I was on my first date with Nilla when it happened. We were walking down the street. He was holding my hand. We rounded a corner and bumped into my friend, hair tied on top of her head, yoga mat under her arm. 

“Hey,” she said.

We both greeted her and as we walked away, trying to hide my panic, I asked if Nilla knew her. He didn’t.

Once I had gotten home, I quickly called her up and asked if she wanted to get a cup of coffee. I wanted to explain why I had been walking around holding a guy’s hand who wasn’t my boyfriend’s and I realized that I would probably have to out myself to her if I wanted to genuinely address what she had seen. She said we could meet that evening.

The rest of the day, I was nervous. By the time we got together, I’d rehearsed a thousand versions of my explanation. Recently, I’d been at a party and kissed a cute girl in front of a friend, who called me a week later to say she wasn’t sure how to respond to the fact that she’d seen me cheat on my boyfriend. I’d explained to her our situation, and she was supportive, even saying that the nature of our relationship proved its strength.

But this particular friend I had barely known a year. I wasn’t sure how she would react. With nothing to lose but maybe some respect, I was honest. The cafes were full, so we met up at a place that could best be described as half-assed stoner fast food. Nervous and a little disgusted, I barely touched what I ordered.

“Oh,” she replied and shrugged, “you two looked happy. Does your boyfriend see other people, too?”

I nodded. “Yeah.”

“Cool,” she said. And that was the end of that.