From what I could tell, Gem’s record collection went no later than the later works of George Michael, so while I waited for Lily, I picked out some Decemberist and National records for her Christmas present. Then I went over to Bowie and found a pristine remaster of Young Americans. As I flipped through all of his albums, his glance traveled around the room—eyes up, eyes down, side glance, straight-on stare. It was as if he never wanted to be photographed the same way twice. Here was a person of his own invention. I had to admire that, and wonder how I could get there myself.
“I once had a babysitter who would show us Labyrinth every time she came over,” Lily’s voice said from somewhere close behind me. “I was never sure whether David Bowie was a Muppet or a god. I didn’t know he was a singer until Langston started getting into his music. When I asked him what he was listening to, he showed me the album, and I said, ‘Oh! The guy from Labyrinth!’ He thought that was hysterical.”
I turned around and gave her a kiss. Then I said, “Gee, my life’s a funny thing.”
“Why?” she asked.
“Oh,” I said. I held up Young Americans. “It’s from the title song.”
“I guess I have some catching up to do.”
She started sifting through the records in the row next to Bowie’s. The song overhead shifted to “Wonderwall.” Her face lit up. “Oh,” she said, “I know this one. And love it. Though I still don’t really know what a wonderwall is.”
“That’s what’s so perfect about it,” I told her. “He’s made up this whole word for how he feels about the person he loves. The line before it, saying maybe you’ll be the one to save me, is what defines wonderwall.”
“Well, in that case, you’re my … songloop.”
“And you, Lily, are my joypill.”
We flipped through records some more.
Casually, I said, “I saw your Instagram.”
She kept flipping through the Bs and Cs. “I haven’t posted anything in days. It’s the same as last week.”
“Yeah. But that’s kinda what I’m trying to say. I’ve never actually looked at it before.”
Lily picked up a Brandi Carlile record, then put it back. She looked Brandi in the eye, not me, when she said, “Okay …”
It was starting to feel like a mistake to bring this up. I said, “It’s not that I wasn’t interested in you. You see that, right? It was because I was interested in you.”
This got Lily to look at me. “You didn’t check my Instagram because you were interested in me?”
“I’m interested in the in-person version of you,” I explained. “Not the … creation that’s on there.”
This was not the right thing to say.
“How is that creation not me?”
“No! It is you! I know that. But it’s not—” I stopped myself.
“It’s not what?”
“It’s not the you I love.”
Triple-wrong thing to say.
Lily put the Brandi Carlile record back, then faced me fully. “Dash, I know you think you’re better than the internet. There’s a part of me that absolutely loves the fact that you want to write letters instead of emailing, and hold off on seeing each other until we can actually see each other face to face. But when this Dash comes out, the one who can only see me if he’s looking down his nose at me—well, let me put it this way: That is not the Dash I love.”
“Fair,” I conceded. “Totally fair.”
“You’re not the judge! Of anything!”
“Of anything?”
“No. Because your opinion matters too much to me!”
When you hit quadruple wrong, you basically have two options: You can dig in until you end up buried … or you can put your shoulder to the wrong and try to move it in the other direction.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Nothing is coming out right. I’m trying to confess something to you; it isn’t meant to come out as an accusation. What I’m trying to say is that this part of your life that was abstract to me before is now full of specifics. Your life has flashed before my eyes and it’s not a view that I’m used to. I am a private person. I have always been a private person. You are the only person I have ever let wholly into my privacy. And I guess my way of seeing that, of getting used to that, was to think that you’d come into the privacy with me. That we were there together. But that required a very selective blindness on my part. Because this whole time, you were building something out in public. I knew it was there. I love talking to you about it. But it hadn’t occurred to me that I was able to see it from afar.”
“It’s just pictures, Dash. Pictures of me and my dogs.”
“I know, I know. That’s what social media is: the fronts of the postcards, rarely what’s written on the backs. I wanted the full postcard, Lily. But as a result, I missed out on seeing where you were. Because that’s what the front of the postcard says, even if it isn’t personal.”
“I wasn’t sending you messages on my Instagram. I know you’re not on there. I know that’s not how we communicate.”
“But it’s a part of your life, isn’t it? And it would be easier for me to see if I were on there. If I were a good boyfriend, who checked his girlfriend’s posts.”
“Stop. Really. If you thought that was what I wanted, do you think I ever would’ve started dating you?”
I was about to say Fair, totally fair, but I stopped myself.
Lily smiled. “It’s okay. You can say it.”
“Nope. Not gonna say it.”
“Did you follow me?”
“I’d follow you anywhere.”
“Not true. And I meant on Instagram.”
“I don’t have a profile anymore. Thus, cannot follow you. I’m content to be your number one lurker.”
“Be sure you sign all your valentines that way.”
“Maybe I can buy my valentines at Lily-the-Dogwalker-dot-com. I recall seeing something heart-shaped.”
“Those were treats.”
“I can get them engraved. A special treat from your number one lurker.”
“If you do that, I’m getting you a collar for Christmas.”
“Kinky.”
“Ew.”
“Look, why don’t I go buy these, and then we can venture out. London awaits!”
“I thought you wanted to be back in New York?”
“I want to be with you. And since you’re here and I’m here, let’s make the most of our temporary city and the wild and precious day.”
I knew Lily would love Covent Garden, with its ornament stalls and ever-present carolers. Gem’s vinyl safely in a bag under my arm, we turned into the area around Seven Dials, stopping for ice cream at a place called Udderlicious. It was only as we were sitting at the table, licking the salted caramel (her) and the black cherry (me), that the sheer ordinariness of what we were doing hit me, as well as how it hadn’t been ordinary in what felt like ages.
Lily saw me pause.
“What?” she asked.
“You’re here,” I said. “You’re really here.”