Something local, organic, and sustainable
A floppy disk
A coffee cup with someone else’s name (or your own name, wildly misspelled)
A car with a parking ticket
A view from up high
The best pizza in the city (your choice)
A tourist doing something a local would be ashamed of doing
An umbrella (we all know real Seattleites don’t use them)
A tribute to the mysterious Mr. Cooper
7:03 p.m.
“EATING CREAM CHEESE straight out of the tub,” Neil says with a shake of his head as we drive down Fremont Avenue. “You barbarian.”
“No one has manners when they’re eating alone,” I say as I pull into a parking spot. “I’m sure you have plenty of terrible habits.”
“I’m actually quite sophisticated. I put things on plates before I eat them. You’ve heard of them, yeah? Plates? See also: bowls.”
Toward the end of dinner, we strategized: the Fremont Troll (the big guy at the center of the universe) and then a view from up high. When I suggested Gas Works Park, made famous by the paintball scene in 10 Things I Hate about You, he scoffed. “Is that really the best view in Seattle?” he asked. “It’s a view of Seattle,” I said. “It doesn’t need to be the best one.”
Fremont is busy on Friday nights. It’s not dark yet, and voices spill from bars and restaurants. Next week, during the summer solstice, Fremont will celebrate with a parade and a naked bike ride. The troll, which is nearly twenty feet tall, has a hand wrapped around an actual Volkswagen Beetle and a hubcap for an eye.
I check the time on my car’s dash for about the tenth time in the past minute. Delilah Park’s signing is in an hour, and I am now officially panicking.
She’ll be elegant, of course, like she is in all her photos. And kind. I’m sure she’ll be kind. I’ve met my parents’ author friends, but it’s not quite the same. Delilah is someone I discovered for myself, not someone my parents have over for late-night drinks whenever they’re in town. Horrified, I realized I forgot to swap my stained dress for something clean. I pray it’ll be dark in the bookstore. I don’t want to sit in the front row, but I don’t want to sit in the very back, either. What do normal people do when they go to events alone? Maybe I’ll leave my backpack on the seat next to me, pretend I’m saving it for someone.
“You have somewhere else to be?” Neil asks as we search for parking. “You keep looking at the clock.”
“Yes. I mean, no. I just—there’s something I want to do at eight.”
“Oh. Okay. Were you… planning on telling me?”
“Yes. Now.”
Even after his mini romance-novel spiel at dinner, this signing is something I have to experience on my own. If he’s there, I won’t feel like I can fully be myself, though I’m unsure who that person is, the one who’s able to love what she loves without shame.
“Okay,” he says slowly. “Where is it?”
“Greenwood. It’ll only take ten minutes to get there, and I’ll only be gone about an hour. And we’re already so far ahead,” I say, aware I sound like I’m trying to defend it. “We can meet back up and finish the game then. Unless you think you’ll be too tired?”
“I’m in it for the long haul.”
“Good. Me too.”
A bit of an awkward silence follows. I have to change the subject before I dissolve in a puddle of nerves.
“You and your sister seemed close.”
“We are,” he says before biting back a smile. “Except for the six months I convinced her she was an alien when she was eight.”
“What?” I sputter, laughing.
“She’s left-handed, and the rest of our family is right-handed, and she’s the only one who has an outie belly button, so I convinced her that meant she was an alien. She was so freaked out about it, and she was determined to try to get home to her home planet, which I told her was called Blorgon Seven. Every so often, I’ll ask her how things are going on Blorgon Seven.”
I can tell there’s genuine affection there. That he’s a good brother, though as an only child, I’ve never been able to completely understand the depths of sibling relationships. It tugs at my heart in more ways than one.
“Your poor sister.”
“And you, with your parents—you’re close,” he says, more a statement than a question.
I nod. “That was nice, what you said to them. Thank you.”
“I figured I was wrong. They are too,” he says. “But really, your parents are pretty cool. You’re lucky.”
His words feel weighty. I know I’m lucky. I really do. And I love my parents, but I don’t know how to make them understand what I want when they don’t understand what I love.
“Thank you” is all I can manage. “Again.” Politeness with Neil McNair. That’s new.
We find a parking spot a ten-minute walk from the troll. I lock my car while Neil mimes stretching, like he’s getting ready for a big race. He raises his arms skyward, his T-shirt riding up and exposing a sliver of his stomach. He’s wearing a simple brown belt, and the navy band of his boxers peeks out above his jeans.
My face grows warm. The command to look away gets lost between the part of my brain that makes good choices and the part that doesn’t. It’s as though Neil McNair’s stomach somehow does not compute in my mind. Obviously he has a stomach, and naturally it’s covered with freckles.…
Objectively, it’s an attractive stomach. That’s all this is—an appreciation of the male form. His shoulders, his arms, his stomach.
And the ring of freckles around his navel.
And the reddish hair directly beneath it that disappears into his boxers.
His arms flop back down, as does the hem of his shirt, safely concealing his stomach from view. He meets my eyes before I can avert my gaze, and one corner of his mouth quirks up.
Oh no, no, no. Does he think I was staring?
“I haven’t had a Shabbat dinner in a while,” he says, and I’m relieved because Judaism is something I can talk about. Reasons I was staring at Neil’s freckled stomach, not so much. “Thank you for that. Really. What you said, about that teacher you had…” He shakes his head. “I’ve had too many experiences like that to count. People tell you to lighten up, that you’re overreacting. Or they seem that way at first, and then it’s one ‘joke’ after another and you start wondering if you really are lesser because of it. That’s why I stopped telling people, and with my last name… no one assumed.” We fall in step, passing a frame shop and a gluten-free bakery. “But the holidays are hard. Every year, I think they won’t be, and then they are.”
“Don’t you love when people call it the holidays, or a holiday party, but everything’s red and green and there’s a fucking Santa?” I say. “It’s like they think calling it ‘holiday’ makes them automatically inclusive, but they don’t want to put in the actual work of inclusion.”
“Yes!” He nearly shouts this, so loudly that a family leaving a Thai restaurant stares at us. Neil’s laughing a little, but not because it’s funny. “I had a teacher straight-up tell me I couldn’t participate in an Easter-egg hunt, even though I wanted to.”