I should have known I had a problem when she put her head in my lap during George W. Bush’s State of the Union address.

You see, I’d made a deal with myself just a few months before. I had recently moved to Washington, D.C after an 18-month stint traveling the world alone. That journey had changed my life. I’d learned to finally accept the fact I was attracted to men. But my awakening was nascent—so tender, so new, that I had not yet found the courage to tell a single friend or family member. In exchange for giving myself a fresh start in a new city, I promised to be open and honest about my sexuality with every new person I would meet. Eventually, I hoped, I’d find confidence in speaking my truth, all while weaving a supportive safety net of new friends. Only then could I summon the grit to come out to my family back in Illinois and the close friends I’d left behind in San Diego. 

At the time, the move had felt exhilarating—even risky. Living authentically in a brand-new place would be a massive leap forward. But looking back now, I recognize it was only a baby step, an incremental inching forward. In fact, I was merely playing the same fear-based game of compartmentalization I’d perfected as a 30-year-old closet case. I would soon learn there are big risks with parceling your authenticity: eventually, worlds collide. 

Enter Kelly.

*

The receptionist patched me through. Kelly answered.

“JONEKA?” I ask.

The line went silent. JONEKA was Kelly’s prosecutorial code that appeared next to all her court appearances on rap sheets. I knew she wouldn’t have heard that in a while. It was an inside joke, an echo from days gone by.

“It’s PYATJS,” I continued. “I’m living in D.C. now.”

Kelly and I had been domestic violence prosecutors in San Diego. We worked among an unusually tight group of self-righteous trial junkies. Her office was only three doors down from mine, and I’d frequently cheer her on, or commiserate with her, as she went back and forth to the courthouse arena.  The cycle of violence in those cases was tough to watch, and we had front-row seats. Survivors would often return to their abusers and recant their allegations in court. That left it to us to prove our cases beyond a reasonable doubt with shrieking 9-1-1 tapes, medical records, and fuzzy Polaroids. But it was the late ‘90s—just a few years after the O.J. Simpson verdict. We thought we were preventing homicides. We were true believers. The family violence cases attracted the most aggressive pit bulls in our prosecutorial pack.

Yet, even amidst these alpha dogs, Kelly dazzled as a fearless litigator. She refused to be cowed by defense attorneys, even when her case might have atrophied. This meant she practically lived at the courthouse; she was so often in trial. She also had a not-so-secret office romance with our supervisor, a lantern-jawed, chiseled gym rat with a thick mop of curly hair. One day, it was obvious that it was over. Her silent wrath explained his sheepish shame. We assumed he had cheated on her, but none of us knew how their relationship imploded. To her credit, she was a vault. But she was done. She left San Diego so abruptly—to work for an international human rights organization in central Asia, no less—we didn’t even have a farewell party for her. Kelly knew how to set boundaries and make an exit.

“Jon?” The pause betrayed her bafflement. “What in the hell are you doing here?”

“Meet me for a drink.”

Truth be told, I had no clue what I was doing in D.C. Sure, I was ostensibly preparing for a career in the foreign service or Capitol Hill. I had my public-facing ducks in a row: French lessons, economics courses, studying for the foreign service exam. But what I was really doing was figuring out how to navigate the world as a gay man at a time when it was still constitutional for states to criminalize private, consensual gay sex in America.

We met at a watering hole popular with journalists and the suited, spectacled visa-stampers from Embassy Row. She sat at a table by herself. She looked the same as when I’d last seen her: beautiful, in that girl-next-door way; brown, curly hair gathered just at her shoulders; teeth flashing brilliantly when she smiled. She stood when she saw me, then we embraced with a warmth and a familiarity I had forgotten existed. She even smelled of the same perfume. I had lost about 75 pounds since she’d last seen me. I could tell she noticed the difference but struggled with whether to say anything. 

“Thanks for reaching out,” she said. “I hate how my time in San Diego ended.”

She seemed embarrassed. Perhaps a bit nervous, too.

“You did seem to be in a hurry,” I quipped. But I, too, was eager to write off the past. I was not there to pick scabs—hers or mine. “You don’t need to explain yourself to me.”

I felt excited to know I was no longer alone in a new city. Washington, as I would eventually learn, can be a notoriously difficult town in which to establish oneself. Everyone is climbing a ladder. “Who do you work for?” is usually the first question on everyone’s lips. When done poorly, this can make the town feel transactional to its core. Folks cultivate friendships to ascend. They flaunt contacts like a wad of cash. To demonstrate their proximity to power, they’ll speak of Senators and Cabinet secretaries by their first names. As someone brand new to the city, I lacked that currency. I had no value. I was not yet useful to anyone.  I was on the outside looking in. 

But now, I was no longer alone. I had Kelly.

Over drinks—red wine for her, scotch for me—I learned she had beaten me to Washington by only a few months. We regaled one another with tales of our travels. She had been on a quixotic struggle to boost women’s freedom at an international nonprofit. She told me how she had smuggled a duffel bag of Power Bars into Tashkent because she could not choke down another greasy serving of lamb palov. I updated her on my adventures: from my horror at having eaten dog meat in Hanoi to my run-in with a shark off the coast of Australia. 

Those drinks transformed into regular hangout sessions. We inhaled the capital like tourists. We studied exhibits at the Smithsonian. We ate chili dogs at Ben’s. We drank Belgian beer and took in the jazz clubs on U Street. We’d take long hikes with my dog in Rock Creek Park and then mop up Ethiopian food with spongy bread in Adams Morgan. I had been teaching myself how to cook, and she volunteered to be my guinea pig as I dared to roast monkfish or prepare sun-dried tomato risotto. In a shallow town of users, fakes, and hangers-on, my friendship with Kelly felt genuine and true—as comfortable as an old pair of jeans.

But so much more was happening within me—submerged, outside her field of vision. She didn’t see the 30-year-old adolescent, finally free to satisfy long-forbidden urges. She didn’t know I had been exploring the leather bars, showtunes nights, or shirtless Thursdays at the Green Lantern. There would even be moments when I’d cruise guys when we were out together. Sometimes, they cruised me back. She never seemed the wiser. She didn’t know my rugby team was in a gay league or that I’d venture off to a gay club after putting her in a cab. I’d kept all that from her.

Kelly didn’t fit neatly into the coming-out sequencing I’d fashioned. She was neither a new person I’d met in D.C., nor was she an old friend back in California. She straddled both worlds, old and new. I should have recognized she should be an exception to my rules.

*

It was a freezing January night, and I had brought Indian takeout to Kelly’s for the State of the Union address. This was must-see TV in Washington. It’s a night when the full spectrum of those who fear or favor the government tune in to see if the political wind will be in their face or at their back. Only 15 months after 9/11, it was also a tense time for the country: the Global War on Terror; the Axis of Evil; anthrax. Life felt heavy and hard. Huddled on her loveseat, we hung on every word. As President Bush laid out the case to go to war with Iraq, Kelly curled up in a little ball. 

Then, she placed her head in my lap. It was the first moment I suspected we might be experiencing our friendship differently. I froze. My thoughts raced. What is happening? Is she making a move on me? Or are we just that comfortable with one another now? Where do I put my hands? Do I put them on her shoulder or her arm? No, don’t encourage anything. My taut arms hover above her, terrified to commit to any course of action.

Thankfully, the spicy lentil dhal gurgled in my stomach so loudly she looked up at me with alarm. To escape the awkwardness of the moment, I feigned an urgent need of the toilet. Once there, I splashed water on my face and took a hard look in the mirror. I vacillated between hot panic and cold rationalization. Should I tell her? Surely, she doesn’t have the wrong idea. It wasn’t like we had so much as even held hands before. Besides, I figured, I wasn’t even her type. I was thinner than I had been when we worked together, but I was still flabby and bald. I looked nothing like her chiseled Adonis. Besides, I have a plan—a sequence—and telling her now is out of order. After all, Kelly had known my entire professional network in San Diego. I would soon be traveling back there to come out to them. It was important they heard the news from me. I’ll tell her. But later. After. 

“I’m sorry,” I said, emerging from the bathroom in a cold sweat. “I don’t feel well.” I didn’t even bother returning to the sofa. Instead, I made a beeline for my boots by the door. “I don’t think the curry agrees with me.” 

“No problem,” she said, padding over. Her face looked drained, too. “I’m exhausted. I’ll show you out.”

The night ended abruptly with a curt hug and the sound of a latching deadbolt.

*

Weeks later—it was well into spring, then—Kelly and I had learned that a few members from our former trial unit would be coming to Washington for a prosecutors’ conference. I don’t think either of us really wanted to meet up with them. After all, neither of us were in that game anymore. I dreaded explaining to these former colleagues what I was doing now. I hadn’t landed a new career yet. I was focused on other things. She had her own demons from her abrupt departure. But we still agreed to meet them for a drink. I figured I could skate by reminiscing over old trial tales.   

We suggested an old tavern called the Brickskeller. Nestled between DuPont Circle and Georgetown, it boasted an enormous international beer selection, catering to diplomats and college students alike. We arrived together—strength in numbers—and found our old friends upstairs at a large table, several drinks ahead of us. Between my international travels and short stint in Washington, it had been at least two years since I’d seen any of them. I told them of my adventures and got caught up on their lives and the scuttlebutt from the courthouse. After a while, I excused myself to go to the bathroom. When I returned, Kelly excused herself. Then, the cross-examination began.

“So, what’s going on with you two?” a former colleague asked. “Dish.”

“How do you mean?” I parried.

“Come on. How long have you two been seeing each other?”

“Oh, we’re not. We’re just friends.”

“That’s not what she said,” he said, smirking. “You guys should get your stories straight.”

I felt the color drain from my face; a sour feeling rose in my stomach. She’s telling people we’re dating? This prosecutor knew he had caught me in a lie. It just wasn’t the one he’d suspected. 

Kelly returned from the bathroom and placed her hand on my shoulder as she reclaimed the seat next to mine.

“It’s a school night,” she said. “We should go.”

I was only too happy to oblige.

Synapses fired in my brain as we scrambled to the exit. What did she tell them? Will we be grist for the office rumor mill? Is this getting back to her ex? How did I so completely misunderstand this situation? Did I send a wrong signal? 

We walked toward our adjacent neighborhoods. As we arrived at Dupont Circle—a natural point for us to go our separate ways—I realized how unfair I had been to her. My palms were damp. Sequence, be damned. My plan had been overtaken by events. I knew I had to come clean. When we reached the fountain at the circle’s center, I took her hand.

“Kelly, I need to tell you something.”

She smiled at me. Her gaze felt safe and spacious. She had no idea what was coming.

“You know how much I care about you,” I continued. “I haven’t been fully candid about something. It’s taken me a long time to find the nerve.”

She removed her hand from mine. Her brow furrowed. Her smile dissolved. 

“I’m gay.”

She winced. Her mouth puckered, as if she’d expected sugar, but gotten lemons instead. Her eyes flared.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

I closed my eyes. I couldn’t look into hers. There was no turning back now. There was no reeling this back in. My mind swirled. Kelly was the first person with whom I shared my truth. And she was livid. 

“I just told that entire table of people—the same people who watched my prior relationship melt down in lies and betrayal—that we’ve been dating since you moved out here. And you’re telling me—now—that you’re gay?”

Her tone felt humid and angry. She spat the last word—gay—so loudly, with such venom, that I am certain our old colleagues could hear her all the way back at the bar. This word, which I had been afraid to whisper, reverberated through the epicenter of D.C.’s gayborhood, bouncing off the glass windows of storefronts. 

It’s all going sideways now. I felt disoriented. This wasn’t the way these conversations were supposed to go. I really needed her to understand. What is she doing? Why is she making this about her? This is about me!

“I’m sorry, Kelly. I adore you. I should have felt safe sooner telling you the truth.”

“The truth! Oh, I’m entitled to the truth! Oh, how very generous of you!”

It was as if I had been sworn into the witness box. She shredded me. She even did the patented prosecutor double-take—that courtroom pantomime we are trained to use when we don’t believe a witness’ answer. She backed away from me, for dramatic effect, as if pleading her case before an invisible jury. Then, she screamed. Not just any scream.  A wail—a primal, blood-curdling verdict of pain and fury. She turned and ran away from me, up Connecticut Avenue, toward Adams Morgan, her huaraches clattering on asphalt, her floral dress billowing behind her from under her denim jacket. 

She couldn’t get away from me fast enough. 

I sat on a bench near the fountain and watched Kelly fade away in the moonlight. This is why. This is why you’ve never said anything before. It was late. There was no one I could call. There was no one who could comfort me. I marinated in the guilt of knowing that I’d kept the truth from someone who had deserved it and hurt her badly in the process. I thought of my parents, my brother, and my friends. I couldn’t help but wonder if every conversation would be met with such rage and regret. 

*

As the days went by, I began to see our situation more clearly. I now see how self-absorbed I had been. And I have come to see that our time together had been a Rorschach test. We each saw what we wanted to see. To me—wearing my coming-out blinders—my forays into cooking felt like a dress rehearsal for a dinner party; to her, in front of a crackling fire in my living room, that meal felt like a culinary come-on. We each got so far down two very separate roads of perception, we collided in entirely different places.

Finally, I heard from her. 

“Can we talk?” she texted.

I called her at once. She picked up.

“I’m sorry,” we both said unison, through tears. 

“I should have told you sooner,” I said. “You deserved better.”

“And I shouldn’t have screamed at you. I’m horrified. I know I sounded crazy.”

“No more secrets?”

“No more secrets. However—” she said through laughter, “—I don’t need to know all the juicy details, either.”

Kelly became my closest confidante. Later that summer, she met me in France. We floated down the Seine in Paris and tasted wine in Bordeaux. As I boarded the flight that would bring me home to come out to my parents, Kelly was there. She was my last call for courage and my first call to report back my good news. She had become the strongest strand of the safety net I’d spun. I now realize she could have been there for me only because I had trusted her with my full truth and confidence. 

In only a matter of months, we would both move away. I would leave for grad school in New York, and she would find a new life—and new love—in her home state out West.

*

Decades pass. A few weeks ago, I receive a text from a number my phone does not recognize.

“PYATJS, this still your number?”

“It is.” 

“My Shutterfly thought I needed to see this memory today,” she writes. “It made me think of you.”

We haven’t talked or texted in years, but—like true friends—pick things up like no time has passed. We go back and forth: wrinkles, dogs, careers, and dreams for retirement.

She sends a photograph from two decades ago. The photo is pickled in time. I’m wearing a shirt I don’t remember, in a bar I don’t recall, drinks in hand, cheesing into the camera. I can tell by my expression and our body language that I hadn’t yet told her. 

“Can you believe it’s been 18 years?” she asks.

“I can.” 

It feels like lifetimes ago—from an era when I allowed my life to be shaped more by fear than pride. But there we once were, smiles at full wattage. Inches away, worlds apart.

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