3 The Trip

February 2023

I’m not looking for a pen pal. And I Zoom for work. It’s time to meet.

There’s only so much chemistry you can test through a screen, and I’ve reached my limit. I want to know what the inside of his mouth looks like when he laughs, and if the energy I feel through pixels translates into something real.

Ryan is back in Atlanta, caring for Robert. He books a trip to Omaha for the weekend, but Robert’s health declines. Robert is hospitalized, and Ryan can’t leave.

But I can.

I throw caution to the wind — and shove every mental image of being tied up in a van straight out of my mind — and I book a flight to Atlanta for the weekend. We have got to meet in person. It’s time to move this from the virtual world to the real one, where people have pores and unpredictable quirks. If he’s real, that is…

Now, how to explain this to friends?

“I’m going to Atlanta to meet a guy.”

“What guy?”

“A guy I’ve never met in person.”

Cue the collective gasp.

I can practically hear the true‑crime podcasts revving up in their honor. I might be trafficked, I tell them. Then I immediately reassure myself: Nah, I’m too old to be trafficked. Who wants a 48‑year‑old? I’m going to Atlanta. I’ll share my location, and I’ll be fine. Probably.

I pack my bag, leaving all reason behind, like the workout clothes I know I won’t wear but bring anyway. I’m halfway through folding a pair of jeans when Ryan calls. He’s also packing — but not for a trip. He’s packing Robert’s things.

Robert has entered hospice.

Ryan tells me about this dear friend, a man who has always been blessed with long, loyal friendships. Robert is a gay man, a successful lawyer, and apparently someone who enjoys life with a certain… enthusiasm. Ryan laughs as he explains that there is a lot of money and only fun stuff to spend it on. Then he mentions he’s found a Rubbermaid container of some “things,” which he plans to discreetly dispose of before family arrives. What should he do with these “things,” he asks.

I’m no longer packing.

If there were a car in my closet, you’d hear the brakes screeching.

The conversation has taken a sharp turn into sexual territory, and I have absolutely zero interest in discussing the assortment of fun sealed away in Rubbermaid like a time capsule no one was ever meant to open. If Ryan thinks this meeting involves contact, he is wrong. I reserve the right to stay, to leave, and to sleep on my own. I don’t make Atlanta booty calls. I don’t even make Omaha booty calls.

But I misunderstood.

Ryan has the same expectations in mind. This is a first meeting, not a pre‑scheduled entanglement. He was simply sharing what he found, the way someone might mention discovering an old yearbook or a forgotten box of Christmas ornaments — except, you know, much more awkward. He didn’t mean to imply anything by the discovery. He absolutely did not mean it that way. His voice softens, earnest and a little embarrassed.

“Won’t you please come to Atlanta?” he pleads.