Tenseness in the air is something I find myself very proficient at detecting. Call it years of adaptation to a less-than-reliable home life, or the dizzying adventure of a few years in the limelight, frequent meetings with bullshit producers who want nothing but an artist's humanity - whatever the case may be, I know, usually, when to put my guard up. And in that moment, that's not quite what happened, only because I had never done that with Brendon. Not in the past, anyway. Brendon was dependable, too. Historically I'd trusted him enough not to put those walls up (or at least not as strongly as I did with others); I saw no point in doing it then. Regardless, something was amiss, and I looked away for a beat, wondering at what my intuition was telling me. The party? The environment? Was I only used to seeing him in some claustrophobic, cramped little space, those tiny tour buses and staged interview rooms and crowded backstage mazes? I looked back at him after only an inhale, and upon a silent breath of relief, I read his expression. He didn't feel the uneasiness. If we're going off of 'historically,' then, I'd always trusted Brendon's intuition more. I stick to the habit, ignoring the overwrought feeling in my chest and focusing instead on the fervent way he was looking at me, the ease he had about him. This is what I missed, the uncommon times I thought about him. The security. How ever-so opposite he is from me. My heart beats in a different kind of nervous rhythm, more intoxicated than apprehensive.

Swaying closer, with such an exploring expression that I could only understand that he was asking a silent question, Brendon looked still so ingenuous and inviting that my usually obstinate mind didn't think to object to this obvious course of action. This is what feels exactly right. I angled toward him, closing the gap, and... time slowed for a moment, some mechanism in my brain giving me space to figure out what wasn't [i]fitting[/i] here, and from muscle memory my hand lifted just barely, grazing his jaw in an almost-cradle - only scarcely, until we both decided that it wasn't going to work. Synchronous, we pulled apart.

[i]I’m sorry,[/i] he said, and my quickening heart hurt for him. [i]I shouldn’t have done that.[/i] He didn't do it alone, I wanted to point out, and I tried to communicate mutual grief through my expression. He may have initiated - I certainly punctuated. [i]I felt like that would fix everything.[/i] My hand raised again, more muscle memory, needing him to see me, know that I empathized. I tried lifting his chin, tried to level my gaze with his. [b]"It’s okay,"[/b] was all it took, and I was met with his regard. But, as much as I understood the sentiment he shared, I didn't know why... it felt like a natural course of action, and then it didn't. I spoke without preparation. [b]"I know what you mean. I think it’s just- we barely know each other now, it’s so..."[/b] Unfamiliar? Foreign? Maybe we needed to reconnect more beforehand - but I felt like I knew him just as well, losing some minor details. I hadn't known his favored drink. Everything else, I felt I deserved credit for. [b]"I don’t know. I wanted to kiss you. I was wondering how it would- I don’t know, whether it would be the same, or."[/b]

I wasn't chasing that feeling in particular, though, I figured. I was longing for what we had in conjunction with the physical connection - he knew me as well as I knew him, and when we kissed, we fit like puzzle pieces as a result of that. That was what I wondered, in the back of my mind; or at least, that was a fraction of the drama in my head, the part that I could somewhat rationalize. But this is not the kind of thing to communicate in the back of your Trans Am, to a person you have not known for so long, outside of a slowly multiplying party. So I just pursed my lips, losing the nerve to hold his gaze after a few moments, slumping slowly back against the car door. It felt, oddly, like I had fucked up, like if I had done something differently then this would have gone more accordingly. Alas, a selfish way to think.

Brendon was at least polite about leaving. Surprisingly, however, he had the patience to give me his phone number and address. Okay, then, maybe my shortcomings weren't so much so. [i]Come over anytime.[/i] All right. Okay. Another thing about Brendon - he doesn't quit on you.

A day passed and, whenever I found myself sitting around absently, be it in a parking lot or in my study, I would look at the note I made on my phone with his information thinking, well, maybe he's hungover. Two days passed and I thought, well, maybe he's recovering from the hangover. Three days passed and I had too much free time and I tried scouring social media looking for any excuse that he was doing something else and therefore couldn't catch up with me, and, hey, would you look at that, two weeks ago he posted a 'thanks' for the numbers on a streaming app, maybe he's listening to music. Fuck. On the fourth day - not even a week later, shows how busy I am - I decided that there's no point in worrying about whether he won't reply, whether he will have time, whether he'll actually want to talk to me. He volunteered his number, his [i]address.[/i] He was serious. Another thing about Brendon - he's genuine.

Brendon is about the only Brendon alive, so I texted 'Brendon,' and then pressed enter almost immediately so that I didn't overthink it: [i]Hi, Brendon, sorry for not texting sooner. I’ve been- well, not busy, I don’t do anything these days. But I was wondering if you wanted to maybe come over sometime. I’d love to properly catch up after you left kind of abruptly.[/i] 

That sounded quite direct. I backspaced on nothing at all, remembered I already sent it. So. [i]Which I completely get, by the way. Sorry, I don’t know how to do this anymore.[/i] Embarrassing, but whatever, we both kind of embarrassed ourselves a few nights ago. I was ready to toss my phone aside and call that my human interaction of the day when it vibrated at me, a reward for my efforts. '[i]Why don’t we just go for a drive? I owe you that, I think.[/i]' I smiled and drew my teeth over my bottom lip slowly, feeling a little vitality come back to me, something exuberant. I hesitated for a moment before deciding, texting, [i]In your Tesla, rich boy? No thanks. I’ll just pick you up tomorrow, okay?[/i] Open-ended. But I got a yes.

I'm wondering if there's a way to prepare for this, if there's a 'look' you're supposed to go for when you're meeting with an 'ex' who you are actually on quite good terms with and you are both pretty curious as to why, when you kissed briefly that night both of you coincidentally ended up at Gabe's party, it was way totally awkward and not like we expected. If you're supposed to style your hair. If I should be preparing at all because that would look like I really put in a lot of effort and cared or if I should put in minimal preparation so as to communicate that I'm very chill and casual and Brendon and I, we're cool. 

We don't really get a handbook. I don't even know what to talk about. The 'Topics of Conversation' chapter would be interesting. Or 'How to Take Down Your Nerves When You Are About to be the Designated Driver and Therefore Cannot Drink a Whole Bottle of Boxed Wine.'

I dress in whatever looks most laidback, I suppose, some loose-fitting button-up I haven't actually worn more than twice and pants that are far [i]too[/i] worn in that they are my most comfortable, shove my hand through my hair once or twice and decide that any product in it would be detected and therefore: not allowed. I hold it back with sunglasses instead, despite the fact that the sun is going down. This is what I wanted. Settings we are familiar with and we are both fond with: sunsets, sunrises. Everything in between gets lost. But the minutes are ticking by past 5 pm and as I look out the window, the sky is imbued with new colors, more deep oranges and purple and pink as the sun sinks low, low, lower, and it isn't dark out, but it's preparing to be in a few hours. So I think Brendon will enjoy it. 

Brendon lives 45 minutes away from me. I get to the door and examine his house, a little proud on his behalf, before rapping on it. [b]"Bren, if you're in there, give me a sign,"[/b] I called theatrically, vaguely amused.