Right up to my sister’s wedding, I fully expected to spend the rest of 2015 mourning my relationship with Josef. I truly believed that we were in love, that we had a future together, that he was The One.

I expected to wallow in my broken heart for a while, the way a young man disappointed in love should, then take my time parsing the lessons and gearing up to move on.

And then there was Troy Nakamura.

A few images stuck with me, popping into my mind at odd moments during the months that followed. Whenever I wasn’t concentrating, basically, which meant I soon developed a somewhat unhealthy aversion to leisure.

First, Troy at the rehearsal dinner. Dressy casual, as we all were, with those impossibly long legs in jeans, a nice Tommy Bahama shirt on top, silky black hair swept back. Vans loafers and a decent wristwatch and eyeliner, ngh.

Second, Troy at the wedding, in that unbelievable custom suit, which he told me he only dared buy because he seemed to have finally stopped getting taller. Every unpartnered person, wedding party to guests, kept turning to look at him all night. An unsettling number of the partnered people did too.

Third, Troy at the reception, shedding his jacket to dance. The vest was made Dance Sport style, with a full back. It made him look even taller and slimmer. Once the dancing started, I don’t think he sat down at all. He never got the chance.

We danced together.

I’ll never forget it.

I’ll never stop asking myself why I didn’t apply some fucking discipline and gently decline all his invitations. There was no scenario where we had more than another one-night stand. But then, I honestly didn’t expect to wake up and hear him saying he thought we should stay together. Somehow.

Back to the images. Fourth: Troy in bed at the hotel, one of the lamps on so we could see each other. Despite now being nearly four inches taller than me, sexually fearless, experienced, and (in case it wasn’t clear) fucking gorgeous, he acted like this was the best thing that ever happened to him. Like I was the best thing.

Fifth: Troy in the morning, flushed and wet-eyed, while I told him I didn’t want to try a long-distance thing. Going from lazily stretched out, smiling hopefully at me, to sitting up with his arms around his shins, forehead resting on his knees, after we both mostly stopped crying.

Sixth: Troy in the driver’s seat after dropping me off in Irvine. Love bite on his neck, whisker burn on his jaw, bruise on his lip. That morning’s drive was one of the most awkward, uncomfortable, painful experiences of my life. I knew it would be, which is why I offered to call for a ride, but he wouldn’t hear of it. Said that was part of the sleepover deal, and we were still friends, and he needed to swing by his parents’ house anyhow.

I didn’t suggest exchanging contact information, and he didn’t ask. Maybe we both thought that if we truly needed to get in touch, there was Natalia.

Oh, God, what was I going to tell her?

Because distracted as she was by being Just Married, she definitely got the idea there was something going on between me and Troy. He told her I might crash with him, but we danced together after that, and it was not a chaste we’re-just-friends kind of dance. It was the kind of dance two young gay men use as foreplay. Natalia had never seen me dance like that before; I have no idea if she’d ever seen Troy do it. But it’s pretty unmistakable. Even worse: the next dance was a slow rumba, and we danced actual rumba, and if I hadn’t fully intended to fuck him before that, the decision was made for me then.