J—

One night, I drove you both home after happy hour in DC to pick up some groceries they purchased for us earlier that week. I wasn’t sure if I should hang out for a bit when we got there, but G— offered me a glass of wine. I accepted and we moved to the living room and sat at the dinner table – not a usual feature, only still assembled after the recent dinner party you invited us to so we could meet a lovely elderly gay couple with close ties to the Reagan administration.

I had had a really hard week before seeing you. The melange of my layoff, our roommate’s surprise departure before the lease ending and the pure carnage my family was raining upon Kevin and me that week was really weighing heavily upon me; but I was capable of having a simple conversation with you, something that I’d been having difficulty doing with most people those days.

But you noticed.

You interrupted my beginning rumblings about self-hatred and shame that poured out when I started talking – because during the middle of it all happening I couldn’t stop talking about the complete nature of my life’s collapse – and demanded I tell you that I’m gay.

Just like that, no segue.
It was jarring.

But I did it.
And without missing a beat you told me “I love you.”

I didn’t know what to say.
No one had ever told me they loved me for being gay before.

Never.
Not until right then.

That meant so much to me.

*****
This essay was adapted from a message to my best friend.