It’s not a bad thing, wrote Germaine. Of course they would think that.

It’s not bad, just unfortunate for you since you couple hopeless romanticism with a total inability to request what you need, Charlotte wrote. Then, Oops, did I say that out loud?

Go on, then.

Truman figured if he was gonna get roasted, then he may as well get specifics.

I think what C means is that you’re very giving to the people you date, but you’re not always…you don’t always…

You don’t tell anyone you date what you want from them. You just take what they give you and make up a story about how that was what you wanted in the first place. It’s bad.

Truman blinked. Then he read it again.

Germaine sent an open mouth emoji, making it abundantly clear that they and Charlotte had discussed this behind his back and Germaine hadn’t thought Charlotte would say it to his face. Well. Chat face.

It was painfully close to what Ramona had told him after the Guy fiasco, but he figured he’d just double check. Triple check.

Do I really do that?

Yes.

Well, you’re just so generous that you can find ways to make almost anything be nice or sweet, even if it’s…

Not, Charlotte concluded.

Quadruple checked.

Truman cringed. He thought about the time that Guy had said “I have something for you,” and Truman had gotten so excited, thinking that Guy had gotten him a present, which would mean Guy had been thinking about him. Then Guy had pulled Truman’s pen out of his own pocket and said, “You left this in my car.”

Truman’s stomach had dropped, and he’d swallowed hard to dispel the disappointment. But by the time he’d gone to the grocery store that evening, he’d rewritten the story: it was sweet Guy had taken the time to return his pen because he didn’t want Truman to be without it.

Of course, now he realized that Guy had returned the Micron because he didn’t want his husband to see it in the car and know it wasn’t Guy’s since it wasn’t a two-thousand-dollar fountain pen.

Truman drooped.

He remembered Abel, the guy he’d dated before Guy. Abel had asked what he wanted to do one weekend, and Truman had told him he’d love to go out to dinner together. He hadn’t said he wanted a romantic meal. But it had been what he was picturing: candlelight, soft music, decadent food, and deep conversation. Abel had shown up with a sack of take-out tacos, then dragged him to a club where his friend’s band was playing. The next morning, hungover and exhausted, Truman had told himself that it was romantic that Abel had wanted Truman to meet all his friends.

Oh my god, I’m a disaster. I’m a disaster romantic.