How to Say I Do

by Tal Bauer

Noël was so vibrantly alive that being next to him was like being battered by the sea. The presence of him, the churn of all his moving parts, the rush of recognizing his tender places rising to the surface as I got a peek past his armor— He made me think of roses opening after winter, buds tentatively unfurling and testing the light before embracing a bloom. He made me feel sixteen again, heady and breathless and losing myself in daydreams and fantasies. I was gone. Ass over head, my boots well in the air, hungry for more of Noël. I wanted everything: the man who’d eaten both our burgers and poured his broken heart out to a strange cowboy, and the man who’d snuck a bottle of vodka onto a plane and chugged a homemade screwdriver while smirking at me like we were partners in crime. The man who melted into my side when he couldn’t go one step further, and who had trusted me to bring him the rest of the way. The man who looked at me with eyes brighter than all the stars over Texas combined, and who had held on to me and said he was sorry I’d lost my father with a softness that moved deep down into my most fragile, hidden places.