thinking of Mikey a little, but he’s the past and I’m moving on and right now, I want to head on home, maybe stop by 7-Eleven in Central Square for a Three Musketeers and a lime Gatorade. Anyway, everything is cool. Go and hang out with Marcello before he meets another cute guy, but by the looks of this place, he’s all yours. I want to hear all the dirty, juicy details tomorrow, okay?”
“Deal. Be careful driving. Text me when you get home so I know that you made it okay.”
“You sound like my overprotective parents. I’ll text you, I promise,” I say. We give each other a tight hug and say good night. Carlos then bounces back to the dance floor to get some more one-on-one dance time before the club closes at 2 a.m. The breezy cool fall air escorts me as I walk back to my Jeep. On Massachusetts Avenue, I drive on the bumpy bridge, which is flanked by bright light posts that resemble flickering candles on a cake. As soon as I cross the Charles River to Boston, I hear an old favorite song, “The First Cut Is the Deepest” by Sheryl Crow. The song reminds me of Mikey. I lean my head against my left wrist as I negotiate Boston’s pothole-filled streets. At each light, I wonder how Mikey is doing and whether I will ever meet another guy who will capture my heart the way he did. I knew Mikey was Mr. Right, but we met at the wrong time. We were in the wrong season of our lives.
The following afternoon, I drive on Interstate 93 on my way to a hike in the Blue Hills. Hiking has become one of my favorite hobbies in Boston. The one-hour walks through the woods to the top of the old Weather Observation Tower calm my mind. I forget about my deadlines and stresses at the Daily as a general assignment Living/Arts writer, my dream job and the real reason I left Miami for a new start in Boston. Miami remains in my heart, but I felt there was something more beyond lazy afternoons en la playa, liquor-fueled bar nights in South Beach, and South Florida’s endless supply of gritty news stories which I covered at The Miami News. I wanted to work for a great newspaper and learn my way around a new city. I wanted to make it on my own. I considered Anchorage, Alaska, but there weren’t any direct flights to Miami. (My parents would have had a conniption.) New York City seemed too overwhelming and crazy. Boston seemed like a good place to begin anew, personally and professionally. It’s a big city but one that still exudes a small hometown feel. And since I had interned at the Daily one summer off from the University of Miami, I felt comfortable in Boston. Boston, with its clusters of low-rise redbrick brownstones, numerous bike paths that wrap both sides of the Charles River like concrete ribbons, and historic cobblestone streets in downtown agreed with me. Boston was, and still is, an outdoor museum that never seems to close. It marries the old world established by the Pilgrims with today’s ever-changing Wi-Fi culture. Today’s settlers are us newcomers, students, and immigrants. This place simply fuels my brain.
When the Daily offered me my job, it was to cover Boston neighborhoods for the city section. I wrote colorful city tales, about things such as the popularity of a local Santeria priest and the plight of a brave, young, homeless woman in Cambridge who kept an online diary of her city travels. Over the summer, my editors promoted me to features. I always wanted to work as a features reporter in Miami, but the editors there didn’t give me a chance. Bastards! They preferred that I cover breaking news in Fort Lauderdale, another county (and world away) from the main newsroom in Miami. I freelanced for my old paper’s features section while writing full time in Fort Lauderdale, but my efforts were like messages in a bottle, floating aimlessly. So my dream of becoming a features writer for my hometown paper and owning my place along Biscayne Bay was deferred. I had to start all over again. Boston was my second chance professionally, and I gladly took the job offer. And for that, I will always be grateful to The Boston Daily, my new professional home, for helping Boston become my permanent home. It’s also where I discovered a love of hiking. (The only hiking that happens in pancake-flat Miami involves excursions to the mall, beach, or plastic surgeons’ offices.)
When I hike, I embrace the peaceful serenity that Mother Nature offers me with 4,000 acres of preserved woodlands only ten miles from my condo. The hikes are also good workouts. I benefit more from hiking up 635 feet than riding the elliptical machine at the gym with my face buried in a novel. I have to remind myself to bring Carlos here sometime, but I enjoy having all these hills to myself. Maybe one day I’ll bring him and, perhaps Rico, if I can pull him away from his seafaring boyfriend.
But first, I pull into the Barnes & Noble perched on a hill off Granite Street in Braintree. I walk into the store, which is crowded with suburban mothers and older people leafing through the magazines for free as they drink their white mochas and freshly brewed teas. I approach the café counter. The friendly young Latina salesgirl greets me in Spanish. She says I’m the only customer she can chat with en español.
“Hola, Tommy! The usual, right? The chocolate brownie and bottled water?”
“Yeah, Selena. How did you guess?” I say, standing in front of the glass display of cookies, cheesecakes, and brownies.
“Oh, let me see. You order this almost every day. I guess you’re OCD or something, right? Don’t you get bored of eating the same thing?” With a pair of plastic tongs, she grabs my brownie from the display case.
“You’re right. It’s my OCD: Obsessive Chocolate Disorder. The brownies are delicious! How can anyone get bored?”
I pay Selena and use my Barnes & Noble membership card, which gives me ten percent off the total price. Since I come here daily, it pays off.
Just as Selena hands me my spare change, I hear a familiar raspy Boston accent behind me in line. The sound breaks my focus from Selena.
“Tommy Perez! Is…that…you?” the voice inquires.
I turn around, and my heart races at a million miles a minute. A flush of nervous energy fills me when I recognize the sparkling sky-blue eyes, the brown spiked hair, and freckled nose and cheeks. Mikey. My fluttery nerves temporarily paralyze my vocal chords. He’s standing behind me in line at our former meeting place.
“You’re still in Boston? I figured you’d be back in Miami by now after your first winter,” Mikey says, looking as cute as ever. I wish I could swim inside his eyes. His skin looks more vibrant and healthier than last year. The bags under his eyes are gone.
“Hey, you!” I blurt out as I realize that he’s right here in front of me. I gather my composure. I wouldn’t want him to think I’m nervous or excited or anything. Internally, I am jumping up and down at the vision.
“Yeah, I decided to stick around. You Bostonians can’t get rid of me that easily.” I regain my composure after the words pop out of my mouth.
A smile flashes across Mikey’s face.
“What are you doing around here? You’re kinda far from Cambridge,” he says in his Boston accent, which makes “far” sound like “fahr.”
“Actually, I bought a condo in Dorchester. I’m pretty close. I hike in the Blue Hills on Saturdays. Ever been?”
“You know, I’ve lived here all my life and I’ve never been to the Blue Hills. That’s very adventurous of you. Hiking alone.”
“Well, there are families hiking, too, so I never feel too alone.” I stand with my bagged brownie in one hand and my bottled water in the other. As we stand here, our eyes lock wordlessly as other customers mosey around and give Selena their orders. In this moment, I take a full visual inventory of Mikey. I am lust, err, lost in thought. He sports a dark blue hooded jacket with a brown T-shirt underneath, baggy blue jeans, and brown sneakers. He always liked matching blue with brown.
My brown eyes quickly reacquaint themselves with his blue ones, which look like portals into a bright sky. Oh, those eyes! They seem to mesmerize and seduce at the same time, just like they did when we first met a year ago. I couldn’t break away from his stare then, and I certainly can’t break away from it now. I’m surprised that we bumped into each other here. I always figured I would see him out at a bar drinking, as usual.
“Well, I haven’t seen any mountain lions in the Blue Hills. One time I got lost and I felt like I was in a scene from The Blair Witch Project. It took me two hours to find my way out of the forest. I was lost in Shrek land.”