My phone vibrates at 1:30 pm.
"I just turned the backyard into a waterpark," he texts.
It's Saturday and it's hot. We've been planning a backyard Cinco de Mayo party (for three!) for the past week, but for some reason I'm having a hard time pulling myself off the couch. I decide to nap for 30 minutes before heading over, but somehow an hour slips past. I call him around 3pm to let him know I'm on my way.
"Are you wearing something you can get wet?" he asks
"No, why? I'm wearing joggers and a tee shirt."
"Joggers?!" He pokes fun at my choice of Saturday attire. "Put on some shorts and come over."
Ugh. Why is this so hard today?
I pack up the tortillas and queso and picadillo I secured from HomeState earlier that morning, change into shorts and a tank top, slip on my mask, and head over to my boyfriend's house. To party with him and his ex-girlfriend.
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Will left for his first-ever European tour on September 19th. We'd know each other for five weeks. At first I missed him terribly. Somehow, in the space of five weeks, I'd gotten very used to including him in my plans. We texted or called each other every day. His absence felt like a large hole.
"Hit the stage in about 20. Starting to get hype. I'm actually a little nervous this time." he texted.
Nearly two weeks had passed since he'd left and I'd slipped back into my single lady life again. Will and I continued to text or call each other every day and it felt like things were moving along nicely. In the back of my mind, though, I was still apprehensive about meeting him in Berlin. We'd really only known each other for such a short time. Would he think I was crazy? Would he turn me down, say no, or ghost me? Or worse yet, what if I never asked and then told him my plan after the fact and he loved it?! How much would I regret not shooting my shot? Is this what it means to be vulnerable?
Fuck it. I decided to do it.
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I knock on the gate and Will lets me in. He's right, the backyard is a veritable waterpark! He's filled up a plastic kiddie pool and fashioned a sort of mister from a sprayer attached to a mic stand. It's fantastic.
We both head inside and unpack all the fixings for our Cinco de Quarantino. He kisses me and pours two margaritas he picked up from Lola's on Fourth earlier that morning. Grace is attempting to tidy up somewhere. And that's something I've learned about Will and about Grace during this lockdown. Will is a pretty tidy dude - clean nails, clean hair, clean car. But Grace is another level. She's CONSTANTLY cleaning something, whether it's a dish you just used or some random bungee cords in the backyard or the dog hair. It never seems to end. She reminds me of my mom and I try not to let it bother me.
We survey the spread - picadillo and queso and pickled onions and flank steak and flour tortillas and soooo many margaritas. How the hell are we gonna finish this all? We grab our margs and head back out to grill. He throws the steak on the grill and I relax in the Adirondack chair. The mic stand mister feels good on my thighs and the marg feels good on my lips. My mood is improving by the minute.
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The European tour was off to an amazing start. Will made it to Poland and we managed to talk every day. He couldn't believe how hype the crowds were and every day he regaled me with stories of killer food and weird sleeping arrangements. I was so excited for him!
Then one afternoon after work, I decided to pul the trigger.
"Hey, so, I know you've got a few days off in Berlin. And I'm gonna be in Portugal. Would it be weird to fly over to spend a few days with you? You can absolutely say no, I'd totally understand." I blurted out my request. Shoot your shot, right?
And then I waited.
...
"YES. Do it." he responded emphatically.
OMGOMGOMGOMGOMG. Was I really gonna fly to Berlin to spend 48 hours with a dude I'd known for less than two months?!
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Will finishes up the flank steak and I finish my margarita. My thighs and shoulders and nose are getting crispy. It's time to party.
The three of us head in to set the table. Will mixes the picadillo and queso, then warms the tortillas on the stove.
"Do you flip 'em with a spatula or your bare hands?" he quizzes me.
"Bare hands, OBVIOUSLY," I roll my eyes at him. He likes to do this, to quiz me on random cooking shit. He always seems to forget I spent the majority of my 20s working in restaurants.
"Ooh, this salsa is goood." He dips another chip into my homemade salsa.
"Yeah, that's Jamie's recipe," I reply.
"Who's Jamie?" Grace asks.
And that's when I realize things are shifting for Will and Grace, and for Will and me. Jamie is totally unknown to Grace. Jamie is a part of Will's life that Grace does not know. Jamie is a memory that belongs to Will and me. It is ours alone.
We finish dinner. It is superb. Grace spends the rest of the afternoon upstairs.
