Thursday morning I called Donald. I was ready, I’d decided, to start being brave, to admit to myself and anyone else who cared that I was who I was. I would make no apologies about it. And if I wanted to be with a man, if I wanted to hold a man’s hand in public, then—damn it—that’s what I would do.
He wasn’t home, or he didn’t answer. I left a message: "Spencer here. I’m hoping we can get together in the next day or so. There are a few things I’d like to talk with you about."
After I hung up, I began to worry. What if he was out walking through parks with another man? What if he was actually home, but was making love with another man? What if he’d decided I wasn’t, after all, someone he could grow to love? What if he’d found another Jonathan who wasn’t me?
I told myself I wasn’t exactly
