All the Better Part of Me

by Ringle, Molly

  Now you have, and I’ve been here five seconds, and you’ve already managed to be rude to my best friend and get on my case about how I look and what I do for a living, so. Goodbye.

  But why subject Andy to a scene? Besides, my parents were salvageable. And they were all I had.

  I looked down at the puzzle, willing the tension out of my shoulders. “Yeah. Turned out to be my longest trip to London yet.”

  “Where’s this place you’re staying?” Mom asked. “You haven’t sent us the address.”

  “Andy’s apartment, on Capitol Hill. I’ll email it to you.”

  “How many of you are staying there?” Dad asked.

  Of you? Gays? Actors? Deadbeats? Freaks?

  “Just the two of us,” I said.

  They looked at him, then back at me. Pretty sure all four of us got swept into the past for a moment, to that time they caught me lying on top of Andy and kissing him.

  I began breathing faster, now shaken as well as pissed off. “We were going to say hi to his family too, then it’s a long drive back, so. I should get the keys.”

  Dad fetched them for me. When he put them into my hand he said, “I drove it a few times. Made sure it was running all right. Replaced the wiper blades, too.”

  I lowered my gaze. They were trying, in their awkward way. They were at least occasionally doing things that might help me, whereas all I did was show up, act like an insecure freak, and walk out again. Maybe all our problems really were my fault, just as they’d been insinuating all these years.

  I slid my thumb into the key ring. “Thank you.”

  Andy and I turned to go.

  Mom leaped up from the table. “You could take some coffee cake with you.” She sounded a little desperate.

  “Um …”

  “I’ll put some in a container.” She darted into the kitchen. I was getting coffee cake whether I wanted it or not.

  “Okay. We’ll go out and see how the car’s looking.”

  Andy gave a nod and a meaningless “Thanks, see you,” to my dad, who nodded in our direction. We left him and walked out to the Toyota.

  “Jesus Christ,” I muttered to Andy.

  “At least they didn’t ask you if you’re on drugs this time.”

  “Oh, they will.” I got into the Toyota and fiddled with the dashboard settings. Andy opened the passenger door to look in, his arm on top of the car.

  Mom hurried out with a small Tupperware container. Andy pulled back to give her room, and she leaned in to hand it to me.

  “You’re not taking drugs, are you?” she asked, brows pinched up in worry.

  Through the back window, I saw Andy swivel away, his posture suggesting he was fighting a fit of giggles.

  I looked at Mom in exasperation. “No. I’m not taking drugs.”

  She gestured at my whole body. “You show up looking like this …”

  “I just like looking like this. I’m not on anything, all right?”

  “Good. Okay, well, that’s good. Don’t forget to send us the address.”

  I nodded, turning to gaze out the windshield, my hand dangling over the top of the steering wheel.

  She drew back from the car.

  Andy reappeared in the open passenger door, mirth in the tilt of his eyes. “Meet you at my house?”

  “Yep.” I looked to Mom again, who stood on the lawn with arms folded and shoulders hunched as if she were cold, even though she wore a cashmere sweater. “Bye.”

  “Have a good drive,” she said.

  Dad sauntered across the lawn behind her, carrying a shovel this time. He and I exchanged nods.

  Andy shut the passenger door and went to his car.

  A couple of blocks over, we parked at his folks’ house. It had two stories and a serene pastel paint job like my parents’ and all the neighbors’, but the Ortiz house exhibited more disorder, which I’d always liked. Vines and bushes spilled over each other in the yard, dog chew toys lay beside the front path, and the welcome mat was colorful, stained, and well used.

  Andy knocked, then opened the front door without waiting for an answer. “Hey guys!” he shouted inside, over the noise of barking huskies.

  The two dogs hurtled over and whipped around us in an ecstatic whirlwind of fur and tongues. We bent to greet them. White dog hairs all over my black clothes: the price I’d always paid for visiting Andy’s house.

  Andy’s mom, Kelly, appeared, wide-hipped and with curly graying hair. She set down a full basket of laundry and hurried over, arms outstretched. “Andrés! Baby!” She and Andy hugged. Then she turned and gave me just as exuberant a hug. “Sinter! It’s good to see you.”

  My own parents hadn’t hugged me. Had they even touched me?

  His dad, Carlos, walked in from the kitchen, stout and grinning, deep smile lines in his face. “Hey, mijo.” He hugged Andy. He had grown up in Oregon, but in talking to family he sometimes threw in the endearments his Mexican-American parents used. (Andy had also learned a few intriguing Spanish insults from those grandparents, and taught them to me.)

  Carlos chuckled as he looked at me. “Wow, you still look like a rock star.”

  “He played one in a movie in London last month,” Andy said. “Set in the ’80s.”

  “Oh, you mentioned that!” Kelly said. “That’s so exciting. Will we be able to see it?”

  I nodded. “Yeah. I think. I mean, if it doesn’t air over here, I’ll get DVDs, probably.”

  They ushered us into the kitchen and offered us drinks and any of the random leftovers in the fridge. Sitting at the table, we snacked on chips and guacamole and talked to them about our jobs. They told us how they missed the noise of their four kids (now all grown up and living elsewhere), even though the quiet could be nice.

  Thank God Andy had been born to these people. Imagine the suicidal mess he’d have become in my house.

  I petted the ears of the husky resting his chin on my leg, and pretended I wasn’t feeling the tiniest bit suicidal myself.

  When we finally got up to drive back to Seattle, Andy’s mom and dad hugged us both and insisted I let them know if I got cast in any plays in Seattle so they could come up and see them. I promised.

  As we walked to the curb, Andy watched me, as if trying to catch my eye. But what could I say? I’m glad you have a great family. I wish I did. Whatever. I’d already said it a hundred times in the years we’d known each other.

  “Hey,” he said.

  I looked over.

  “You know which exit to take if we get separated on the freeway?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Cool. See you there.” We waved again to his parents, who stood on the front porch beaming at us, his dad’s arm around his mom’s shoulders.

  My phone buzzed as I started the Toyota. I looked at the text.

  Andy: You look hot today btw

  I glanced into the rearview mirror and caught his cheeky wave from where he was parked behind me.

  CHAPTER 21: JUST CAN’T GET ENOUGH

  MY AGENT, DAWN, STARTED FINDING ME WORK: ONLY VOICE-OVERS FOR COMMERCIALS, BUT IT BROUGHT IN some rent money. She also added a few more play and film auditions to my schedule, and in the middle of January sent me an email titled Lookie who’s on IMDb, with a link attached.

  So far, I hadn’t been listed on Internet Movie Database, because I’d only been in stage productions. But under the Hart Channel film still titled New Romantic, my name was right near the top of the cast list, second only to Ariel’s, and my personal IMDb page, set up by Dawn, displayed my bio and a few photos: Taylor in all his eyeshadowed glory, two shots from my Portland stage roles, and my headshot.

  I sent the link to Andy, who soon posted it on social media with the caption:

  Did I mention I’m currently living with a movie star? Srsly so proud.

  He included a selfie of him kissing my cheek while I laughed—a surprise attack from that morning. It got many likes, and although his mom commented, Fabulous, Sinter!! You two are so sweet, I doub
ted she or anyone else knew there was anything deeper going on beneath that cheek kiss. Still, I admit it was some relief to know that my parents did not have accounts on that platform and thus weren’t likely to see it.

  That evening, in private, I showed Andy my appreciation for his support. He told me my appreciation skills were really coming along.

  I also emailed the link to Fiona, with the message:

  Hey! I was glad to see this up on IMDb. Is New Romantic going to be the title after all?

  Things are good; I’m definitely bi, ha. But I do miss London and all of you. How have you been?

  I decided “all of you” was a better choice than just “you.” Leading her on wouldn’t be kind, just in case she didn’t pick up on my current satisfying sex life with the “definitely bi” bit.

  She answered the next day:

  Knackered, quite busy with postproduction and marketing. But it’s coming together nicely, I think. Yes, we couldn’t agree on any other title, so we decided New Romantic wasn’t bad.

  Sounds like your arrangement in Seattle is going as well as you wanted. That’s excellent. Take care and I’ll be in touch before long.

  The email’s tone didn’t exactly suggest friendship—concise, no exclamation points, no smiley faces. It rendered me uncomfortable, but what else could I say? I opted not to answer, figuring staying out of her space was the most considerate choice.

  In late January, I found part-time work in a café near our apartment, and I think I had the movie to thank for it. The café owner, Chris, had a buzz cut, thick eyelashes, and a neck tattoo of a peacock feather, which I completely envied. When she discovered in my interview that Ariel Salisbury had worked alongside me at my last job, she smacked her notebook down on her lap, open-mouthed, and said, “No way! I had the hugest, unhealthiest crush on her in college.”

  Then she hollered for her wife, Kam, who was making scones in the café kitchen. Kam stepped out, her hair in a bandanna, her hands covered in flour.

  “This guy was just in a movie with Ariel Salisbury in London,” Chris said.

  “Oh my God.” Kam laughed. “Chris used to have pictures of her on her walls. Remember that one with, like, the see-through skirt?”

  They gave me four barista shifts a week, afternoon to closing.

  Andy came in to visit one evening after he got off work. A few customers sat at the tables with their drinks. Kam was blasting Lana Del Rey while restocking the fridge. Andy strolled up to the counter, windblown and drizzle-splattered from the walk, unzipping his fleece in the warm coffee shop.

  “Hey.” He squinted at the menu above my head. “I’ll have a twelve-ounce mocha, that cranberry scone, and your number, please.”

  “Smooth.” I fetched him the scone with tongs and set it on a plate. “Bet you say that to all the baristas.”

  “You get a big tip if you give me more whipped cream,” he added as I slid the mocha across to him.

  “Sounds dirty in so many ways.” I uncapped the can of cream and sprayed another layer onto his drink.

  He broke off a corner of the scone, dipped it into the whipped cream, looked directly at me, and began licking and sucking the cream off it.

  I swallowed. Thank goodness for the café apron covering me below the waist. I knew very well how that tongue felt, not just in my mouth but on many other parts of me. I knew what those fingers could do. I was having all kinds of trouble not leaping the counter and throwing him down on a table and … yeah, I really shouldn’t think like this at work.

  “That’s four seventy-five,” I told him.

  He took a five out of his pocket and handed it over. “Keep the change.”

  “Twenty-five cents? You call that a big tip?”

  “You get your tip later, when you come home.”

  What with Lana Del Rey singing so loudly, Kam and the customers couldn’t hear us, and I was gambling on the notion that none of them could lip-read either.

  I dropped the quarter into the pet-shelter donation jar beside the cash register. “I’m going to hold you to that. In fact, I’m going to hold you in lots of positions.”

  “Promise?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  God, if he kept giving me that smolder-gaze, I was completely going to drag him into the tiny bathroom, yank his pants down, and—

  More customers burst in, a loud cluster of four.

  With a naughty smile, Andy took his plate and cup and withdrew to a table.

  After I’d served the other four, Kam wandered up to me. “Is that your boyfriend?” she asked.

  I followed her gaze to Andy, head bent over his phone at the table. “Oh, uh, no. My best friend.”

  “You sure? That was some pretty intense eye-fucking between you two.”

  I laughed. “We’ve known each other forever, is all. We’re kind of weird together.”

  “You’re cute together,” she corrected, and having settled that, started tidying up the pastry case.

  Later that night, after yanking every last piece of clothing off each other and exhausting every synonym for “grope” and “suck” in the thesaurus, Andy and I lay diagonally in a sated tangle across his bed. I was sore from all the manhandling, and might have strained my jaw a little, but felt basically fantastic.

  “Kam asked tonight if we were seeing each other,” I said, my chin on his chest. “Apparently our ‘eye-fucking’ was getting out of control.”

  He laughed. “Whoops. What did you say?”

  “I said no, we’re just friends. I figured saying we mess around sometimes would be TMI for coworkers. Not because you’re a guy—if I were friends with benefits with a woman, I wouldn’t mention that to coworkers either.”

  “I agree. I mean, I don’t mind if you tell. But there’s only so much about your sex life you have to share with people you work with.”

  I adjusted my chin to look at him. “Have you told anyone? About this.”

  “No. Though mainly because … well, you’re not exactly out. And it’s not cool to out other people.”

  “Oh. Right.” True, I was out to Fiona and, weirdly, Sebastian, but as far as the city of Seattle or indeed the entire United States went, no one other than Andy knew I was bi. “I guess I should think about that. Coming out.”

  “It’s only on an as-needed basis. It’s not like you have to announce it whenever you meet someone.”

  I balanced my fingertips along the treasure trail between his navel and crotch, wishing I didn’t feel so terrified at the idea. People would have nosy questions, ignorant remarks, annoying opinions … ugh, it was so much easier not to bring it up.

  “Although,” he added, “if you want to start, like, real dating, with other guys, we can go to Girasol some Saturday night. See how it goes.”

  Girasol was a popular LGBTQ nightclub on Broadway, Capitol Hill’s busiest street. He’d pointed it out to me when we walked by.

  That sounded too frighteningly real, and at the same time falser and less satisfying, considering I already had awesome man-sex right there under my fingertips. Was I just making excuses to stay closeted, though?

  “Hm. Sometime,” I said.

  “Yeah. I’m in no hurry. This is working fine.” He dragged me up and kissed me on my pleasantly sore mouth. “It’s okay if you ever happen to fall asleep here, by the way. I know the guest bed isn’t as comfy as mine.”

  I spread out my limbs farther, embracing the king-sized mattress as well as him. “Okay.”

  CHAPTER 22: OUR LIPS ARE SEALED

  IT WAS ADDICTIVELY EASY, ROLLING ALONG IN A NO-DRAMA, ROOMMATES-WITH-BENEFITS SETUP. BUT AS the weeks sped by, I fretted more about the secrecy. Why hadn’t I told people I was currently seeing a man? Simply because our situation was casual and thus “didn’t count”? Or because I was scared?

  That couldn’t be. Someone who walked around in makeup and costumes and non-gender-conforming hairstyles couldn’t be scared of coming out. Yet perhaps it made sense. When I wore goth clothes and cosmetics, people were
n’t sure what to make of me, and the air of mystery was a major part of what I liked about it. However, if I were to kiss Andy in public, they’d know pretty exactly what I was. That, therefore, was a lot scarier.

  One day, an online article sent a nasty shock through me by noting that if you were closeted and dating someone, you were basically sending the other person back into the closet too. Because they would have to lie about you, pretend they weren’t involved with you.

  “I’m kind of being a jerk, aren’t I?” I said to Andy that evening as we walked down Broadway toward the grocery store. “Making you have to hide this, lie about it. It’s not fair of me.”

  He lifted his eyebrows. “I’m getting good perks out of it. I don’t mind.”

  We stopped at a corner to wait for the traffic light.

  “Are you sure?” I said. “I mean, if anyone asks, you can say …” I shrugged, uncomfortably aware I’d feel alarmed if he did tell anyone.

  He smirked. “Why, yes, Mom, I am fucking Sinter, since you ask.”

  “Okay, not like that, just …”

  “Look, no one’s even asked. It’s fine.”

  Gratefully, I batted the fluffball of yarn on top of his winter hat. He swung the empty cloth shopping bags so they smacked my rear, making me grin. Then he leaned up, angling for a kiss, and …

  I twitched my face out of the way and glanced around, not even thinking first. A stupid knee-jerk reaction.

  Andy snorted and shook his head.

  Shame washed over me. “Sorry,” I said.

  The light changed. We set off across the street. “No, I get it,” he said when we reached the opposite side. “I still look around first in most places. But this is Broadway. No one cares. It’s like—like a theater. All the time.” He waved his hand toward a shop window full of drag-queen-grade high-heeled boots, wigs, and outfits involving harnesses.

  “I’m sure I’ll get used to it,” I said. “I’m a noob, is all.”

  “No big deal. It took me almost three years to come out to anyone else after I came out to you, and I definitely didn’t kiss anyone in public during that time.”