Our Secret

You know how to talk to me by now. You know how to listen. Through wine-soaked lips, I’ve whispered every secret I’ve never told anyone, and you’ve heard them. You’ve kept them. You’ve locked them away until even I have forgotten that I ever told you. I’ve never really thanked you for that. I’ve told you many times that you know everything about me, and I hope I’m right. Because there is one secret I haven’t told anyone. Not even you. And if you know me as well as I think you do, maybe you’ll already have guessed and I won’t have to go through everything I’ve spent all week frantically planning, and cancelling, and rearranging. Maybe, if the last ten years have meant as much to you as they have to me, I won’t need the candles and the fancy meal and the soundtrack. Maybe you already know I love you.

But I’m assuming that’s probably not the case. Hence why I’m in standing in the middle of the bottle shop in the middle of the day, in the middle of a full on freak out. Everyone has to know this feeling, right? I thought I’d left it behind in high school, but I guess I’ve just been saving it up for you. For tonight. It’s a tight, curling feeling in my stomach, as though it’s too big to be contained down there, and instead it’s climbing up my throat and out of my chest. Whenever I think of telling you my biggest secret, the one I’ve kept even from you, adrenaline screams through my blood. I feel my nerves spark and all my senses come alive. For a moment, it’s hopeful and energising. And then I just feel sick.

I glance around the shop to distract myself. At home I have everything to make the tomatoey pasta we discovered in our uni sharehouse days and have every time you come over. I also have the glazed chicken ingredients I bought when I decided that was too casual, and the risotto I bought when the fancy chicken was too on the nose. I have about five stinky cheeses in my fridge because I couldn’t decide on a drink, and a couple of boring cheeses I went back for when I remembered how much you hate blue cheese.

I’ve been in and out of the shops four times today already. And now here I am trying to choose a drink. I imagine it’s probably going to go just as well.

What is the right drink for a casual hang with your best friend that could turn into the most awkward night you’ve ever had, or possibly the best? What drink do you choose to keep your lips sealed around a secret until exactly the right moment? What’s the right drink to tell your best friend you love them and then either commiserate or celebrate?

The cashier gives me quite a look as I step up to the counter with a bottle of scotch, a bottle of gin, a six pack, and some baileys. It’s a lot. I get that. But I think he sees the thinly veiled panic behind my eyes, because he doesn’t ask me any questions, just scans everything through and sends me off with my arms full of brown paper bags. I go back five minutes later to get some mixers.

It’s not a long ride home. Thank god with the amount of trips I’ve made today, or I would have spent half the day in the car. With the bottles clinking in the back and the window rolled down, I can barely hear my own thoughts, and I like it that way. I’ve thought entirely too much today. About what I’m going to feed you, what I’m going to wear, what I’m going to say to you. I still have no answers. But at least I have options.

I pull into my street, and a cold lance of dread shoots through me. There’s a car parked outside my house. It’s your car. It’s you. I’m not ready. I’m not even close to ready. There’s nothing I can do. I can’t turn around – you’ll already have heard me by now. I almost do it anyway. I could just drive off and never come back. I could do laps of the city for hours, for days, for years, until you forgot I even existed and that I ever invited you over.

I pull into the driveway, scanning your car for activity. Empty. You must have gone for a walk. For a moment after I pull the handbrake on, I relax, before I see that my lights are on inside, and realise you must have let yourself in through the back door. You’ve probably already fed my dog too. You're like that. I sit in the car for a lot longer than is probably sensible. What do I even do with the ridiculous amounts of alcohol and groceries in my boot? Surely bringing in everything at once is wildly incriminating, but I can’t just leave it in the boot. Maybe I take the groceries in and come back for the booze. I'm allowed to go out and buy groceries. Sure. Let’s try that.

I try to leave the car. My legs don’t move. Am I shaking? Hard to say. I know I can’t stay in the car. That’s got to be the most incriminating thing of all. You know I’m home. Eventually you’re going to come looking. But the thought of walking inside seems utterly impossible. I planned so carefully. I had all my options ready. I had this final half hour before you arrived to pick from them. To prepare. To revise my script in my head. But you’re already here, and I have no idea what I’m going to say, wear, cook, do. But still. I glance up at the lights on inside the house, watching a shadow flicker across them. It’s only you. And spending time with you is my favourite thing to do. Surely that outweighs this sudden terror. Besides, it’s my own damn house. I’ll have to go back in there at some point.

I blow out a few short huffs of air and launch open the car door. Before I have time to think, I march around to the boot, pull out all the groceries, and close the lid on the alcohol. I head towards the door, already unlocked and open. I deposit the bags in the kitchen, which smells like tomatoes and vegetables and garlic, like our favourite dish. This makes sense, for a moment, until I realise that I can't have already started cooking. I look at my tomatoes, raw and uncut on the counter. You're cooking for me? Brow furrowing, I head through to the living room, where I know you will have gone to wait for me to get home.

And there you are. The sight of you stops me in my tracks. There’s nothing special. You’re in the same jeans and shirt you’ve worn on slightly chilly days for the last two years. But you’re always special. And today’s no different.

“Hey,” you say, smiling. God, that smile, and all for me. Have you always looked so happy to see me? “Sorry for breaking in, but I got here early.”

You’re sitting on the couch, and there are two glasses and a bottle on the coffee table in front of you. My stomach clenches up, remembering the bottles clinking around my boot. But there's no need for them after all. Two shimmering red glasses filled up far too high are ready and waiting. Merlot. It’s always merlot. We’ve been drinking it since you stopped calling it mer - LOT, and started ordering it at every bar you could.

You fidget with your fingers and then they still. I still in concert, a spike of fear shooting through my chest. I know you pretty well by now too. I know every one of your looks, your quirks. You look up at me, and your eyes are smiling, though your lips are tight. You pat the seat next to you.

The fear in my chest melts into something warmer, something hopeful.

Your lips quirk up as though they can’t bear being so nervous. Another smile. Just for me. “I’ve got something to ask you.”

I smile back and take the seat. I guess you’ve been keeping a secret from me too.