There’s a package waiting for me a few days later, in the mail room of my apartment. The shipping label says Rafe Rodman, but I didn’t order anything. Upstairs, in private, I open the box. Arching a brow, I pull out a pair of black briefs. The underwear isn’t the source of my skepticism—it’s that they are covered with cartoon unicorns.
* * *
Declan: Why do you get to wear the snug, solid-color Rafe Rodmans that make me want to fuck you all night long, but I get to wear unicorns?
* * *
Grant: Is there some reason you think unicorns on your ass and cock will deter me from wanting to fuck you?
* * *
Declan: Fair point.
* * *
Grant: Also, you have a unicorn cock. So there.
* * *
Declan: Maybe I’ll wear these when I see you next month.
* * *
Grant: Is that supposed to be a threat? Because it sounds more like I’m winning.
The third gift arrives the next morning—a DoorDash delivery from my favorite bakery, consisting of a half-dozen everything bagels with organic peanut butter. A note in the bag reads: In case you’re wondering what was on my mind last night in the shower, I hope this makes EVERYTHING clear. -G
I’m grinning as I toast a bagel and tap out a reply.
* * *
Declan: In case you’re wondering, I love everything about you . . . every single thing.
* * *
But I don’t send that. I want to tell him in person that every day I fall more in love with him, and that I don’t ever plan to fall out.
Instead, I backspace and type something else that’s true.
* * *
Declan: In case you’re wondering, I can’t wait to see you. Can’t wait to do everything to you. With you. For you. I just can’t wait.
* * *
That feels clear enough. I hit send.
Emma stops by later that day on her way to the Met, where she’s been working. I waggle the bag of bakery treats. “As hard as I try, I can’t eat six bagels in one day. Well, it’s five, now, since I had one already.”
“And you know there is nothing worse than day-old bagels.” She shudders dramatically. “Luckily, I’m here to save the day. Toast one for me?”
“It’s important to have standards,” I say, then drop the bagel into the toaster.
“I want the works,” she says, and I snicker to myself because she’s not getting the full works for an everything bagel.
“Inside joke?” Emma asks.
“Yes, it is.”
She flashes an I knew it grin. “So, you guys have inside jokes, now, and send each other gifts?”
“We do,” I answer.
When the bagel is ready, she bites into it and rolls her eyes in gastronomic delight. Once she swallows, she fixes me with a no-nonsense stare. “Declan Steele, when a man like Grant Blackwood sends you bagels this good, shares insider jokes, and ships you gifts, you have to find a way to be with him.”
Those feel like words to live by.
One thing I’ve learned at therapy: shrinks will wait for you to find the answer.
Mine has an Oprah vibe, both in her looks and her demeanor. She’s patient, wise, and inviting.
When I walk into Carla’s homey, earth-toned office on West Seventy-Second Street on a Wednesday afternoon in May, I’m armed with questions.
I sink onto her couch and fire away. “Do you think I’m ready? Do you think I’ve been getting away with murder the last few months? Do you think I’ll slide into old habits?”
She smiles softly—sagely too—as she crosses her legs. “Would you like me to answer all three at once, or should we start at the top?”
“Fine. We can take it one at a time,” I say with a faux huff.
“Okay. Question one. Are you ready?” She leans forward, tilts her head, studies me. “Are you, Declan?”
I breathe deeply, looking inside for the answer. It feels just out of reach. “That’s what I want to know.”
“Did you come here a year ago to be ready for a relationship, or did you come here to learn better skills—ones that can help you in any relationship?”
“The latter?”
“Is it a question?” she asks with a light laugh.
“The latter,” I say decisively.
“I’d say so too. So, Declan, do you think you’ve put those skills into practice?”
I cycle back over the last year—the way I’ve been open with my mom, letting her deeper into my life, telling her about Grant; the way I talk to Emma; the way I shared with Nadia; and most of all, how I am with Grant.
But also, maybe even most importantly, how I’ve handled my dad. Turns out not giving him a ride unlocked something in me.
Erecting that boundary gave me a new kind of freedom—to live life on my terms. It gave me the freedom to talk to Grant during spring training—and after spring training, and for the entire month of April. Also, for all of May so far.
“Yes. I talk to Grant almost every day,” I say, then amend that. “Every day. We talk every day. As you know.”
Carla nods. “As I know.”
“Should I feel guilty about that? Am I breaking the promise I made to myself? To you?”
“Do you feel guilty about talking to him?”
It’s a fair question. “I thought I would. I worried I would be going back on my word. But I don’t feel guilty at all. I feel calm.”
“And why do you think that is?”
“Maybe I was more ready than I thought?”
She nods a few times, like she’s considering my answer and hasn’t been waiting for me to arrive on my own. “Or maybe you had to become ready sooner,” she says. “Life doesn’t always come at you in neat packages and timelines. Life and love happen on their own schedule.”
I reach for the green pillow on the couch, absently running a hand down it then bouncing my knee, fidgeting. “Are you saying I sped things up with Grant?”
She leans forward. “I’m saying what you did in February was what you wanted to do. Right?”
“Yes.” By February she means the weekend of the awards, when I reconnected with Grant officially, and that was exactly what I wanted to do.
“And since then, you’ve been doing what you want, haven’t you? Talking to him. Staying in touch. Being . . . boyfriends?”
A breath stutters from my lips. Is that what we are? Grant and I haven’t defined us at all. But with a few simple questions from Carla, here we are. Completely defined. Completely obvious.
“He’s my boyfriend,” I confirm, and my God, it feels incredible to say that out loud.
My therapist smirks, then laughs a little bit, seeming pleased. “Pretty hard to call him anything else.”