I've got to ask you a serious question when you're ready. I received a phone call this week with a question about you and I need to ask you the same question. You may or may not know what this is about, but I expect that it will be difficult to discuss if you do know. No rush, but I've got to ask.
I stared at the glaring email on my brightly-lit computer screen.
Holy shit!
That was my first thought when I opened the July 10th email from Hunter, my best friend and law partner.
My heart rate accelerated through the roof.
Immediately following the shock was a deep sense of regret.
This is not how I wanted him to find out.
It was supposed to be different.
We were supposed to grab beers. I wanted to get him buzzed so he'd take the news easier. I've come out to so many friends now with no problems. Why couldn't it have been the same with Hunter?
The truth is that, besides my parents, Hunter is the one friend for whom I've never had the balls to tell that I'm gay.
You have to understand our background.
We met during the first year of law school, when the pressure is immense and competition is at its worst. Hunter and I weren't in the same classes, but we met in the library early on.
I couldn't help but notice him . . . he was tall and blond with intelligent blue eyes and a charming smile. He was your typical All-American guy, from a tiny, rural town where guys wore boots year-round and married their high school sweethearts.
He sported a big, gold wedding ring on his left hand.
Over the course of our first year, Hunter and I became friends. Like with many of my straight friends, my initial attraction to Hunter faded.
But my feelings for him as a friend and brother solidified.
Unlike many of the cutthroat, egomaniac, wannabe attorneys I dealt with everyday, Hunter was honest, caring, and good natured. He was my rock of safety and serenity in the dangerous sea of sharks known as law school. And he was fun -- we could sit around and bullshit with each other for hours and never get bored.
We became partners in mock trial and moot court. 
His boyish charm, disarmingly handsome features, and polished courtroom demeanor, coupled with my aggressive, high-energy, courtroom theatrics, balanced each other and melded into the perfect combination for success.
We were unstoppable, and we dominated every competition.
We forced each other to try out for Law Review, the most prestigious and selective organization a law student can compete for, and we were both selected. While on Law Review, when one of us couldn't finish a project, the other would step in and help out. This was possible because we completely trusted each other's work product.
Hunter and I were always together when we were on campus. In fact, people often joked that I was his second spouse.
We not only competed together, but also studied together, lifted weights together, and ate lunch together practically every day.
We planned our careers with each other in mind.
It was because of me that Hunter interviewed at a large firm in the city, and it was partially because of me that Hunter ended up accepting a job there instead of at a mom-and-pop firm in his own small town.
Hunter's wife--his high school sweetheart--was beautiful, supportive, and completely in love with her man.
They had their first child during law school, and I was at the hospital the day after she was born.
After that, I helped Hunter and his wife through a rough miscarriage, and supported them during the birth of their second daughter.
Hunter knew my parents. I knew his folks. He was there for me when my grandmother died, and I supported him when his sister went to rehab.
In essence, we both knew all the intricate details of each other's lives.
There was just one thing missing.
One big thing . . . he had no idea I was gay.
And I was too much of a pussy to tell him.
Instead, in the last year, I avoided deep conversations with him. I kept everything on the surface level, and resisted talking too much about my personal life, the life that he had no idea about.
Even though our offices were side-by-side, I could feel a gap constantly widening between us.
I was meeting all kinds of new, cool friends in the city, both gay and straight, and I wanted to include Hunter in this.
But instead, I pushed him away because I feared losing him as my best friend.
Then, as I read his email, I knew that I'd been wrong. I knew that I should've told him about my sexuality after I figured out that I could never go back to girls.
I replied to his email: There are a couple significant things I've been meaning to talk to you about for a while now, but timing hasn't been on my side . . . this is probably one of them. Whenever you get your day rolling and feel like talking, come on by.
My response went out at 7:30 a.m. that morning.
The following hour, I waited nervously, and didn't even think about opening any of the boring case files on my desk.
Finally, my best friend walked into my office, shut the door, and sat down. Despite the hammer that was pounding in my heart, I casually closed my email account, spun around in my chair, and chewed on the cap of a uni-ball pen.
Part of me wanted his "question" to be something completely unrelated to my sexuality. But another part of me wanted to finally get this conversation that I'd been avoiding for so long over with.
We talked about nothing for a few minutes.
Then, I opened up the figurative door.
"So whatever you heard . . . it's probably true. It's something I've been meaning to talk to you about for a long time now."
He didn't speak for a couple seconds, as if he was meeting me for the first time and didn't know how to handle me.
"How, uh, long have you known?"
"That's part of why I haven't told you," I replied, "I didn't really figure this out until a little over a year ago. The timing wasn't good, with the bar exam and all."
I kept going, even though both of us knew that my answer was bullshit.
I should've told him as soon as I figured out that I couldn't ever go back to girls. As my best buddy, he should've heard it from me and not from some random person over the phone.
He knew it, and I knew it, and I needed to fess up.
"Honestly, Hunter, I've just been too much of a puss to tell you. I've already told a bunch of other friends, but for some reason, with you, it's been hard as hell."
I didn't know what else to say.
Luckily, he stepped up. "I can't even imagine living like you've had to live. I mean, keeping this all a secret. That really has to suck. Do your folks know?"
"No."
He looked down at the floor and didn't say anything for almost a minute.
Finally, I spoke. "Are you, um, pissed or . . . disappointed that I didn't tell you earlier?"
He shook his head, "I understand why you didn't tell me until you were sure. But . . . there's one part of me that thinks that you should've told me when you figured out it wasn't going to work with girls. I mean, it makes me wonder if everything we talked about was a lie back then. But on the other hand, I'm kinda glad you didn't tell me before the bar exam . . . it mighta thrown me off a little . . . I just don't know what to say."
He continued. "I mean, I feel bad that I wasn't there to help you through this," he said earnestly, "You had to live a lie, and it had to be hard. I wish I coulda . . . I don't know . . ."
"No, it's something I had to figure out on my own. I'm just sorry you didn't hear it from me. It's not like telling someone that you're getting married or having a baby. Telling someone you're gay doesn't exactly illicit a positive response."
"No, I guess it doesn't. Don't worry about how I found out about it. I think I just need some time to let everything sink in."
Hunter and I talked for a few more minutes, and then he walked six steps back into his office.
I leaned back in my chair and went over the whole conversation again in my head.
In the past, when I've told close friends about my sexuality, I've felt like a great weight was lifted off my shoulders. I've also felt completely drained of all energy. This was no exception.
In fact, I didn't get any work done for the next two days.
I tried to act normal around Hunter, but found myself analyzing his every comment carefully.
I left him alone, however, and only once brought up our conversation again to let him know that he could ask me any questions if he wanted to.
Hunter was a little more distant that usual for the next couple weeks, but recently, he's been more chatty and like his old self.
In fact, it almost feels like we're getting closer again.
I feel that our friendship will eventually re-solidify itself, but I fear that there will always be a part of our relationship that has changed for the worse . . . perhaps a slight loss of respect from his end because I misled him for over a year or because he heard the news about my sexuality from someone else . . .
But hopefully I'm wrong.
Hopefully, now that I can be completely honest with Hunter, I will grow closer to him.
Regardless, I will always regret that I didn't come out to my best friend before he found out from someone else.
holding onto the hope that my high school football team will win a state championship, even though the district is just too small to draw enough talented players. 
