We both worked at the New York Publishing House in 1998. Unlike me, Bracken got the job through family connections. He towered over me and folded his cuffs up neatly so that his Rolex wasn’t hidden under his sleeve. If he hadn’t been chewing on a pen when we met, I would have written him off as too aristocratic. I was an editor and he did something with the managers. We were both twenty-eight.

It felt like a high school crush, entirely in my head. He had short hair, a jaw without stubble, and good posture. Then one day, he approached me from behind, reached into one of the front pockets of my khakis, and helped himself to change for the soda machine. His cologne reminded me of the forest. I spent the rest of the afternoon trying to calm down.

By the summer, we were having lunch together almost every day. The tables at our favorite deli were packed together since all the available space in Midtown Manhattan is already spoken for. He usually insisted that I order first and then said, “that sounds good to me too.” Over lunch, we discussed the latest trends in music and books. Since I grew up in Seattle, I followed the trajectory of the grunge movement almost viscerally and filled in some blanks for him. He lent me a psychology book about the seeming contraction of time in the presence of something that captures your attention, as if I needed any more information about that subject.

A bunch of us tagged up at the end of the day to compare notes. I would play pranks like putting on a tie from the coat rack in his office to rattle him. But more often than not he would make me laugh, raising his eyebrows and shooting me a glance when someone used an exotic word.

I came to view the pocket incident as horsing around. Office life forges all kinds of intimacies. But a bag with dinner next to my monitor on a night I had to stay late for a deadline confused me all over again. We had been arguing about whether his tiny island could compete with the Pacific Northwest for seafood. The note said, “Inside: the best cod ever. In the morning, I’ll let you know what winning feels like.”

A few days later, he asked if I would mind accompanying him to the public library. We met his stylishly dressed mother on the front steps. He could be guarded about the details of his life outside of work, so I wasn’t prepared for this development at all.

She removed her sunglasses and said, “I’ve been losing sleep over the flowers. Everyone keeps saying gardenias.”

Bracken said, “This is my mother, Jane.”

I said, “It’s great to me you.”

Jane dug a piece of paper out of her purse and held it at arm’s length to read.

He grabbed me by the back of the neck and said, “This is Sam.”

She looked up, “One of the coworkers.”

“My soulmate.”

Jane tightened her smile, blinked, and said, “you don’t have a care in the world.” Then she pulled him aside so they could speak privately. Bracken leaned toward her in a way I associated with his being lectured to. He would cock his head to the side like a dog hearing an unfamiliar pitch. At times like these, I imagined his mind went to subjects like song lyrics or food, since mine would have. When they finished speaking, Jane made a detour back to shake my hand.

I said, “He was only kidding. But I hope to be his soulmate someday.”

She scowled at me.

That afternoon at the tag-up, he wrote in a notebook without making eye contact. I stopped by his office on my way out. He looked lost, rocking back and forth in his chair, surrounded by mission furniture.

I said, “Want to come over tonight?”

“You wish.”

“Sorry. Just trying to cheer you up.”

“Sure you are.”

A week later, he volunteered us to cover a meeting in Los Angeles for work. The boss said he preferred two guys, so they could share a hotel room and save the company money. Bracken got us leave that would extend our trip a few days and told me he would cover anything we couldn’t claim on our expense reports.

We stayed near the ocean in Santa Monica but our room reminded me of a roadside motel, complete with sand on the floor and scorches on the bedspreads. We ate breakfast in the small dining room in starched white shirts. The curtains had an aspirational print, airplanes and tropical islands.

He said, “I should have found us a better hotel for our first time.”

It was an odd remark for a work trip. I was still reeling from the fact that we spent a night in the same room. I was inexperienced enough then that seeing him in his underwear was as thrilling as surfing, with the danger of falling into the roiling ocean.

By Wednesday night we were free of our work commitments. We sat cross-legged on his bed after dinner playing a version of solitaire where each of us had his own deck but the foundations were shared. The button on his shorts was undone and it disturbed my reverie.

I passed him a second bottle of Sierra Nevada, “Keep hydrating. We’re in the desert.”

He said, “Then why don’t you take your shirt off?”

In our months of lunch dates, I had all but abandoned the idea of gay or interested, but the physical experience suggested otherwise. Afterward, he fingered the gold chain I usually kept tucked under my white T-shirts, something I appropriated from my fellow subway riders when I moved east.

I said, “I might sleep on my own bed if that’s okay.”

“That’s not okay.”

He drifted off eventually but my brain refused to power down. Around three, I extricated myself from his grip, hoping I could patch it up with him later.

In the morning, we skipped the hotel and ate breakfast in Beverly Hills. In a bow to our surroundings, after cutting up my waffle, I transferred the fork back to my right hand to bring the food to my mouth. But I didn’t try very hard to be presentable in those days. While his polo shirt survived the checked bags unwrinkled, the seam between the neck and the right sleeve of my Heart t-shirt was loosening and my long hair needed trimming.

He said, “I almost gave up hoping this would happen.”

I had trouble swallowing my coffee. He was too comfortable in bed for that to be his first time. I didn’t know what to make of it.

I said, “What’s the this in that sentence?”

“Typical editor.”

After breakfast, he wanted to have someone take a look at his watch. I had been hoping for a knock off, but the clerk sprang to attention when he handed it over. The next stop was Barney’s, where I bought a blue silk shirt and had them cut the tags off. The purchase seemed a bit disloyal to grunge but I looked more housebroken.

That night I was taking a shower and Bracken came into the bathroom to take a leak. He called out “sorry.” It bothered me but I was also aware of other things, like happiness, desire, and fear. Later things progressed slower and without the buzz. He said, “Having feelings for a guy. In college, I just had sex with them.” It took me a while to work out this was the answer to my earlier question.

We spent the next day searching for hummingbirds along the coast road. I have a vivid image in my mind of Bracken tilting a water bottle up and his Adam’s apple bobbing, the sun and the hills just over his right ear. He passed it to me. We hadn’t ever kissed so being confronted with his saliva made for an awkward pause.

We did see a lot of hummingbirds that day. I’m not enough of an expert on them to give a proper recitation but I won our competition to find the coolest one, its beak straight up, perched on a tree branch a few feet above our heads, probably outweighing a penny, but just.

Then it was the last night of the trip and we were walking back from dinner under the palm trees. Bracken was silent. I was hoping for a few words about what would happen when we got back to New York. I grabbed his arm, halted our forward momentum, and knelt down to tie his sneakers. The clicking sound from his shoelaces hitting the pavement was driving me crazy.

He said, “I’m engaged to be married.”

I stood up and searched his face. Yeah, not a joke.

In my experience, guys were usually married first then gay, not the other way around. But it wasn’t without precedent. A few weeks later, I stumbled across a listing for a job downtown and got a crew cut for the interview.

Bracken stopped by my office on my last day.

He said, “We can still meet up.”

I sighed.

He said, “Please don’t give up on me.”

Our first summer in Massachusetts is winding down. When I moved to New York City for a job, I didn’t plan on burrowing even deeper into the northeast, especially not in a house with shiny wooden floors.

I hear Bracken’s keys jangling but haven’t figured out how to tell him his father left a message about buying a new car. Since he might have deleted it before the end of the recording, I transcribed it to an index card and folded it into my wallet. Overthinking is the new thinking.

After his divorce from the financial planner, it didn’t take long before we reconnected. The type of guys I was dating in 2001 would have been no match for his tenacity, if any of them were thinking long-term, which they weren’t. I suppose, in the small hours of the morning when I’m wondering if the ground will ever drop away again, I should remember his determination from three years ago.

Over dinner, when I tell him about his father’s call, he rolls his eyes.

He says, “What company is Lexus again?”

“I don’t know. Luxury only appeals to me in boyfriends.”

“I’ll see them at Christmas.”

“Wouldn’t it be less trouble in your life to just call them back? You don’t need to fully engage.”

“Um. They pressured me into getting married.”

“You had no free will at the time.”

He looks down, clearly upset. I often struggle with whether I should take his side in matters like these or try to balance out his thought patterns.

“That was a dick thing to say.”

His knee knocks against mine, “You’re OK.”

It occurred to me earlier while I was replaying the tape that he might have lost the thread with them a long time ago. Which is curious because I had been laboring under the assumption that we moved here because he needed to put enough distance between himself and his old life to keep from suffocating.

I say, “Did we come here in case gay marriage passed?”

“I need someone to navigate the world with. Don’t assume that’s you.”

I bark out a laugh.

“Duly noted. My fallback plan is that confused Canadian guy I used to sleep with. He had a lot of ink on his back.”

“Thanks for the visual.”

“The twin bed was challenging though.”

His cheeks are completely red now. “You’re in rare form tonight.”

On Saturday, we go to Fort Independence, this newest manifestation being only a hundred and fifty years old. Outside the structure’s imposing granite walls, the lawn slopes down to a walking path and benches. Bracken takes out a book he’s reading about team building. He has reinvented himself as an HR expert.

I can’t focus at all for some reason and stare out at the calm bay. It’s a far cry from the tsunami warnings at the beaches of my childhood vacations. I used to feel stirred up by the idea of a fast-moving wall of water. Now I question the wisdom of the reminders to be vigilant. Nobody can prepare us for the territory ahead.

He looks up, “Everything OK?”

“Work depleted me this week, more than usual.”

“I did want to move here to get married.”

“Why didn’t you just say that then?”

“You might’ve freaked out. That window technically only opened this year. And I’m not asking you until I’m sure you’ll say yes.”

He removed his hand from his book and now the pages are fluttering in the breeze.

“What metric are you using? To know how close I am to saying yes?”

He frowns, “Tell me about work.”

“Same as what I’ve said before, not really my skills or interests. New York was a better fit until a dalliance with a manager wrecked my plans.”

“What about that is funny to you?”

“I’m teasing you. Work’ll sort itself out. I like it here. No more waiting in line for the ATM.”

“But.”

This is a tough one and I shade my eyes with my hand. “I honestly don’t know where we stand on the rebuild.”

“Tell me what to do.”

Two months pass and he still hasn’t called his parents back. I spent that time chewing on the fact that he wouldn’t ask the big question if he thought there was any chance I’d say “no” and that he instructed me to tell him what to do. I’m an overachiever when it comes to listening.

Part of my plan for the evening is to cook dinner from scratch. I usually leave this to Bracken or we get take-out. Even before we moved in, I had reservations about two men owning this much stainless steel so early in their adulthood. Some vestige of those feelings persists and makes the kitchen intimidating. Near the table, we hung some sketches of different dog breeds. I believe their kind faces kept me from hyperventilating earlier when the recipe said to parboil and I couldn’t locate the dictionary.

The screen door slams. Bracken is wearing khakis, a polo shirt, and work boots. He reminds me of a character in a play dirty enough to convey that he’s a farmer. “How much longer?”

“Soon.”

“The shed’s finally organized. Why are you dressed up? Are we going out?”

“You don’t have to change. I want to ask you something later.”

“And will I like this question?”

“Probably.”

He and I share a slowness to work out consequential things that probably transcends geography and social class. For me, the thing in question right now would be that in a situation involving two men, who proposes to whom has not yet been settled by TV movies.

In a bookstore, I scoured some Boston travel guides for ideas. But making my pitch in a familiar setting won out. And at home he can speak more freely, impose conditions, or stall for time.

Over dinner, he seems restless, eventually just pushing his food around on his plate. It slipped my mind that he wouldn’t be able to enjoy his meal with my mysterious question in the background.

I say, “What are your views on nautical settings?”

He looks up and narrows his eyes.

“The parking is situated too close to the Marblehead lighthouse. So I’m thinking, what if he gets distracted right in the middle of the negotiation by someone wobbling around with a heavy cooler.”

He shakes his head. “I’m not following….”

“Do you remember when I asked you why we really moved here?”

He knocks over his water glass and it takes me a few minutes to restore order.

He smiles, “You better be serious right now.”

“I am.”

“Why did you come around?”

“It makes sense for us to support the cause.”

Later, Bracken is fashioning a cap for the wine bottle out of aluminum foil and I’m scouring pans with rubber gloves. Of course, this was the one question I was completely prepared for. I came around because in his case I already know what it feels like to be without him after being with him. But saying that in this context would be a disaster for the obvious reason.

He says, “Let’s go somewhere to celebrate. Can you take Friday off? Paris?”

“Or someplace closer?”

“This is Boston. Paris is closer.”