Andy forced out a chuckle and glanced aside. “Shit.”
I swallowed to regain my voice. I could not cry. My eyeliner was super heavy, and it’d smear everywhere. “We’ll be okay,” I insisted. “Me in Eugene with the freaks, you in the Bay Area …”
“With the queers.” He managed a smile. We had gone over it a few times this summer, our respectively safe choices for universities. Somehow it felt like zero comfort.
“You’ll do awesome,” I went on. “And we’ll text all the time, so it won’t even feel that different.”
He nodded, though muscles twitched in his cheeks, tugging down on his lips. “Well.” He stepped up and hugged me.
We had never hugged before, at least not that I could remember, and definitely not like this. In recent years, only fellow theater people had hugged me this tight. My parents hadn’t; no one else had. But Andy and I stuck together like magnets from knees to necks, and it was clearly ridiculous that we weren’t in the habit of hugging, when our shapes matched up so well, and when I cared more about him than I cared about all those theater people.
All of them put together, in fact.
He sniffled against my shoulder, and it was absolutely everything I could do to not cry. I couldn’t, I wouldn’t.
“Maybe it’ll be awesome,” he said, his voice choked. “But it isn’t going to be the same without you.”
Hot tears filled my eyes. I stared at the treetops to keep them from spilling. “No, it won’t be the same,” I mumbled.
We let go. He scrubbed his hand across his reddened eyes, slipped his sunglasses on, and gave me a wobbly smile. “Talk soon, Blackwell.”
“Drive safe. Text me when you get there.”
“You too.”
He got in the Volvo and drove slowly away, lifting one hand out the window to wave to me before turning the corner.
My parents were home. I couldn’t face them right then, or anyone. But I couldn’t stand around either, so I got into my old silver Honda, started it, and began to drive. I just needed some time cruising around the neighborhood to calm down, then I’d be all right.
Then new-wave music gave me its little shove over the edge. The CD currently spinning in my car’s stereo was a collection of B-sides by the Cure, a graduation present from my drama teacher. She liked giving her students mixtapes on CD, curated to fit their individual tastes in music. The track “To the Sky” came on—sweet, mellow, pretty, and one of the most melancholy songs I’d ever heard. Robert Smith sang his opening line about being all alone, his voice heartbroken in his trademark way.
I sniffled sharply and turned the wheel to park in the empty lot of a restaurant. I pulled the parking brake, covered my face with my hands, and started crying, gulping down the air, hardly even sure what my problem was except that I couldn’t stand this.
After a couple of minutes, I settled down. I was just stressed, I told myself. We’d get through this. At least I’d be out of my parents’ house, which had to be an improvement.
But it didn’t feel like one. I felt utterly damaged, broken in some manner that would surely take years to repair, and I didn’t understand why. I started up my car and drove home, my eyeliner a smudged-up disaster.
CHAPTER 10: MODERN LOVE
FIONA MIGHT HAVE BEEN THE WOMAN I CURRENTLY DESIRED MOST, BUT ANDY WAS THE PERSON I CURRENTLY desired most. Accepting bisexuality as my orientation meant having realizations like that.
I knew it because while I checked out Fiona’s bum sometimes in a certain pair of flattering black trousers, I didn’t look up porn videos of straight people and picture the two of us in them. Yet I kept looking up guy/guy videos and mentally casting Andy and myself. I knew it by the graphic acts he and I performed in my dreams. I knew it because while I admired Fiona, liked talking with her, enjoyed her occasional kisses and hugs, and even would fancy having sex with her, I didn’t feel the distracting desire to ask her out. And shouldn’t I have felt that, if I truly wanted to be with her?
My text conversations with Andy, in contrast, were often my favorite part of the day lately, and my priorities had shifted to the point where I’d started researching the theater scene in Seattle, in case my BBC drama prospect fell through. The idea of living near him had become as appealing as living in the UK and filming an ’80s new-wave movie. How could anything match that for me?
Then came this exchange in mid-December:
Andy: We get a guest this weekend. Peyton’s little brother Jackson
Sinter: Oh yeah?
Andy: He’s in college at UCLA, off for winter break and coming to visit Peyton
Sinter: Cool, going to show him around town?
Andy: Yep. Peyton’s not gay but Jackson is, so he’s into the idea of checking out Capitol Hill
Cue the wave of uneasy jealousy, rolling over me and slowing me down in my pre-dawn walk to the Tube for work. Other commuters slipped around me, wrapped in winter coats, their elbows brushing mine in a faintly huffy way.
Sinter: Ah nice. Just for the weekend?
Andy: Yeah he and Peyton are both going home afterward for xmas
Sinter: And they live in …
Andy: California, somewhere in the OC, I forget the town
Good. A long way from Seattle, and he didn’t even remember which town. That comforted me.
Sinter: Should be fun
Andy: Maybe I’ll even meet some proper rebound dude if I get dragged to a party
I hated how cold and dark it was in London this time of year. Hated the reckless taxi drivers careening by. Hated the passive-aggressive commuters crowding the Tube.
Then he added:
Andy: I mean it’s about time. Think I’d feel a lot better if I got laid, heh
Though I gritted my teeth, I at least knew how to answer honestly.
Sinter: Yeah so would I actually
Sinter: Well I’ve got to catch my train, keep me posted
Andy: Yep, goodnight! Or good morning for you :)
I continued on to the studio, thoroughly grumpy.
If I were in Seattle I could go out with them, and over drinks could tell him I was bi and would love some experimentation. Then, if he was up for it, it would be me in his bed this weekend instead of whichever random guy struck his fancy.
Argh. I was lusting after my best friend, and he had no idea. I didn’t even want a proper relationship with him—or at least, I couldn’t wrap my head around that. I just really, deeply, badly wanted to try being with him, be his “rebound dude” or whatever label he wanted to slap on it.
Would he even still want me after all these years? Could I dare propose that, next time we were in the same city?
I had to stop thinking like this. There was nothing I could do. He got to have sex with people if he wanted. I got to have sex with people if I wanted. Maybe it was me who needed to get laid, if I was getting this wound up about things I had no right to.
Not even Chelsea’s adorable two-year-old daughter, Mina, on set with her for the day, could cheer me up. But she did make me smile when she tottered up wearing a purple sequined vest and a neon-green feather boa. She took hold of my leg to steady herself.
I crouched by her. “Someone’s been having fun in wardrobe.”
“I should say so,” Fiona remarked, smiling from her chair nearby.
“I have a snake.” Mina held up the end of the green boa.
“That’s terrifying,” I said. “It’s so dangerous, wearing it like that.”
She giggled and flapped it.
“She likes you.” Fiona rested her temple on her knuckles as she watched us.
“She likes everyone.” I tried to pinch the end of the feather boa while the kid squealed and flipped it out of my reach.
“Mm,” Fiona agreed, sounding wistful.
Maybe I was messing with her mind by being nice to little kids? Some people could get sentimental when their crush did stuff like that. I remembered feeling all sweetly sappy when one of my girlfriends held a baby and made goog
ly eyes at them. But swaying Fiona wasn’t my intention, and I wasn’t up to sussing out her intentions either. I was still way too peeved about Andy’s plan to invite a gay college boy into his apartment and get laid one way or another.
Focusing on the present, I told Mina, “You’re lucky, getting to hang out on film sets. You have a cool mum.”
“I have a snake,” she corrected, and flailed the feather boa.
“Yes,” I agreed.
Andy: Agh Sinter what have I done?
The message came Sunday evening while I stood in the kitchen at Daniel and Julie’s flat, eating appetizers and chatting. Daniel was the college roommate I had once kissed, not that this was how I introduced him to others. I had visited him and his girlfriend, Julie, when I arrived in London this year, but hadn’t seen them since the film started. They had invited me over to have dinner and tell them about it.
Reading Andy’s message, I felt a punch of anxiety in the belly. Even though it was totally rude of me, I murmured, “Sorry, hang on,” wandered into the living room to their lit-up Christmas tree, and tapped a message back.
Sinter: I don’t know, what have you done?
Andy: I hooked up with Jackson. My roommate’s 19 yr old brother. Agh.
The crackers in my stomach fused into a stone ball. But he sounded like he regretted it, so …
Sinter: Oh. Gosh. It wasn’t good?
Andy: It was ok. But I immediately thought afterward, “This was a mistake.”
In that case, as good as I could hope for. Maybe. I glanced guiltily back at the kitchen, toward Julie’s and Daniel’s voices. Then I kept typing.
Sinter: Well that’s ok. Rebound hookups get to be like that
Andy: I guess, but gah. 19!
Sinter: That’s still legal. Uh when you say hooked up, what does that mean?
Andy: Are you asking “anal or no”?
Sinter: Ha not necessarily, just trying to understand how serious an offense this was ;)
“Everything all right?”
Daniel’s voice, close up, made me jump.
He grinned and handed me a clear, bubbly drink.
“Yeah, it’s fine. Cheers.” I took the glass and gulped some down. Gin and tonic, light on the gin, as I had requested. “Just Andy. He’s … getting back to me about something.”
He and Julie had met Andy years earlier, when Andy came to visit me at U of O for a weekend.
“Ah, brilliant, how’s he doing?”
My phone buzzed and I looked at it.
Andy: Well answer is no anal, just handjobs. Heh
I pressed my lips together and breathed carefully for a couple of seconds. “He’s good,” I told Daniel, my voice on the high side.
“Daniel?” Julie called. “Where are the tongs?”
“Be right back,” he told me, and sauntered to the kitchen.
Sinter: Haha … ok, got it
Andy: Sorry for the mental image ;)
Sinter: That’s ok, I’m down with it
Andy: Thank goodness. But ugh I’ve never felt so old and slimy.
Sinter: You’re 25. That isn’t old to a 19 year old
Andy: Old. And slimy. Slimy like a slug. Like seaweed.
Sinter: Are you done with your metaphors
Andy: I think these are similes
Though he’d been a computer science major, he’d also been, like me, an English minor. It made him remarkably hot at moments such as this.
Sinter: Right, you’re right
Andy: And no. There are many slimy things and I’m like them all. Slimy like mayo
Sinter: Gross
Andy: Exactly, I am gross
Sinter: Ha no, mayo is gross
Andy: Slimy like a dog’s tongue.
Sinter: Seriously stop. Does Peyton know?
Andy: About Jackson and me? Yes. He doesn’t care. Just teased us a little. Anyway they both took off today for the holidays
Sinter: But they’re coming back after?
Andy: Only Peyton. Jackson’s got school in California. And Peyton’s moving into his new place the first of January, so I’ll be back to my double rent
His apartment would be available for an extra person. He’d had a rebound hookup but regretted it. My path was clear … except for a few major logistical items like coming out to him, testing the waters on any mutual interest, deciding whether to stay in the UK or move to Seattle (which depended on whether I could score that BBC role, about which my agent still hadn’t heard), and in what order to do all of the above.
And before that, I had to finish filming a movie, and really, right then, all I should be doing was focusing on my friendly hosts.
Sinter: Well I’m at Daniel and Julie’s for dinner, but can we talk more later?
Andy: Sure no problem, sorry. Just wanted to share my terrible moment of shame, not much else to say
Sinter: Not really so terrible :)
And there was plenty more to be said before I, for one, would sleep easily.
The door to Daniel and Julie’s building had barely closed behind me before I got onto a social-media site I ordinarily used very little, located Andy’s page, and found exactly what I dreaded I’d find: a photo tagging him from the night before, at some party. Andy, Peyton, Jackson, and two other guys were squished in together for the camera.
Andy looked amazing. He had a healthy twinkle in his eyes, wore glasses with thin brown frames that flattered his face, and was extending his drink with a smirk in an excellent imitation of Leonardo DiCaprio as Gatsby. He’d gotten a haircut since our video call; it was up to cube-worker respectability, with modest hipster sideburns. I savored him for a few seconds, from swept-back hair to the spot where the open top button of his shirt revealed the hollow at the base of his throat, which would be an excellent spot for my tongue to go.
Then I stabilized myself with a breath and examined the dude tagged “Jackson” beside him.
He looked like someone from a boy band. Not the sexy, charismatic one from a boy band either, but the one with a dumb grin and a goatee and hair that stuck straight up. Oh, he was cute and all, but nothing special.
Of course, I’d never met him and was basing this judgment on one photo and a truckload of jealousy.
Daniel and Julie’s street was quieter than Mile End by a good margin, and my sigh echoed audibly as I leaned against the wall of their building.
There. Look at it. Real life: those two guys hooked up last night. Regret today on the part of the much smarter one with the green eyes and the adorable smile. No call at all for jealousy on my part. If I was going to talk to Andy about it any further, it had to be as his friend, not as some closeted stress case.
After staring moodily at the photo awhile longer, I decided I could manage that. I got into the message app and resumed our conversation of three hours earlier without preamble.
Sinter: Do you think Jackson thought it was a mistake too?
I headed for the Tube station. Andy answered as I crossed the first street.
Andy: I don’t know, he seemed affectionate, “let’s stay in touch” and stuff. But I doubt he’s in love with me or anything, heh
Sinter: Guess the distance will be a bit of a barrier
Said the guy five thousand miles away.
Andy: It’ll work as an excuse. Anyway, it was a one night stand, yay, whatever
Sinter: I’ve had those. Can’t judge
Andy: I know, that’s nice about you :)
He knew these things about me. Knew not only about Clare, Jo, and Vicki, my three girlfriends from age eighteen through earlier this year, but also about the six or seven other women of the short-term variety, some terms as short as one night. College was like that. Theater was like that. According to Andy, gay life in your twenties in a big city was like that. Hell, most people’s twenties were probably like that.
I breathed easier, inhaling the traffic-and-stone-scented air as I trotted down the steps to the Tube station.
Then, of course, he had to hit
me with another message.
Andy: Anyway I guess it means I’m dating again, so that’s good. With luck can meet someone better for me
Sinter: Yeah for sure, hope so
Not jealous at all, no, I was so not jealous.
CHAPTER 11: A QUESTION OF LUST
IN MID-DECEMBER, WE SHOT MY LAST SCENE (RANDOMLY, A CONVERSATION FROM THE MIDDLE OF THE movie). Fiona announced with poignant joy, “That’s a wrap for Sinter Blackwell.”
And people who had been wishing I was Bradley MacCrossan all this time hugged me and applauded. Even Sebastian gave me a half-friendly clap on the shoulder.
I wasn’t truly done with the film yet—I had to come back into the studio for a day the following week to do re-recording, in which I would speak my lines over again to give the engineers better-quality audio options to work with. But I was finished with the on-screen acting portion, and that left me sad.
Which confused me, considering I’d spent all week giving only minimal mental attention to the film, instead brooding over Andy, and my future as a bisexual.
I was still ruminating over this mix of problems Thursday evening when the whole cast and crew gathered at Ariel’s flat for a holiday party.
Everything she owned seemed to be made of glass, titanium, or gray cushions. White twinkle lights adorned all the windows and potted trees, and ice sculptures stood at the ends of the catering tables. The flat was packed with cast and crew as well as Ariel’s friends from the modeling industry. I stood in a sea of nineteen-year-old women with straightened blonde hair and sparkly cocktail dresses, most of whom were being chatted up by band members and electricians. When Ariel introduced me as her fast-rising American costar, one of the models cozied up to me, and had been leaning closer and closer while we talked about her upbringing in a tiny Irish town.
It was making me claustrophobic. I was relieved for the excuse to turn toward the stage when Sebastian took the mic and announced he was dedicating this next song to our cameraman Mick, who tolerated technical difficulties, freezing weather, and diva actor temperaments without breaking a sweat. The Swinburnes dove into a cover of Toni Basil’s “Mickey,” dialing the cheesiness up to eleven. Halfway through, Sebastian hopped offstage, still singing, to shimmy up to Mick. We were all grinning, but Fiona was laughing so hard, she was wiping away tears. Sebastian kissed her on the cheek and tickled her ribs before swinging back to the stage.
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