The Man Who Came Back in September

Twenty-one years after walking away without an explanation, Daniel appears outside the restaurant where Thomas is having dinner. Some people return because they want forgiveness. Others return because time has finally run out.

Thomas saw Daniel before Daniel saw him.

That was unfortunate.

It gave him seven seconds to remember twenty-one years.

The restaurant windows reflected the last light over Boston, turning the people inside into pale ghosts layered over the street beyond. Thomas was halfway through a glass of wine and pretending to listen to a story about a contractor in Cambridge when he noticed the man standing across Newbury Street.

Older.

Of course.

Grey at the temples.

Thinner than he remembered.

But Daniel had always stood as if he were waiting for permission to leave.

That had not changed.

“Thomas?”

He looked back at Jeremy.

“Sorry.”

“You vanished.”

“Apparently.”

Jeremy followed his gaze toward the window.

“Someone you know?”

Thomas lifted the wine.

“Someone I used to.”

Across the street, Daniel finally looked toward the restaurant.

Their eyes met.

Twenty-one years collapsed with ridiculous efficiency.

Thomas put down the glass.

“Oh,” Jeremy said.

“Yes.”

“That kind of someone.”

“Yes.”

Daniel did not wave.

Thank God.

He simply stood there.

Then the pedestrian light changed.

He crossed the street.

Twenty-one years earlier

Thomas had imagined this moment many times when he was younger.

In some versions Daniel apologized.

In others Thomas remained magnificently indifferent.

Occasionally Daniel begged.

Those were satisfying years.

By forty-one, Thomas had stopped rehearsing.

He had a consulting company, an apartment in the South End, a complicated relationship with running and a succession of perfectly respectable men who had eventually concluded that Thomas was emotionally available in much the same way a museum was available after closing time.

Daniel had become something that had happened.

That was the phrase Thomas preferred.

Something that happened.

Not someone he had loved.

Certainly not the first man he had planned a life around.

Something that happened.

The restaurant door opened.

Daniel entered.

He spoke briefly to the hostess and looked toward the table.

Jeremy leaned closer.

“I assume you don't want me to leave.”

“I have absolutely no idea.”

“Excellent.”

Daniel approached.

“Thomas.”

His voice was the worst part.

Age had changed his face.

It had not changed his voice.

“Daniel.”

For one absurd second neither man moved.

Then Daniel looked at Jeremy.

“I didn't mean to interrupt.”

“You crossed four lanes of traffic.”

“I've done worse.”

Thomas laughed.

He hated himself for it immediately.

Daniel smiled.

And there it was.

Not youth.

Something worse.

Recognition.

The empty chair

“This is Jeremy,” Thomas said.

Jeremy offered a hand.

“Pleasure.”

Daniel shook it.

“Daniel.”

“I gathered.”

Thomas kicked Jeremy under the table.

Jeremy smiled brightly.

Daniel looked toward the empty chair.

“I can go.”

“You already did that once.”

Silence.

Jeremy examined the ceiling.

Thomas had not planned the sentence.

That made it better.

Daniel nodded.

“Yes.”

Another silence.

Then Jeremy stood.

“I have suddenly remembered a call.”

“You don't have to—”

“I absolutely do.”

The cruelty of friendship was that good friends knew when to abandon you for your own benefit.

Daniel watched him leave.

“He seems nice.”

“He is.”

“Are you together?”

“No.”

“I shouldn't have asked.”

“No.”

The waiter arrived.

Thomas pointed at the chair.

“Sit down before everyone assumes you're my parole officer.”

Daniel sat.

The waiter looked at him.

“Something to drink?”

“Whiskey. Whatever bourbon you have.”

Thomas stared.

Daniel noticed.

“What?”

“You hate bourbon.”

“I did.”

“When did that change?”

“A lot of things changed.”

The waiter departed.

Thomas looked out the window.

September in Boston had always felt dishonest. Summer had not quite ended, but everyone had already decided that it had.

The letter

They had met when Thomas was twenty.

Daniel was twenty-three and worked nights at a hotel while studying architecture.

Thomas remembered everything about that first summer with the embarrassing precision reserved for events one claims to have forgotten.

Daniel's apartment had no air conditioning.

They slept with the windows open.

Every city sound entered the room.

Buses.

Sirens.

Arguments.

Someone singing on the sidewalk at two in the morning.

Thomas had believed this was adulthood.

Not bills.

Not insurance.

Not the first grey hair.

A hot room beside someone who wanted him there.

Three years later they had chosen an apartment together.

Two weeks before they were supposed to move in, Daniel disappeared.

Not metaphorically.

Literally.

He left Boston.

His phone stopped working.

His hotel said he had resigned.

His landlord said the apartment was empty.

A letter arrived six weeks later.

Thomas could still remember every word because there had only been twelve.

I'm sorry. I can't do this. Please don't try to find me.

He had obeyed only the second sentence.

For nearly a year he searched.

Eventually anger replaced panic.

Then humiliation replaced anger.

Then life replaced humiliation.

Or covered it.

Those were not necessarily the same thing.

The explanation

“My father was dying,” Daniel said.

Thomas stared at him.

“No.”

Daniel nodded.

“No?”

“You don't get to do this.”

“Do what?”

“Produce a dead parent like evidence.”

“I'm not.”

“You vanished.”

“I know.”

“You let me think you were dead.”

“I know.”

“For months.”

“I know.”

Thomas lowered his voice.

“My father hated me.”

Daniel looked at the whiskey.

“That isn't an explanation.”

“No.”

“He knew about us?”

“Yes.”

“You told me he didn't.”

“I lied.”

“Apparently you had a gift.”

Daniel absorbed that.

“My mother called. He had pancreatic cancer. He wanted me home.”

“And you couldn't tell me?”

“I thought I could. Then I didn't.”

“That is not a sentence adults use.”

“I was twenty-four.”

“Twenty-four-year-olds can operate telephones.”

Daniel nodded.

“Yes.”

“My father told me my mother would be alone if I stayed with you.”

Thomas said nothing.

“He said I had already humiliated the family enough.”

“And?”

“And I went.”

“For twenty-one years?”

“My father died four months later.”

“Then why didn't you come back?”

Daniel finally looked at him.

“Because by then I knew what I'd done.”

Thomas laughed once.

“That stopped you?”

“Yes.”

The other man

“Did you marry?”

Daniel hesitated.

“Yes.”

Thomas was surprised by how little that hurt.

“A woman?”

“A man.”

That hurt more.

“Of course.”

“Thomas—”

“How long?”

“Fourteen years.”

“Happy?”

“For most of it.”

“Children?”

“No.”

“Why did it end?”

“Cancer.”

Thomas closed his eyes.

For a moment the restaurant disappeared.

“I'm sorry.”

“He died last November.”

“I am sorry.”

“I know.”

“No. You don't.”

Daniel looked at him.

Thomas continued.

“You don't get to make me cruel because you deserve cruelty.”

“I didn't come for cruelty.”

“Why did you come?”

“I told you. I saw you.”

“No.”

Thomas leaned forward.

“Why are you in Boston?”

Daniel ran his thumb along the table again.

“I came to sell something.”

“What?”

“My mother's house.”

“She died?”

“In June.”

“Oh.”

“I'm leaving tomorrow.”

“So this really was chance.”

“Yes.”

Thomas looked toward the window.

“That's almost disappointing.”

The bench

They left the restaurant at nine.

Thomas did not know why they left together.

Perhaps because twenty-one years deserved a sidewalk.

Boston had cooled.

Daniel put his hands in his coat pockets.

They reached the Public Garden.

Thomas stopped at the gate.

“Do you remember that bench?”

Daniel looked inside.

“Yes.”

“You said you loved me there.”

“I remember.”

“You were drunk.”

“I wasn't.”

“You claimed you were later.”

“I lied.”

“Again.”

“Yes.”

There was something almost comforting about Daniel finally admitting how thoroughly he had failed.

Not defending himself.

Not reframing it.

Not asking Thomas to understand.

Just standing there with the wreckage.

“I hated you,” Thomas said.

“I know.”

“No. For years.”

“I know.”

“I wanted terrible things to happen to you.”

Daniel smiled faintly.

“Some did.”

Thomas looked at him sharply.

“I'm not asking for sympathy.”

“Good.”

“I deserved your anger.”

“Yes.”

“I still do.”

Thomas considered that.

“No.”

Daniel frowned.

“No?”

“I don't think you do anymore.”

For the first time that evening, Daniel appeared genuinely shaken.

“You were a coward. You hurt me. It took years to understand that those were facts about you, not facts about me.”

Daniel looked away.

“And eventually I stopped needing you to suffer.”

Coffee

At Thomas's building they stopped beneath the entrance light.

Daniel looked up.

“Nice.”

“Thank you.”

“I suppose this is where I say goodbye.”

Thomas looked at him.

“What hotel?”

“The Eliot.”

“That is annoyingly close.”

“I didn't arrange the geography.”

“Apparently geography is doing most of the work tonight.”

Daniel smiled.

“Thomas.”

“Yes?”

“I am sorry.”

Thomas had waited twenty-one years to hear those words.

They were completely inadequate.

That surprised him.

There should have been more satisfaction.

A physical release.

Some internal knot loosening.

Instead they were simply words spoken by a tired man on a September night.

“I know,” Thomas said.

Daniel nodded.

“Good night.”

He turned.

“Daniel.”

He stopped.

Thomas had no idea what he was about to say.

That seemed appropriate.

“Do you still drink coffee?”

Daniel turned back.

“Yes.”

“Proper coffee?”

“I live in Seattle.”

“That's not an answer.”

“Yes.”

Thomas took out his phone.

“There is a place around the corner. Seven thirty.”

Daniel stared at him.

“Tomorrow?”

“No, Daniel. In another twenty-one years.”

Daniel smiled.

“Seven thirty.”

“This isn't forgiveness.”

“I know.”

“It isn't anything.”

“I know.”

“Coffee.”

“Coffee.”

Thomas entered the building.

He did not look back.

At forty-one, he finally understood that not looking back and not caring whether someone was behind you were entirely different achievements.

September morning

At seven twenty-eight the next morning, Thomas stood outside the café.

September sunlight fell between the buildings.

He had slept badly.

He had changed his shirt twice.

He had told himself repeatedly that this meant nothing.

At seven twenty-nine, Daniel appeared at the end of the block.

Same walk.

Same hesitation.

Older face.

Thomas felt something rise inside him that was neither love nor anger.

Possibility, perhaps.

A dangerous word.

Daniel stopped in front of him.

“You came.”

Thomas opened the café door.

“This time,” he said, “so did you.”

And they went inside.