It was a gorgeous day, with a beaming blue sky and birds fluttering. Fluttery. That pretty well summed up my state of mind. Despite having rehearsed what I planned to say, even though I had repeated it to myself and every inanimate object in the entire city, I had no idea what would end up coming out of my mouth when I finally confronted him. I was just a little afraid to consider that. It would probably end up as something approximating the sound of colloquial Swahili, or perhaps a passable rendition of ancient Gaelic. As I headed the car across town to his new place, my heart threatened to stop. I was beginning to feel quite ill. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. It had seemed like a good idea before, when I was safely alone, with not a single soul around to hear my shriek of triumph and my promise to myself to 'really tell him this time.' There was still time to chicken out; I hadn't actually gotten to his house yet. I could turn around and go home and pretend that none of this ever happened. Taking a deep breath, I berated myself for being such a coward. Doggedly, I bullied my heart into continuing its regular duty and began reciting my soliloquy again.

I couldn't believe he was back in town. He swore he'd never come back to this place. Said it was too tame, not interesting enough. The truth of the matter was that he must have been an adventurer in a past life, or something like that, because the itch to travel just became unbearable for him sometimes. I could hardly blame him. After all, this city doesn't exactly have its finger on the world's pulse. As a matter of fact, I'm not sure it even has a pulse of its own.

But even had I moved away and come back, because of family mostly. They pulled my ass out of the fire by letting me come home when I had no other options. And I had done some traveling once I got back on my feet, and planned to do more. He had actually tracked me down in Paris of all places, where I was visiting a friend and fulfilling a lifelong dream. I remember feeling very flattered that he had gone to all that trouble, but the old self-doubt had come sneaking back in, whispering discouraging things in my ears. 'He was just being nice to let you know he was back in town. Don't read too much into it; you'll only be disappointed…' and so on, and so on. Oh, how I hate those voices.

He had said that he was through with this city and I believed him. He didn't have any family to feel beholden to and the money he made elsewhere was just too good to consider leaving it behind. Something major must have changed. I was fooling myself to think that it might have something to do with me. I thought those fantasies had died out long ago. But, if I had anything to say about it, lots more things were going to change. For both of us.

I nearly got myself killed running a red light because I didn't see it change; I was so preoccupied with getting my lines right. Why was I so obsessed with him? It wasn't as if I hadn't made my feelings clear to him in the past. We had been friends for ages, really close, but not THAT close. Not that the thought hadn't crossed both our minds, but I was the idiot that had to go and say something about it, so long ago. I had written him about how I felt after he moved, perhaps expressing myself just a little bit too well. I never heard anything back on the subject until I demanded (nicely, of course) to know how he felt. He responded with a long apologetic letter stating that while he loved me, he wasn't *in* love with me. There is a difference and I was made abundantly aware of that. We remained friends but talked less and less, our contact reduced to an occasional email. So, paint me shocked and excited and hopeful and completely insane when he called. From right here in our hometown. Gave me the address and everything. Boy, is he ever going to regret that!

I turned onto his street, a quiet residential area close to downtown. I drove slowly, still arguing with my heart over whether it was going to explode or stop. I spotted the number on the mailbox and parked behind the car in the drive, blocking it. Cutting off his avenue of escape, no doubt. I didn't even make it to the house when I heard his voice shout my name.

There he stood, the sight of him starting the heated discussion with my heart again, except this time it was whole ranks of autonomic functions that wanted to bug out on me. I somehow managed to greet him, coherently I hoped. He swept me into a fierce hug that didn't make the labor negotiations with my bodily functions any easier, but at this point, who cared? I was ushered into the kitchen and seated.

"Want a beer?" as he rummaged in the fridge. Trust him to have the staff of life in liquid form on hand.

"No thanks," I replied. "I need to talk to you."

He looked at me a bit more closely and a quick smile flitted across his face. "This sounds serious." A pause and then he said, "You're not dying or something, are you?" His expression was joking, but his eyes held an expression of concern.

"Nothing like that." He waited and I sat there like a lump. Shit. I knew this would happen. My mind raced with a thousand glib, deeply profound ways to tell him exactly how I felt and absolutely none of those thoughts would slow down long enough for me to get a grip on it. I must have made some sort of awful sound because he looked really concerned this time and asked me if I was okay. I managed to nod and say something reassuring because he sat down and turned his attention fully on me. Oh god. I felt like I was onstage, naked and alone, with everyone I had ever known watching, waiting for this performance that simply would not happen. Their eyes bored into me as I stood in the spotlight, heart pounding furiously.

"Well?" It was said kindly, like a second grade teacher prompting a child who had forgotten her lines for the Christmas pageant. It got me off that stage, sort of. Now there was only him, watching me, and waiting.

Only one way to do this. Damn the torpedoes.

"I had to say that-- I've loved you from the first second I laid eyes on you in the school library in sixth grade and all I've ever wanted to do with my life has always involved being near you somehow and I'm babbling like an idiot and can't stop but I just had to tell you that. So now that I look like a total fool I'll just be leaving now so you won't have to listen to me rattle on anymore."

There, I had done it. I stood up, only peripherally aware of anything other than the overwhelming relief that I had finally said what was in my heart, rather than write it in a letter. I've always expressed myself better in writing than verbally, and probably always will. The triumph of staring that particular demon in the eye and then spitting in that eye was pretty remarkable. I didn't hear him speak and had actually forgotten he was there in my need to get out the door and be alone again to assimilate what I had done and then regret it.

I came back to this version of reality when he caught me by the shoulders and turned me to face him. He was looking into my eyes intently, rather like a scholar looks at a rare book he's been granted permission to read, or a dog stares at a T-bone, I'm not sure which. I decided to consider the intense scrutiny flattering. Blinking, I returned his gaze, suddenly unafraid of such intimate eye contact, though some part of me inside was screaming, "JUST WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?!" I had no idea what the hell I was doing, but it felt pretty good. Then it occurred to me that he was saying something again and maybe I should pay attention. In light of my recent confession, it might be important.

"I-- you-- you really mean that?" A silly little smile was twitching at the corners of his mouth, threatening to capture his entire face. I felt myself smiling back.

"Yeah, I do mean it. I mean, I don't mortally embarrass myself for just anyone."

Now the grin did encompass his entire expression. "That's funny, because I was trying to come up with a way to tell you the same thing, but you beat me to the punch." He moved a little closer, so close I could feel his breath on my face. "As usual." Then he leaned forward and kissed me. It wasn't one of those soul-stealing, take-your-breath-away kisses that those trashy romance novelists write about all the time, but it was pretty damned good. There's always room for improvement and I, for one, feel that there is no such thing as too much practice. I have high hopes of perfecting my technique in the very near future.