,” I say, but Mark doesn’t even seem to hear me. That despair I mentioned I was feeling? It’s like it has suddenly become contagious, taken over Mark’s entire body. His shoulders are slumped; his breathing seems labored.