The Black Lives Matter benefit was at a swanky hotel in downtown San Francisco, which meant navigating not just the traffic but also parking. Since Diego was getting there while I was still at work I decided to ride along with Jack and Oscar, who’d bought tickets before I even knew I was going. It was the opposite of anything I’d ever thought Oscar would do, but Jack was exactly the sort of white progressive with disposable income who could be relied upon to buy tickets to fundraisers.
It was a little weird that Diego was meeting Oscar (and Jack) before, say, Dec—as Dec had pointed out to me in a series of snaps earlier—but on the other hand it was also less stressful. At least I knew Oscar wouldn’t be giving my mom a precis of the event.
“I hate literally everything on earth,” Jack grumbled as he attempted to parallel park in a spot on a hill while driving a stick shift. “Please tell me Diego’s fashion show will not be in San Francisco.”
“Berkeley,” I said. “Still no parking, but fewer hills.”
“Thank god.”
“Hey, I was all for staying home but no, you wanted to save the world.” Oscar rested his head back and closed his eyes. “Go go gadget beta blockers.”
Jack glanced over. “Are they helping?”
“Maybe. Or maybe it’s the placebo effect.”
“They’re blood pressure meds. It’s probably not the placebo effect.”
“I don’t care if it is, they’re working.”
“Maybe I can help,” I mused. “Should I give you a little shoulder massage or something, Oscar? You know. Relax you?”
His shoulders climbed almost to his ears. “Oh my god, do not touch me. Do not. I will scream like a little girl.”
Jack and I exchanged smirks. He shook his head. “The man is fucking with you. Obviously.”
I leaned forward so my head was between their seats. “Hell yeah, I am. Sure you don’t want a snuggle?”
Oscar shuddered. “Shut up. Both of you shut up.”
“And, at last, we have parked.” Jack killed the engine and pulled out his phone. “Of course we saw the place twenty minutes ago so who knows how many miles we’re gonna have to walk to get there...”
“I’ll wait in the car. Bring me back something from those fancy trays they pass around. Deviled eggs. Or a what d’you call it, amuse bouche.” Oscar hadn’t opened his eyes yet.
I snorted. “You want us to smuggle you out deviled eggs? What, in our pockets?”
“Shut up.”
Jack closed whatever he’d been looking at on his phone with a triumphant sort of flourish. “We’re not even that far away, we must have doubled back at some point in the knot of one-way streets. Buck up, Oscar. Time to go.” He patted Oscar’s leg in this way no one had ever touched Oscar, not in the time I’d known him. Almost perfunctorily. Like he was so used to touching Oscar, he didn’t even think about it.
And Oscar didn’t flinch. Sometimes you have no idea what your friends really need until they find it.
Another few assorted moans and groans later, we were on our way to the ’do.
The fashion show part of the evening happened once everyone had gotten a glass of champagne and a few refreshments (deviled eggs not among them, to Oscar’s disappointment). I shot a slightly giddy TikTok for GFW gushing about how important it was to support the local scene, and how exciting it was to be on the “front line of fashion”—yes, I actually said that, and yes, I almost immediately regretted it. Still, I wanted a chance to link to the benefit’s site, and, well, I was genuinely giddy. I hadn’t seen Diego since early that morning and I was eager to, uh, hear how the show had gone backstage. Sure. That. Not at all that I wanted to run up to him and kiss him for putting out such brilliant work on such a short timeframe. Or working to raise money for an important cause. Or just generally being freaking amazing.
“Ugh,” Oscar muttered as I scanned the crowd. “You’re all lovesick and disgusting.”
“Don’t be jealous,” I shot back.
“Really not. I’ve already got my—my—” He faltered hard on what exactly Jack was and broke off in confusion.
I grinned. “You’re adorable.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
Jack patted his arm. “There there, snookums, it’s okay with me if Mason knows our pet names for each other.”
Oscar glared at him. “You ever call me that again and I swear I might not be able to control myself.”
“And I’ll come home from work one day to find you’ve reorganized all of my suits in backwards order and then where will I be?”
I could not help giggling. “That was mean.”
“I’m a mean man,” Jack said solemnly.
“Both of you can shut up. Plus, isn’t that Diego over there?”
It was a sure sign of my desperation that I fell for it. I knew the second I turned that Diego would not, in fact, be “over there.” But I looked just in case.
“Wow, Mase, you really do have it bad. I’ve seen the dude’s picture on Google once, as if I’d be able to spot him in a room full of people. If you walk six feet away I won’t even be able to see you anymore, you’ll just become part of the panic-hued blur that—”
“There he is,” Jack said, cutting across the ramble and nodding to my left.
Oscar spun on him and demanded to know how he could recognize someone he’d only seen on the internet, but I was gone before I could hear the answer.
My path was blocked by a lot of beautiful people in glamorous clothing, and you had to love a room full of so many people of color tricked out in their finest. I was having some warm, fuzzy feels by the time I got to Diego, who spotted me before I managed to navigate the bodies to get to him.
I saw his lips form the words Excuse me and then he was striding (or, okay, ambling nimbly) through bodies to get to me. We kissed before anything else, all fire and energy and delight.
“You were amazing,” I said breathlessly. “The models were amazing. It was all amazing.”
“Thank you, god, it’s been such a rush, everyone is so nice and helpful, they even got my name and bio on the program with the GFW links—”
“—I saw! It’s so good—”
Then we were kissing again, taking advantage of the crowd to share a moment together in a way we couldn’t have done if there were fewer people.
“And look at this place!” I micro-gestured. “I can’t believe it’s this full.”
“The tickets sold out last week. Did you see scalpers? We heard a rumor there were scalpers.”
“Oh my god, fundraiser scalpers, that’s wild! Everyone in the show was great. Some of those designs were so beautiful.” I hadn’t been able to gush—not in the company of Oscar and Jack—but now it all came out of me. “The headdress with the snake!”
“I know! And it’s a very nice snake, they let me pet it. What about the suit with the tails that morphed into a bridal train?”
“Right? You have to talk to whoever that is for GFW next year!”
He laughed and because I was so damn happy I laughed too, as if the energy of the day demanded it.
I took his arm more formally—after a few more kisses—and said, “Okay, we’re supposed to mingle. I have my orders. Mingle, but not too much, make sure you stay hydrated...oh, have you eaten anything?”
“When? We’ve been working forever.”
“Let’s start there and grab you some water as well. And then: mingling.”
He inhaled long and then exhaled, leaning his head briefly against mine. “God, you’re the best. Okay. And if I scratch the back of my neck?”
“I’ll rescue you, obviously. Because state secrets.”
“King and country,” he agreed.
“Exactly.”
For the next couple of hours we wandered from group to group, sometimes joining for a while, sometimes stopping just long enough to network and for everyone to lavish praise on Diego’s “looks.” An older white lady congratulated him on “bringing ethnicity into his clothes—but not in an overbearing way, you know,” at which point I choked on a sip of wine and he scratched the back of his neck so we got out of there as fast as we could. For the most part, though, everyone was lovely and not at all racist.
Claris only checked in once, demanding a selfie of both of us together, then sending one of herself in a bubble bath. “Down, boy,” I said to Diego, who was focusing on the message to a singular degree.
“Um. Right. Where...what were we saying?”
I laughed without even a tinge of jealousy. Maybe he was hot for his (truly hot) wife, but he was here with me, and I knew without asking that it’s where he wanted to be. “Who the hell knows what we were saying? Claris derailed it by being naked. Anyway, they just brought the snake out, I demand you introduce me.”
“That could go...so many different ways.”
“Come on!”
We spent some time with the snake and its super-cute young handler, who gave off basically all the queer vibes, between their rainbow-dyed hair, eyebrow piercing (I didn’t know the youth still did that), and the word QUEER tattooed across their fingers. Not a lot of mistaking that. So we stayed to chat a bit and they told Diego his flowery suit shirt was their favorite piece in the show.
“That means so much to me!” he said, and meant it, because he was genuine and sincere and just so Diego. My smile muscles hurt from laughing so much, from beaming every time he opened his mouth. By the time we were saying goodbye to Oscar and Jack my face was actually sore.
“It was wonderful,” Jack said, shaking Diego’s hand. “I’m glad you had the opportunity to participate.”
“Me too. Next to this my own show will be a lot more low-key.”
“I look forward to that one too.”
“So do I,” Oscar said, giving me a quick, tight hug. “But right now I look forward to going home. Bye, Mase.” Brief wave. “Diego. We—”
He was interrupted by a man exclaiming, “Can I shake your hand?” and grabbing Diego’s hand without waiting for a response.
White guy. In case it needed to be said.
“Your pieces were just fabulous, I loved all three of them, shame you had to follow the snake though, wasn’t it? I couldn’t believe that! Not that I’m against it, just that it was unexpected, you know what I mean? And you’re married!” He turned to me and held out his hand.
His grip was clammy and I extracted myself as quickly as possible.
“I had no idea you were—I mean, I knew you were married, but I had no idea—well, you know.” He smiled brightly. “How long have you two been together?”
I froze. My face went perfectly still and I must have stopped breathing because no part of me could move in the harshness of that too-personal and yet totally casual question.
Oscar, somewhere far away, whispered, “Shit.”
“We’ve been together awhile,” Diego said smoothly, taking my hand. “I’m so glad you liked the show. Thanks for coming and I hope you have a wonderful night.” The pressure of his grip increased and I followed/was led away, with Jack and Oscar trailing in our wake. “Just keep going until we’ve made the point we don’t want to talk to him,” Diego murmured. “Sometimes they pursue, but mostly they get the picture.”
I heard all that, but only beneath a loud buzzing in my ears, a rush-of-blood sort of sound, like I’d just come off the free fall of a roller coaster and could only hear the wind. A casual question. The sort of personal question strangers feel compelled to ask all the time. The sort of assumption strangers make all the time. You’re obviously together, you must be married. And we weren’t. We’d never be.
Which I knew. Had always known. Had thought I’d gotten over.
“That sucked,” Oscar said from behind me.
“People are intrusive and have zero boundaries,” Jack added.
It had sucked and people did have zero boundaries. So why was I suddenly so angry? Not at the guy—though wow, I seriously hoped someone eventually decked him—but at myself. I would never be That Guy. The married one. The one who could tell a story about how I’d met my one true love.
As long as I was with Diego, that could never exist.
“You okay?” he asked after leading all of us out into the lobby for a little breathing room. He kissed me lightly but I barely felt it. “Mase?”
“Yeah. I don’t know.” Except I did know. I just didn’t want to feel it.
“We’ll take some time and when we go back in he’ll have gone off to bother other people, okay?”
I was staring at the pocket square. Burnt umber. He’d worn it to match my shirt and offered me one to match his string tie.
“Mason?”
Shit. I had to get it together. I looked up—at Diego, and past him, at Oscar, who was meeting my eyes with something hard glittering in his. “You know. I think. I’m a little.” Sentences. I needed sentences. “I’m a little tired.”
Diego frowned and took both of my hands in his. “That was awful, but I swear, it gets easier to deal with the misunderstanding. If you think about it, it’s just a sign that we look right together, you know? He assumed we’d been together for years. That’s kind of...kind of cool, isn’t it?”
“Is it?” I couldn’t stand how much he wanted me to engage, to feel better, to make him feel better. I shook my head. “Sorry, I’m just...” I could say I was too tired. I could say I needed to get home so I could get to work in the morning. I could make up any excuse in the book.
Or I could not.
“I need a little bit of time,” I said, keeping my voice very low and very measured. “I know that you’ve had to deal with this for a while, but it’s new to me, and I...just need some time to think about it. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
He swallowed hard, like he was gulping back unspoken words, and nodded. “Okay. All right. Thank you...thank you for coming. It’s meant everything to me.”
Because Claris couldn’t be here and I’m the backup plan, yeah, I know. I didn’t say that, though. There’s a difference between being in a lousy mood and being a prick. I squeezed his hands and let go. “You did so well tonight. It was extraordinary. It was so....so amazing. Watching you. Your show. Your designs up there.” Suddenly there was a very real chance I might lose it right here in the lobby of a glamorous hotel. “Goodnight.”
I backed up a few steps and then made for the door and waited outside for Oscar and Jack to catch up.
No one spoke until we were back at the car and after we’d pulled into traffic. Then Oscar said, “Welp. You’re gonna regret the shit out of that later.”
I stared out the window and let the lights blur into streams of color. “Go to hell, Oscar.”
“I’m just saying.”
Jack sighed. “As an idea, snookums, and I know this is hard for you, but you might consider not saying. For once.”
“Hey, he was an asshole to me when I fucked things up with you. I can’t return the favor?”
“Maybe you want to give it a few days before you point out all the ways Mason’s going to feel bad? Just a thought.”
“Fine. But he will feel bad. And this time he won’t have Dec to blame for it.”
And that—that—hit home. “Seriously, Oscar, shut the fuck up.” Except instead of sounding strong and pissed it sounded watery and miserable.
But at least this time he shut the fuck up.