I want him to finish the thought. To say: sometimes he thinks so, too.

What does Ms. Silverthorn call it—a pregnant pause? When the air is full of words waiting to be said. We’re in one of those. I know about romantic tension—about sexual tension. And this is something else entirely—coming-out tension. Not the moment before you tell your mom or best friend, but the moment you tell someone you hope is like you, someone you badly want to be like you, because maybe, maybe there’s a chance with them.

He doesn’t finish the thought.

When he finally speaks, his voice is insanely soft. “You have a boyfriend?”

“Cheng. Yeah. I mean, I did … but now I’m here and I don’t know when I can go home.” And I’m choking up again. Girl, I’m a mess.

“I’m glad you had someone.” The envy in his voice! And the gentleness with which he wades through this minefield. “I’m sorry you feel alone.” Now I’m not even sure who I’m crying for.

Chaz pulls me into a hug. He’s comforting me, not being romantic, but we’re alone in the dark, and he’s handsome, and I’m me, and I’ve so badly missed being held that my heart is racing. The sparks flying might as well be visible. I pull away just enough so that I can look at him.

And I see the tears streaming down his face now.

“Oh … god … Chaz …”

“It’s okay,” he says, leaving the hug. “Mama always said I’m too empathetic for my own good.”

Nice try. I don’t think those tears are for me.

He is wiping his eyes. “You should’ve seen me at the end of Terms of Endearment. Crying myself blind, I couldn’t walk straight.” (I can’t tell. Is that a coded joke?)

He starts feeling the walls again. When he finds the switch, the light is harsh—we both blink and laugh. The moment is lost. Just steps away, I see an entire wall dedicated to paint cans, many drip-spattered and half-used. We grab more black than we need, then Chaz kills the light. I want to tell him to stay, but he is out the door. There’s nothing for me to say or do but follow.

The Status Quo

The Status Quo