Chapter One
NATHAN
“God damn it.”I cringe at my outburst and peek around the office, hoping none of my coworkers overheard. No one is glaring at me, so I’m safe. For now. My email pings again, and I contain my emotions this time.It’s just an email. Apparently, my overexcited nervous system can’t distinguish between annoying emails and a life-or-death situation.
I seldom work myself up over simple emails, but I spent the last three hours reading, responding, and sorting my inbox until zero messages remained. For a brief moment, I felt invincible. Then the bubble broke as new emails started rolling in, reminding me of the endless email merry-go-round.
I open one of the offending messages. It’s a simple request from Daniel, one of the after-school program site directors, for new craft supplies before St. Patrick’s Day so the students can make paper shamrocks and rainbows. Since he also wants glitter, the parents will be thrilled to take them home. There’s a reason it’s called the herpes of craft supplies.
As the manager for the thirteen sites across the city where we run programs, I field requests and ensure each site director has what they need to operate the program. Some requests, like this one, are simple and only require me to requisition the materials for Williams Elementary in a few weeks. Other times, I’m dealing with disgruntled parents or—my least favorite—handling concerns about child welfare.
I’m halfway through my response to Daniel when another three emails come through. This is why I keep falling behind. Fortunately, I set up a triage system years ago to ensure site director emails stay at the top of the inbox and everyone else filters down the list. It helps, but that number next tounread messagesstill taunts me.
I fire off my promise to deliver plenty of green construction paper and gold glitter to the elementary school next month and check my watch. If I’m going to be on time to meet my friends at our favorite bar, The Flaming Unicorn, I need to leave now. I scroll through one last time to check for any urgent messages.
Everything else comes from one of my colleagues, primarily on the fundraising team. Our annual fundraising event is only three months away, and they work non-stop this time of year to ensure it goes according to plan. I’m grateful for all the work because it funds my annual budget to support the site directors, but event planning hurts my head. There are too many small details, organization of other people, and a long list of things that can—and probably will—go wrong.
Everything can wait until tomorrow morning. I log off my computer and fire off a message in the group chat to let the guys know I’m on the way. If I go straight there without stopping at home to change clothes, I’ll make it just in time. Since anyone late must buy a round, it’s worth staying in my work attire.
“Nathan?” A tentative voice calls my name. I close my eyes and take a deep, cleansing breath. If Victoria’s talking to me, it means she wants something.
“What’s up?” I use my best customer service voice and smile.
“Oh, are you heading out?” It’s after five, and I’m wearing my coat and holding my bag. I think it’s a clear message. I’ve got two options at this point. Either I say yes, turn around, and walk out the door, leaving her to figure it out alone. Or, I can cave and do whatever she needs now.
“In a minute, what’s up?” My brain chooses option two.
“I’ve been looking over the information for the fundraiser and can’t remember what we did last year for the timing of speakers and other pieces of the night.” It’s not a question. It’s more of a statement. In her defense, she didn’t have as much responsibility last year. Due to one incompetent employee fucking around for months before being fired, one submitting their two weeks’ notice abruptly, and our development director out on maternity leave for another three months, we’re a bit short-staffed. I almost feel bad for Victoria taking all of this on.
Almost.
“There should be arun of show documenton the shared drive. It’ll have the exact timing of everything and who spoke during each segment.” I pull my messenger bag from my chair, hoping she catches the hint.
“Hmmmm... I looked all through the drive, and I didn’t find anything. Do you think someone put it in the wrong place?” Possible? Yes. Likely? No. I drop my bag down on the floor and sit at my computer. Why am I the only person who can fix this?
I’m not the only person, but Iamonly the one who makes a habit of stepping in to deal with issues outside their area. My best friend, Tyler, calls me a pushover. I’m starting to think he’s right.
It took me less than five minutes to locate the file exactly where I’d said it would be. Victoria watches over my shoulder the whole time. I email her the document plus a link to the location so she can find it again later. Preferably without asking me.
“Wow. You’re so good at finding things. Thanks.” I resist the urge to roll my eyes. The more I do things like this for her, the more she’ll keep asking me instead of figuring it out herself. And yet, I can’t keep my mouth shut. “Oh, I also wanted to check if you’ll come to a quick fundraiser huddle. We would appreciate your expertise and input.”
“Sure, when is it?” I grit my teeth. I should be drinking a beer while I listen to one of my friends regale us with his adventures on a hookup app.
“Now.” Of course. Why wouldn’t a huddle be at—I check my watch—five forty-five on a Thursday? I guess I’m going to be late tonight.
COLT
Okay.Tonight, I’m going to do it.
Fine, I’d been saying that for the last four weeks without doing anything. Tonight is different, though. I’ll leave my car, walk into the bar, and be social.
It’s not that I don’t like people. I wouldn’t go so far as to describe myself as an extrovert, but I don’t shy away from social events. But making friends as a thirty-year-old is a lot harder than I imagined. So what if the fantasy image in my mind comes from sitcoms? Between the hours I spent working at a new job, trying to organize my new apartment, and driving back and forth between Cardinal Falls and my hometown to help my dad, I didn’t have much time for socializing. Now that the driving backand forth was off the list, I have a little time to invest in making friends. My new colleagues are friendly, but I need to converse with someone on a topic other than spreadsheets.
And that’s why I’m sitting in my parked car, hyping myself up to go inside The Flaming Unicorn. I’d spent countless hours researching the best gay bars in the area, trying to find something that fit my vibe. I didn’t want a place filled with drunk twenty-one-year-olds grinding against me all night. Don’t get me wrong, the grinding doesn’t sound bad, but I want a place where I can hear the person next to me during a conversation. So why, after all that research, am I still hesitating?
My phone buzzes in the cupholder, and I glance at the caller ID—my sister. I can guess what she has to say, and she can tell it to my voicemail. She always calls after visiting my dad in the senior living center we moved him to recently. He works her up over me leaving home for the big, liberal city—his words, obviously. They think if they call and complain enough, I might reconsider both the moving and the being gay.
That’s part of why tonight is so important to me. I couldn’t go to gay bars back home. Not without it becoming the town gossip for the month. I visited the occasional place when I traveled, but I still always found myself looking over my shoulder.
