"Now this Marquice, he's Gary's..."

"Husband." I inched the car along Gary and Marquice's tree-lined dead-end street, my eyes scanning from side to side in search of parking. In the end, it had taken all of thirty seconds to convince Mom to come along. She seemed genuinely flattered that I'd introduce her to my friends and colleagues, and she's never been one to turn down good food. Or drink.

"So they're married?" She knit her eyebrows as an expression of puzzlement spread across her face. "Two men? To each other?"

"Yes, Mom. Same-sex couples can do that now." Finally spying a just-big-enough spot, I squeezed my Civic between two larger vehicles. "And they're working with an agency on finding a child to adopt. They're expecting the call any day now."

"You know I've always been a big supporter of gay rights," she responded, almost defensively. "I think it's wonderful. It's just that—and I know I shouldn't say this—but when I was growing up, that would've been unthinkable. A married gay couple. With children!"

In the still-balmy early evening, we walked the half-block to Gary and Marquice's home, a spacious 1930s Colonial revival that backs up to a park in a hilly neighborhood southwest of Downtown. The open floor plan and oversized deck make it perfect for entertaining, and they've added a bar and a walk-in wine cellar to the finished basement. They can have forty people over and the place still doesn't feel crowded.

As we stood in the front entryway after ringing the doorbell, I wanted to remind my mother to be on her best behavior. To not do or say anything, well, horrifying in front of my coworkers, the odds of which would increase in direct parallel with her wine consumption. I wished I could tell her that Gary didn't have to invite her—she could just as easily have been spending the evening alone in my apartment.

But, as many a motivational speaker has opined, simply wanting something doesn't make it happen.

So instead of a bold, principled statement of self-advocacy, I settled for "Just be nice, Mom. Please." I know, I know. Weak sauce.

To which she responded with a dismissive laugh, "Oh, Randall, when am I ever not nice?"

Though I was fairly sure Mom didn't actually want my answer, I was still relieved when the door swung open. Just inside stood Gary, casually attired in a mint green polo shirt and tan chino shorts. Against his chest he cradled Sugar, the sweet-tempered white Pomeranian he and Marquice had adopted shortly after they'd bought this house.

"Randall! Hello and welcome!" Gary cried, his eyes bright, as he pulled me in for a quick embrace. "You guys are the first ones here, so come on in." True to my nature, I'd insisted on arriving at least a half-hour early; somehow, I'd inherited this tendency from my father. It must be one of the only things we agree on.

"Gary, this is my—"

"And Sharon! I'm so glad you could come too." Gary sidestepped my attempt at an introduction, giving my mother a sort of side-hug. He then took her right hand in his and looked her square in the eye. "Gary Sullivan. Enchanté." Sugar added a welcoming lick on Mom's nose. I half-expected my mother to recoil in disgust; she's never been an animal lover. But instead, she let out a chuckle and scratched Sugar behind the ears.

"It's wonderful to finally meet you, Gary," she said in her most endearing tone as a smile blossomed on her lipsticked lips. "Randall's told me so much about you. The pleasure's all mine."

"I hope you like rosé. I have this amazing one from Provence that you have to try." Gary once again extended his hand, offering it to my mother. "The wine cellar's downstairs. Shall we?"

"Ooh, I love a good rosé," Mom said with palpable excitement. She turned toward me, shaking a finger in Gary's direction as she mouthed the words 'I like him!' Already in full thrall to his magnetic charm, she trailed after Gary to the basement.

Well then.

I'd anticipated having Mom glued to my side for most of the night, but apparently Gary had other ideas—though I had no earthly clue what they might be. Unexpectedly on my own with time to kill, I drifted into the family room, pausing to absentmindedly tap out a few notes on their baby grand piano. The opening to Bach's Third Cello Suite. I learned it on viola my junior year at Eastman.

I wonder if Colette has ever played that piece?

There she was again. Rent-free. Anxiety welled up in my chest at the mere thought of her,  especially the thought of seeing her tonight. Honestly, since yesterday afternoon, she hadn't been off my mind for more than five minutes at a time.

I rose from the piano and stopped to admire some framed photos on a far wall. There were three in all: Gary and Marquice on their wedding day in matching white tuxedos; the two of them with at least twenty members of Marquice's extended family, from a trip to the Bahamas last year; a double selfie on a gondola in Venice, from their honeymoon.

You can practically feel it radiating from every picture; they're so ecstatic just to be together. So in love.

But you don't need to be in love to be happy, remember?

Yes. Exactly. And I was living proof of that.

Wasn't I?

From the family room, I wandered to the kitchen, where I found Marquice bent over the stove, carefully dropping ice cream scoopfuls of batter into a cast-iron pot of hot oil. Dip, scoop, drop. Dip, scoop, drop. The wonderfully greasy-fishy-oniony aroma of conch fritters filled every corner of the kitchen, triggering a twinge of hunger.

He must have sensed my presence out of the corner of his eye. "Randall! I'm so glad you made it." He turned around to face me, wiping his hands on his red-and-white-striped apron. "I'd give you a hug, but I'm all covered in fish juice." He laughed one of his resonant, sonorous laughs. "I understand you brought your mother?"

"Yeah, she's with Gary," I said with a yawn. With my mother somehow still on east coast time and inexplicably fond of early mornings, sleep for me had been in short supply recently. "He whisked her away as soon as we got here."

"I'll have to introduce myself later," Marquice said, turning back to the cast-iron pot. "I'm sorry—I'd love to chat, but unfortunately, I'm a bit preoccupied with cooking." He resumed his dip, scoop, drop. "There's beer, soda, and water in the cooler on the deck, and wine and cocktails downstairs. Help yourself!"

Marquice was as warm and friendly as ever, even if he seemed distracted with those mouth-watering fritters. He may not be as boisterously outgoing as Gary—I don't think anyone is—but Marquice is laid-back and easy to talk to. Where Gary is brash and opinionated, Marquice is thoughtful and considered. Where Gary wears his emotions for all to see, Marquice keeps a calm and measured facade. I can't think of a more perfectly-matched couple—they're so different, but they balance each other beautifully. It's the kind of relationship where they're trying to bring out the best in one another. 

A beer sounded like just the thing to loosen me up right now. I've never been much of a drinker, but I'll have one now and then to help ease my anxiety in social situations. It's even Kristen-approved, as long as I stick to her guidelines: no more than two drinks, and no hard liquor. Out on the deck, I pulled a bottle of Samuel Adams from the cooler; their Boston Lager has been my beer of choice since my undergraduate days.

I sank into an Adirondack chair, took out my phone, and mindlessly scrolled my social media feeds as I nursed my beer. With increasing regularity, the front doorbell rang to herald the arrival of another guest or two—and most of them eventually ended up on the deck to soak in the magnificent late summer evening.

Once the Sam Adams had gone to work on my nerves, I stood and milled around with my colleagues, offering a 'how are you?' here and a 'nice to see you' there. I made the acquaintances of Aaron and Kellie, the new violinists, and Jonathan, the new trumpeter, who were all perfectly lovely people. My attempts at small talk, drawing on the Friend File for topics, were sincere if not exactly graceful.

I returned to the figurative cover of my phone, allowing myself to recharge before the next round of socializing. In the meantime, Gary, Marquice, and a couple of other guests had started bringing the food out from the kitchen: platters piled high with conch fritters, jerk chicken, and pulled pork sliders; golden ears of corn on the cob; crusty loaves of local artisan bread; achingly fresh salads in vivid technicolor. Behind them came my mother, holding a stack of silverware in one hand and a glass of wine in the other, joyously bantering with Gary and Marquice as though she'd known them her whole life.

Needless to say, the 'make friends easily' gene is not something Mom deigned to pass on to me.

The commingling scents ratcheted up my appetite to the next level as I awaited the official word from our hosts to dig in. I was just about to tuck my phone in my pocket when I felt a hand on my shoulder. "Hey, stranger!" said an instantly recognizable voice with a Southern lilt.

Laura and I embraced warmly—I was so grateful for another familiar face. "How are you doing?" she asked. "Did you end up bringing your mom?" Her enthusiasm was clear; more than anything, Laura loved meeting new people.

"She's helping Gary and Marquice at the moment," I said as I took a sip of my beer. "I'm sure she'd love to meet you."

"Oh, I'm sure she has some stories to tell about you," Laura said with a fleeting laugh. I shuddered—you have no idea, Laura. Then her grin widened. "You know who else is here, right? The one who's been living rent-free in that head of yours?"

"She most certainly is not!" I scowled and gave her a gentle elbow to the ribs. Except she absolutely was.

"You know I'm only teasing, hon," Laura said, her expression softening into a sincere smile as she touched my shoulder. "But, just in case you were wondering, she's right over there," she added with a wink, tilting her head to my right like she'd uncovered a treasure. I followed her gaze.

And my breath caught in my throat. Because there she stood, not ten feet in front of me.

She was engaged in spirited conversation with Aaron and Kellie, her back facing me, but there was no mistaking her for anyone else. Her oversized shades rested on top of that pink-highlighted hair, now pulled into a low bun at the back of her head. The September evening sun made her silver stud earrings glimmer like shooting stars, and her whimsical, cheerful, black-with-white-polka-dots sundress clung to her in all the right ways.

My heart rate soared from moderato to presto in a matter of seconds. Perspiration dotted my neck and forehead.

I may have temporarily forgotten how to breathe.

The inner social coach: Go on, join them! Aaron and Kellie are really nice, and remember how Gary raved about Colette?

Then that voice from a darker place: Don't even think about it! You'll make an idiot of yourself. Walk away while you still can!

But that window had already closed.

By the time I could put a lucid thought together, Colette had turned toward me and locked her gaze onto mine, her face graced by the incandescent dimpled smile that was hers and hers alone.

Good lord, that smile. Those eyes. She's even prettier than I remember.

Deep, cleansing breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth.

And then came a single word, inflected with a delicate Cantonese accent that made it more irresistible than I ever thought possible.

Directed at me.

"Hi."