The room was filled with beautiful Black and Brown bodies moving to the beat of Lil’ Kim and Ray J’s ‘Wait a Minute.’ Entranced by the energy of a Friday night and the mix of fragrances dancing in the air, I looked to my left—and there he was.
He stood out like a sore thumb, dressed in a crisp white T-shirt, oversized black vest, baggy blue jeans, and butter-colored Timberlands. To top it off, he sported immaculate cornrows and a goatee. The NY Boricuas were in the house, and in a sea of DMV men all dressed the same, he was a sight for sore eyes. I was missing New York and the diversity of its scene, so I knew immediately he was someone I needed to know.
I still can’t believe my introverted self approached him, but I simply said, “Hey, my name is Darrin. Are you from New York?” He gave me a skeptical look and then said, “Yes, I am.” He added that he was from Brentwood and muttered, “You probably don’t know where that is.” I said, “Actually, I do. I’m from Wyandanch—so we’re both a long way from Long Island.” He smiled, almost as if to imply, You’re approved. From that chance meeting in 1998, and discovering our immense commonalities, we became lifelong friends.
We never bought into the delusion that soulmates couldn’t be platonic.
His name was Peter Dávila-Montes—the self-proclaimed socialite of Dover, Delaware, or as he liked to call it, “Planet Dover”. Peter often found Dover’s quirky, idiosyncratic vibes so out of this world that, to him, its inhabitants clearly lived on another planet. I remember once asking him, “For a personality so big, why stay a big fish in such a small pond?” His answer was always the same: “My mother. I can’t leave my mother.” Having lost my own mother at 17, he didn’t need to explain further. I understood. It was the love of our mothers that became the core of our bond.
We were opposites: Peter, a confident and resourceful man with unapologetic flamboyance, navigating life with optimism and resilience; me, a masculine-presenting closeted man, unsure of who I was and uncomfortable with letting the world see me. Peter had been out “since the womb” (his words). More importantly, he had his mother’s love, which gave him the freedom to live fully. He knew that, regardless of how the world felt, his mom’s acceptance was all that mattered. I envied that. Peter never made me feel “less than” for not living in my truth right away. He would simply say, “You’ll come out when you’re ready.”
We spent what felt like an eternity as friends. Through ups, downs, and stretches of silence, we always found our way back to each other. In the end, we realized we were as close to soulmates as we might ever get. We were perfectly fine with that. The two of us never bought into the delusion that soulmates couldn’t be platonic.
I cherish the memories of my first NYC Pride Parade, with Peter holding my hand the entire way. I was terrified of running into colleagues, neighbors, or family members. In typical Peter fashion, he reassured me: “If you see anybody you know, they’re either fam or an ally. Relax—it’ll be okay.” He was right. That day became one of the most memorable experiences of my life—and the beginning of our annual tradition of attending Pride together. Each year, it became our highlight: a time to reconnect, live truthfully, and soak in New York City’s magnetic splendor.
Last year, I found out Peter was battling cancer. His journey through it began to take a toll on my own mental health. Around the same time, my father’s sister was rapidly declining. I struggled watching my father face the possibility of being the last of his siblings. I tried to support Peter through his lowest moments—while also dealing with an old flame who suddenly resurfaced. The pressure was too much. I shut down.
I stopped responding to everyone who wasn’t in need. I couldn’t endure the endless stream of memes, reels, TikTok videos, or updates that had nothing to do with me. My friend was dying—there was no greater priority. Was shutting down the healthiest way to cope? Probably not but I was stunned that people could see something was wrong and still chose to send me holiday party invites, thirst-trap photos, and meaningless life updates.
The start of this year was the first time we didn’t ring it in with our usual “Happy New Year” text. I can’t tell you how many times we spent it together in Washington Heights at the popular bar, No Parking. We would leave tipsy and even once missed our subway stop while talking about any and everything. It breaks my heart to know I have to continue on without his support, unconditional love, and friendship. Still, I know that Peter would say, “You have to move on.”
As I rise from the ashes of losing a friend, I feel now is the time to tell you who he truly was—and how profoundly he impacted my life. Peter Dávila-Montes lived. He mattered and he gifted me the agency to live too.
Sleep well, my friend.
