“Hello,” she answered.
“Hey, what’s up?”
Her tired sigh took two or three full seconds. “Everything’s … ugh. Do you know that when you’re pregnant, everything changes? Like literally every part of you. Even your eyes.”
“Your eyes?”
“Because you have increased blood flow, which affects the vessels in your eyeballs, your vision can change. My specs are now, temporarily, the wrong prescription. It’s why the screens are bothering me.”
“Damn. That’s—I had no idea.”
“As if it wasn’t enough for my hips and feet to hurt all the time, and for half the foods I used to love to give me heartburn, and for none of my clothes to fit. And—the people. The comments. I hadn’t realized how many complete strangers would want to talk to me about babies, congratulate me. And what am I supposed to say?”
Wincing, I leaned back against the splintery bark of the tree. “Shit. Yeah. That’s … none of their business. But hey, just a few more months, then …” I trailed off. Didn’t want to insist Then you’re giving that kid to me, and you’ll be done. Because maybe she wouldn’t choose to do that, and surely I was there to support her in whatever she did want. Wasn’t that the least I could do, given what she was dealing with, all because of a dalliance with me?
On the other hand, I did want to be in my daughter’s life. I’d been doing as much online legal research as I could, and I knew I had default custody rights simply by virtue of being the father. But so did she, as the mother, and her living in another country made things freakishly complicated. I had a short list of LGBTQ-friendly lawyers, both in Seattle and in London, whom I would contact if need be, but I prayed I wouldn’t have to, that it wouldn’t come to an actual custody battle. If she insisted on keeping the baby, would I end up sharing custody with her somehow? Spend thousands of dollars a year on plane tickets just so I could visit my child? Or move to England for good? Then if I moved, what about Andy?
“Then the writing,” she went on, yanking me back to the present. “I spent three weeks trying to make a script work. Do you know what it was?”
“Um. No.”
“A sequel. To New Romantic.”
I winced again—obsessing over Taylor could not be useful—but I injected interest into my voice. “Oh wow, really?”
“Jackie joins Taylor in New York.”
At the emotional climax of New Romantic, the authorities caught up with Taylor and deported him after teary-eyed goodbyes with Jackie-the-posh-girl. Then, at the end of the film, he sent her a letter with his address, telling her to come see him if she could. Holding the letter, she lifted her face to the window with a smile. Everyone could thus assume she was going to run away to New York, even if that wasn’t shown.
“Uh-huh,” I said. “They start living together, or …?”
“They do, but it just felt … blah. Like every dreadful sequel you’ve ever seen. His music struggles, her difficulty living in New York, their relationship … I mean, I couldn’t even make that work. Despite all the chemistry from the original.”
I bowed my head. “Well, it … yeah, it would be under stress.”
“I just kept writing bitter arguments between them. And when I found myself writing that she’d fallen pregnant, I stopped. I mean, there’s working through your problems by writing, and then there’s digging yourself deeper into a trench. I’m certain I was doing the latter.”
I looked out in despair at the brightness beyond the tree’s shade. “It’s good you tried, though. Is there something else that would work better? As a topic?”
“I’m trying something new. Something more like I originally wanted to write for New Romantic. But I don’t know if it’ll work either. Still feels strange.”
“Well. I hope you keep trying.” Something like she originally wanted to write—did that mean a gay love story? If so, was that a good sign or a bad one?
“Nothing much else I can do but keep trying,” she said.
I agreed glumly.
I returned to the apartment. Andy was away at work. He’d been spending long hours there lately, finishing up current projects so he’d be all set for his Tokyo adventure.
The last time we’d had sex was the previous morning, after a dry spell that had stretched several days. He had come out of the shower with nothing on but a towel around his waist. I was lounging on the couch, still in pajama pants. We had both been observing our responsible adult lives all week, and even at that moment I was looking up local daycare options on my phone. But my appetite for him had been mounting, and without exactly thinking about it I shot out a hand as he passed, and tugged on the towel.
It unraveled. He laughed and caught it, keeping it from falling. I pulled him over and unwound it. I dropped my phone and had him deep in my mouth within seconds. He moaned and held onto my shoulders. A couple of minutes later, while I still had the taste of him on my tongue, he rolled me onto the floor rug and hauled off my pajama pants to return the favor.
Then a smile, a shove on the arm, a borrowing of the towel to clean up, and we were back to our responsible tasks.
Enjoy it while we could, right? We couldn’t go on like that forever. Probably only a few more weeks, in fact.
No drama allowed. I shouldn’t feel sad.
I shambled into his room, lay on his bed on my front, and spent the rest of the hour breathing the smell of him from the sheets, telling myself I was just doing it because I was tired, and his bed was more comfortable than mine.
CHAPTER 32: DO YOU BELIEVE IN SHAME
ON THE APPOINTED WEEKEND IN JULY, WE DROVE ACROSS LAKE WASHINGTON TO ATTEND MY GRANDFATHER’S birthday bash. A heat wave had engulfed the West Coast, and the air conditioning in my aging car produced only a weak trickle of cool air, so we were already uncomfortable by the time we arrived.
I drove into the country club venue, up a winding road through a golf course. An expanse of short green grass undulated around sand traps and manicured trees. Up ahead, a multi-winged clubhouse loomed.
“Jesus God,” I muttered. “Ninth circle of hell.”
“I think they have eighteen at courses like this,” Andy said.
“Ha.”
We parked and got out. Both of us wore sunglasses, short-sleeved button-downs, lightweight trousers, and sedate black sneakers—the best compromise we could manage between the heat and the occasion’s semi-formality. Beside the clubhouse stood a vast white tent sheltering a hundred or so people, most of them in their fifties or older.
Mom emerged from the crowd and strode toward us. She wore a peach dress with ruffles at the hem, and her hair was neatly arranged, its color so brightly golden that I suspected a touch-up job. (I knew hair dye well. Maybe she and I had that in common.)
“You made it,” she said.
“Yep. Hey, Mom.”
“Hi,” Andy said. “Glad they set up a tent. Much more comfortable in this heat.”
She tried to smile, clasping her hands. “Indeed. Terribly hot, isn’t it? Help yourselves to lunch. But Joel, be sure you greet Granddad first.”
“Okay.”
“I have to talk to the caterer. Excuse me.” She hustled off.
Andy and I glanced at one another.
“Right.” I sighed. “Let’s get this over with.”
We picked up cups of punch, a watered-down, non-alcoholic citrus drink with lime slices floating in it. Then we found Granddad and Grandmom holding court at a round white table in the center of the tent. My dad, two elderly men, and a couple around age sixty sat with them.
Dad spotted me as I approached. “Joel,” he said neutrally.
I waved with an equally neutral smile.
Dad’s gaze took in Andy, went frosty, and returned to the others at the table.
I edged up beside my grandparents, touched their shoulders, and said, “Hi, guys. Happy birthday, Granddad.”
Grandmom looked up, her papery skin creasing in a smile. “Hello, dear.”
I kissed
her cheek. She smelled like violets. Despite the kiss and the “dear,” we were not close. The kiss was simply expected whenever I greeted her. My grandparents—all four of them—were mega-old-fashioned. Like, embroidered Bible verses on their walls, frowns every time they saw me in makeup, disparaging remarks about every song or film made after 1950—that level of old-fashioned. They made my parents look moderate. We had virtually nothing in common beyond DNA, and it had always been a mystery to me why they wanted to see me at all. Maybe they hoped someday I’d change and become the legacy they were hoping for, in which case, nope, sorry, no need to rewrite the wills.
Granddad squinted at me, the top of his head bald and fringed with a half-ring of white hair. “Huh, you don’t look so much like a hoodlum today. Your hair’s purple, though.”
“I know. Sorry. I’m … still in theater.” Not that this was the reason for my colorful hair, but it sounded viable. “This is my friend Andy. You’ve probably met him at some point.”
Andy stepped up to shake hands with him. “Hi. Yes, we met at Sinter’s house a long time ago. Happy birthday.”
“Sit, boys!” the sixty-ish woman said, waving toward the empty chairs at the table. She had short orange hair, a necklace of turquoise beads, and a huge, lipsticked smile. I recalled that her name was Patty, and that she and her husband went to my folks’ church.
I had no wish to sit. Nor did Andy, I was sure. But we were there to charm people, so we sat, clutching our cups of punch.
Patty and Grandmom asked what we were up to lately. We talked about our work in Seattle, Andy’s upcoming trip to Tokyo, and my recent trip to London. They groused about the construction going up in their neighborhoods. Dad contributed sage advice to Patty’s husband, Phil, about financing. Phil delivered a monologue about how much money their three grown-up kids had spent lately and every last item they had spent it on. I was starting to remember that Phil was one of those people who could be counted on for oversharing and nosiness.
I recalled a day when I was about eighteen, when Phil had shown up in the café where I worked. He had checked out my pierced ears, lip, and eyebrow, and asked me with a raucous laugh where else I had piercings. Answer: nowhere, not that it was any of his business. At the time, I wondered in silent horror if he was into teenage boys. But now I didn’t think so. He seemed only to be one of the world’s most impertinent people.
As evidenced by what went down next.
“Didn’t I hear you were in some play about Shakespeare?” Phil asked me. “Where he was gay or something?” He laughed like he had just told a dirty joke.
I exchanged a glance with my dad. A dangerous light had entered his eyes.
“Not exactly,” I answered, my improvisational acting skills taking over. “Anyway, that play’s done. I’m rehearsing A Midsummer Night’s Dream now.”
“I remember hearing that theory,” Patty said. “That Shakespeare swung both ways.” She winked at us.
“Well, this next one’s going to be Shakespeare in the park,” I said, dragging the conversation toward safer territory.
No luck.
Phil’s bushy eyebrows dove together, and he said, “But you two live together?”
I stole a glance at Andy. His spine had gone rigid, and his fingertips carefully arranged themselves around his punch cup.
“Yep, we’re roommates,” I said. “The city’s expensive, so …”
“I mean are you a couple?” Phil guffawed, looking at the befuddled elderly man beside him. “Living together, playing a gay Shakespeare—got to ask!”
All the air got sucked out of my lungs. Andy froze in place. My improv skills vaporized into nonbeing.
“No no, we’re friends,” I said, several seconds too late, and with nowhere near enough conviction.
“Oh, Phil, of course they’re a couple.” Patty hit him on the arm. “I have Andy’s mom, Kelly, on Facebook—wonderful woman. She put up the sweetest picture; where was it?” She got out her phone and started scrolling.
Was it ethical to reach out and smack someone else’s phone into a cup of punch? Probably not. Crap.
“We’ve been friends a long time, is all,” Andy tried.
My dad forced a smile and added to Phil, “A very long time. I think you’ll find that rumor is mistaken.”
I should have backed this statement up. But I sat tongue-tied, unable to step that far into falsehood, anger starting to overtake shame. Sweating, my cheeks burning, I squinted as if my thoughts were far away and confused.
“Here it is!” Patty held up the phone to display the photo from a few months earlier of Andy kissing my cheek. She turned it, making sure each of us at the table got a good look.
“That’s really not what it …” I began.
Patty wasn’t done. “Also this one! Guess this was the gay Shakespeare play.” She laughed, swiped the screen, and showed us the next photo on Kelly’s feed: Andy and I talking after a performance of The Fair Youth, me still in costume and makeup, leaning in to listen to Andy in the crowd.
We stood so close. So familiar. My mouth was curved up in a happy, comfortable smile. So was Andy’s, even in the middle of talking. I’d seen the photo before and hadn’t given it much thought, but at this table, facing down these stares, I suddenly saw how intimate it looked. How much like a couple we appeared to be, just in the way we stood together.
Maybe we looked like that all the time.
“Shoot, I think you’re right,” Phil said. “Look how they’re blushing.” He snorted, then nudged my dad’s arm. “Don’t worry, Walt. Our Beth’s a lesbian. You get used to it after a few years.”
Wonderful. We had found the most bumbling allies in the galaxy.
I wanted to cover my face. My dad, grandfather, and grandmother all looked paralyzed with horror. The other two old guys just looked perplexed.
“It really wasn’t anything,” Andy said, but he didn’t sound any more convincing than I had. Maybe he’d realized how we looked in photos too. And regretted it.
I felt sick.
The anger roared over the top of my polite defenses, toppling them. “Oh, well, we do sleep together sometimes,” I heard myself telling Phil matter-of-factly. “I mean, if that’s what you’re asking. You ask straight people that, too, right?”
“He does, yes,” Patty confirmed.
“Sinter’s just being dramatic,” Andy said, a smile pasted on his face. “He doesn’t mean it.”
“Of course he doesn’t.” My dad sounded lethal.
“Well, we don’t think it’s a big deal,” Patty said.
My mom arrived at the table then, smiling in formal party mode. “How is everyone doing? What’s not a big deal?” She fit herself into the empty chair beside my dad.
“If these two are a gay couple,” Phil hollered, waving a meaty hand at us.
I sent Mom a half-apologetic look meant to convey, I did not choose this topic of conversation.
The message must not have arrived. Murder flashed in her eyes.
“Why are we still discussing such an unpleasant subject?” Grandmom asked.
“Beats me,” Granddad said.
I turned to Andy. “We haven’t gotten food yet. Maybe we should get something to eat?”
“Okay,” he said.
We nearly knocked over our chairs in our escape from the table.
“Shit,” I said to Andy under my breath as we hightailed it across the grass. “Shit, shit, shit.”
“What the hell are you doing,” he said, his voice tight.
“I don’t know. I got mad. Let’s just leave.”
“Yeah, good call.”
We emerged into the hot sun, heading for the parking lot. Behind us, Mom called, “Joel!”
We stopped and turned. She and Dad stormed up to us.
“What on earth, Joel?” she said, now that we were out of earshot of the party. “We had one request of you. One.”
“It wasn’t my fault,” I said. “Blame Phil and Patty. They’re the ones who wou
ldn’t shut up about it. Dad can tell you. He was there.”
Andy, helpless witness to this, glanced toward the other guests, who kept gawking at us.
“You could have denied it,” Dad said, teeth clenched. “Instead you said the most foul, ridiculous—”
“I tried to deny it! They weren’t listening. Besides, is it that big a deal? What our ‘lifestyle’ may or may not be?”
“This is not the time or the place.”
“Right, which is why we’re leaving.”
“Don’t,” Mom said, flustered. “For heaven’s sake, we don’t want everyone talking about how you made a scene and stomped off. Stay for your grandparents’ sakes.”
“They don’t want us here. We’ll leave for their sakes. And you need to understand, this is not how I’m doing things anymore. You’re polite to Andy or whoever else I bring, or you don’t see me. Ever.”
“Sinter,” Andy started.
“You act like we’re so unreasonable,” Dad cut in. “But we’re not, goddammit. It’s reasonable to want your kid to be normal. To be the kind of person we can be proud of, to have a good career, a respectable life.”
I was trembling in rage. If we’d been in Shakespeare’s day, I’d have drawn my sword on him. “Normal?” I said, low. “Careful, Dad. You can’t unsay things.”
“What were you hoping to accomplish by bringing him, anyway?” he went on, undeterred. “I only agreed to let him come at all because your mom said you’d keep your mouth shut about crap like that. And you couldn’t.”
I’d drawn closer to Andy and could feel him shaking too, against my arm. The Elizabethan version of him would probably have helped me murder my father.
“Done,” I said. “We’re done. You know how to find me if you’re ever ready to be civil.” I took Andy’s elbow and tugged him toward the car.
“Joel, for heaven’s sake,” my mom said.
Andy snatched his arm free. “What is wrong with you?” He sounded furious, and I looked at him in shock. Then my shock doubled when I realized he wasn’t talking to me. He had turned and was addressing my parents.
They blinked at him, momentarily silenced.
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