“Why can’t you be proud of him?” Andy demanded. “It’s not that hard. He’s kind, he’s decent, he’s talented and hardworking—do you even realize how few actors at his age have gotten as far as he has? And he’s trying to do the right thing, for everyone, all the time. You have no idea how hard he’s trying. He’s an excellent human being, and it’s easy for me to be proud of him. But fine, you know what? Push him away instead. See where that gets you.” He pivoted and headed for the car.
My parents and I shared one last glance, stunned all around, then I left them without another word and caught up with Andy.
He was breathing hard, eyes unfocused. “I yelled at your parents,” he said. “Oh, fuck. Holy crap. I’ve just made everything so much worse.”
“They made everything worse. You were awesome.” I yanked open my car door. He got in too.
I reversed from the spot quickly and peeled off down the drive in a screech of tires. Andy seized the grip handle above his window, but didn’t snap at me to drive safer, like he might on an ordinary day. My heart was beating a hole in my chest. I still felt disturbingly inclined toward homicide.
At the end of the drive, I turned onto the street and joined the traffic. “Well. Guess I can’t count on them for babysitting anytime soon.”
“Yeah, no.” Andy rolled down his window, set his elbow on top of it, and ruffled his hair. “Can you never, ever invite me to any of your family events again?”
“Fine. Probably not going to any more of them myself.”
“I mean, seriously, what were you thinking?”
I looked at him in bewilderment. “Why are you yelling at me? You just defended me.”
“Yes, I defended you because that’s what a friend does, and any decent person would have in a situation like that. But I also lied for you. ‘Oh, Sinter didn’t mean it. It’s not true.’ You put me in a position where I had to lie, and I hate it.”
“I hate it too! And they put you in that position, not me. I know I shouldn’t have said we sleep together, but first they’re all ‘Don’t talk about it, ever,’ and next thing I know, their friends are interrogating me point-blank. What was I supposed to say?”
“You could have come out to them.” His words were clipped, incisive. “Calmly. Politely. Let them throw a fit then if they want, but at least you could say you took the high ground. Can you say that now?”
“Oh, because I always have to take the high ground. I’m sure you always do. I’m sure everyone but me always does.”
“Oh my God.” He raked his hand through his hair again. “I cannot talk to you when you’re being this dramatic.”
“Yes, all right, I should come out.” I was basically shouting. “I’m not ready. I’m a coward. Do you remember, though, what it feels like to not be ready to come out? To be afraid?”
“Of course I remember. I’m still afraid, because I still have to meet new people all the time. But once you decide you aren’t going to hide anymore, it gets easier.”
“Yeah, that is so fucking easy for you to say. You with the huge, happy family who’s got your back. You with the parents who never minded you were gay for one second. I’m over here trying to scrounge up a goddamn support network with the people who are supposed to give me one, and look what happens.” I smacked the steering wheel with my palm to accentuate the last three words. I had become that rage-fueled guy. Fantastic.
“Yes, it sucks. But isn’t it partly because you aren’t being honest?”
“Do you want me to turn around and come out to them? Maybe tell them about the baby too, while I’m at it?”
He grimaced and looked out the window. “Not a bad idea. But I bet you won’t.”
“No. I won’t. Because there’s no talking to them when they’re in this mood, just like there’s no talking to me. Must be genetic.”
“Fine. Do it when you want.” He used a near-monotone, a writing-you-off voice.
We said nothing the rest of the drive home.
Back in our apartment, he poured himself apple juice from the fridge, downed half the glass, and turned to lean on the counter. He watched me as I got a glass of ice water and drank it.
“I’m sorry I yelled at you,” he said, sounding sullen.
“Me too. Thanks for coming with me.”
“Listen …” He lowered his gaze to the floor tiles. “I don’t say this to be bitter. Honest. But I think I’m done with this, the benefits. We’re still friends. Neither of wants to screw that up.”
The icy cold in my stomach shot out to every one of my extremities. I took a few seconds to breathe, rotating the glass in my fingers, tracing lines in the fog of condensation collecting on the outside.
He had invoked the official deal, the one I had agreed to. I couldn’t claim he was being unfair. We were still best friends, and he was completely right. I didn’t want to fuck that up.
All the same, it felt like he had shoved me into a wall and walked past.
I hauled together all my acting skills in order to answer calmly. “Fair enough. I guess I haven’t been following the ‘no drama’ rule too well lately.”
“Which is understandable. You have a lot going on, and I do too. I think we’re just … complicating things too much. I’ve got your back; I support you on all this, but a lot of it is stuff you have to figure out. I can’t do it for you.”
Again he was entirely, excruciatingly right.
But I was too afraid, of basically everything in the world, to move my feet toward the path that would fix this. The coming-out. The confessing my feelings—to him as well as everyone else. The possibility of being rejected and loathed. The likelihood of ending up alone and unloved.
I might have lost my parents’ goodwill forever, as well as what little was left of my grandparents’ approval. Fiona couldn’t be liking me much either, with everything I was putting her through. She might even change her mind and keep the baby once the birth happened, reducing the amount of my life I’d spend with my daughter.
At least I’d still have a friend if I cooperated with Andy.
“Okay,” I said softly. “You’re right.”
CHAPTER 33: FRIEND OR FOE
I STOOD ON A CURB AT THE UNIVERSITY OF OREGON, ABOUT TO START MY FRESHMAN YEAR. I FIDGETED, not wishing to enter the dorm, but not wanting to stand there with Mom any longer either.
She had driven me down. Dad had said goodbye to me back home—handshake, no hug. We hadn’t hugged in years.
I’d spiked out my hair twice as big as usual and drawn on twice as much eyeliner, and wore head-to-toe black clothes despite the September heat.
Mom looked me over. “Why do you have to look like that? On your first day with these kids?”
My parents had said that kind of thing a thousand times. But that day I caught an undercurrent of anxiety in her voice, like she was actually worried about how I’d be received by the other freshmen. Had that sentiment always been there and I’d never noticed before? Or was she feeling an unusual boost of affection for her only child upon leaving me at college? I couldn’t tell.
“That’s how I’ll be able to tell who my real friends are,” I said. “They’ll be the ones who aren’t so shallow they can’t see past appearances.”
Yeah, I used sarcasm, and yeah, it was a stab at her and Dad, in addition to anyone else in the world who took issue with my dress code. But it was also more truthful than I’d been with her in a while.
She shook her head. She was elegantly put together as ever, in a sleeveless pale-pink silk blouse, black trousers, and ballet flats. The wind stirred her blonde curls, knocking strands loose from her clip, and sweat glinted on her forehead, making her look more human. I tried not to be moved. After all, this transition was going to be way harder for me than for her. I was the one who had to walk in there and start living with a roommate I’d never spoken to before.
God, I missed Andy.
“Why do you have to make things so difficult for yourself?” she asked.
Please. They were the ones making life harder—for me and for themselves. I shrugged, keeping my expression loftily cold, and picked up my backpack. “Have a good drive back.”
She clicked her tongue in annoyance, then gripped my arm and kissed me on the cheek. Her Diorissimo perfume drifted around me, gentle and flowery, staggering me back in time to the era when I was a little kid and didn’t know their rules were stupid, when I loved to hug my mom and felt safer when doing so than at any other time in the world. A treasure I had lost and could probably never get back.
She released me, and I gave her a nod before turning to the dorm.
I found myself looking forward with a fragile sort of longing to the birth of my daughter. I still wanted her, now more than ever, because what other chance at a happy family did I have at the rate I was going?
My parents and I hadn’t communicated since the fiasco at the country club. My ultimatum and Andy’s telling-off had shut them right up, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to speak first.
My last two Monday check-ins with Fiona had been like texting with a polite robot. Nothing to tell. Still trying to write. Very uncomfortable, with summer heat and being pregnant. Tired, must go now.
All Chelsea had said, when I asked her, was Fiona needed time, and Chelsea didn’t have any reason to think she would change her mind about custody. Which of course was no guarantee.
So I awaited the birth of my child, whom I might not get to keep, and meanwhile, my folks had no idea they were going to be grandparents. And I couldn’t tell them, either, partly because I didn’t know if I’d get custody, and partly because I wasn’t speaking to them. What a clusterfuck.
At least I still had a best friend. In theory.
With the benefits terminated—something I tried not to think about, because it felt like stabbing myself with a thumbtack—Andy and I had no reason to match up our schedules to find common free time. He continued working long hours and had arranged to sublet the apartment starting in September. I attended A Midsummer Night’s Dream rehearsals, took extra café shifts, made lists of baby supplies (though without actually buying any yet), and began looking for my own place to live. Might as well set that up, prove I wasn’t codependent and all.
One of Chris and Kam’s neighbors was an elderly widow named Phyllis, who owned a 1920s-era house high on Capitol Hill, subdivided into duplex units. She lived in one and rented out the other, and had lately evicted a tenant who wouldn’t pay the rent on time. She’d been fretting about it to Chris and Kam. She wanted “someone nice” to rent the place, but dreaded having to advertise about it and interview strangers.
They recommended me to her. I went to see the house. The unit was small, and somewhat expensive when taking it on alone, but for Seattle it was still a steal. It was clean, the appliances and walls all white and plain, with ridged old hardwood floors in the living room and bedroom, aging linoleum in kitchen and bath, and most of the windows and light switches in working order. The neighborhood was quiet, a narrow residential street lined with other houses rather than with towering rows of apartment buildings. It had a backyard surrounded by a high brick wall, with apple trees and a rectangle of weedy grass.
I could picture my daughter taking her first steps next spring across that grass.
My mind supplied the additional image of Andy beaming, crouching with arms open to receive her. I turned away from that pointlessly lovely idea and told Phyllis I would like to take the place, if she didn’t mind a baby girl joining me this fall.
“Oh!” she said. “But it’s still just you otherwise?”
“Still just me. I’m arranging it with the birth mother. Nothing definite, but it’s what I’m hoping.”
She beamed. “That would be a delight. I can’t hear too well anyway. Won’t bother me if she cries.”
I signed the lease. She told me I could move in as soon as I liked.
“How about next Sunday?” I said.
I texted Andy on my way out.
Sinter: The place Chris and Kam found is really good. I’m taking it. Moving on Sunday
I waited a few minutes before turning my car on, but he didn’t answer. Finally, an hour later, he responded.
Andy: Sounds good. If you need boxes to pack stuff in, there’s usually some down by the recycling bins behind the building
“Thanks. I’ll miss you too,” I mumbled to the empty air in our apartment—his apartment—and trudged to the guest room to separate my possessions from his.
CHAPTER 34: CRUEL SUMMER
ON SUNDAY MORNING, ANDY HELPED ME CARRY MY FEW BAGS AND BOXES TO MY CAR. WE REMARKED on the hassles of furnishing a new space and discussed how Andy was going to stash most of his stuff at his sister Emma’s place while he was in Tokyo.
I shut the trunk and looked at him.
Here’s the trouble, I could say. You’re one of the best things in my life, and I don’t want us to be apart.
Sure. Then he could say, No, here’s the trouble. I’m going to Asia for six months, which by the way is more than enough time to meet someone else and fall in love, and you’re about to become a parent, which I’m not ready for. Oh, and also, you’re not out to your family, which is a hot mess that I’d rather not be part of. But thanks anyway.
I closed my hand around my keys until they bit into my palm, hard enough to leave marks. “Talk to you soon, I guess.”
“Yep. Be in touch.” He stepped back. No hug goodbye.
I waved, got into my car, and edged into the sluggish Seattle traffic.
Sinter: Sebastian I know we’re not exactly friends, but I think you’ll be honest with me at least, so can I ask you about Fiona?
Sebastian: Too right I’ll be honest
Sebastian: And of course we’re friends you prat. What do you want to know then
Sinter: How’s she doing, what’s bothering her? Is she changing her mind about the baby? I never know the right things to say to her
Sebastian: I don’t think she’s changing her mind. It’s just pregnancy is a nasty bitch. She’s got a metric fuck-tonne of hormones messing her up. And believe me, I know a thing or two about hormones messing one up
Sinter: Then … you think she won’t be ok until after the birth?
Sebastian: Even then it’ll take awhile. I’m doing my best to keep her afloat, but she’s a bit hung up on you still. B/c she’s carrying your fucking child perhaps, just a guess
Sinter: So you think the problem is she still wants me? Not the baby?
Sebastian: I completely think that.
Sinter: Hmm
Sebastian: Do you know what she’s working on?
Sinter: No, she hasn’t said
Sebastian: A story about 2 boys in love. It’s like New Romantic but in Britpop era and with gay dudes
Sinter: Ah. Shit
Sebastian: See she hasn’t admitted it out loud but she’s trying to reconcile herself to you going off to be with a bloke
Sinter: Yeah maybe
Sebastian: But I don’t think it’s making her happy to dwell on it. So I think it’s a crap idea
Sinter: Ok, should I talk to her?
Sebastian: Nah keep your distance. I’ll see she’s all right
Sinter: But you’ll report back to me? Please
Sebastian: Yeah fine
Sinter: Thanks
Sebastian: Oh guess what
Sinter: What?
Sebastian: Girl on the tube told me she saw new romantic and thought I was hotter than you. So ha.
I checked Andy’s social-media feeds daily. I made sure to click “like” on stuff he posted, which tended to be links to gaming or tech articles or funny videos, nothing too personal. He, in turn, clicked “like” when I posted a positive review for our Shakespeare-in-the-park performance. A couple of times during the rest of July, we texted each other with How’s it going? or Hey do you want these DVDs? I’m getting rid of some stuff.
I declined the DVDs, which were TV series I didn’t care about, and ultimately I never
saw him in person for the rest of the month.
No need for an ocean between us. We could feel just as far apart while living in the same neighborhood of the same city.
The only thing I had taken from the apartment that didn’t belong to me was a long-sleeved T-shirt of his. It was the one he’d worn in the selfie from the day I stood beside the River Thames and propositioned him. He wore it to bed often, and I had found it in the laundry basket when checking for any stuff of mine there. He’d probably been wearing it a few nights in a row, and it smelled like him, specifically like being wrapped in his arms on a lazy morning after just waking up.
I stole it without asking him and kept it unwashed. Every day at some point, I took it out from under my pillow and held it to my nose and inhaled, trying not to think about why I was doing something so stalkerish.
I also thought often about the night before my birthday, nestling with him under the donut sculpture at the Asian Art Museum, my heart about to burst into spring blossoms and theatrical songs. Had those feelings all been a mirage? If so, it shouldn’t still hurt like this. Since I couldn’t make sense of it, I tried to reframe the feelings as something positive that could happen again, in that hazy future where I was a responsible, fully out adult, knew what I was doing with my baby, no longer took shit from my parents, and wasn’t afraid of anything.
Futures like that probably didn’t magically happen on their own. But when you were afraid of everything, how could you bring them about?
I at least did my best to take steps toward the acquisition of my daughter, because I truly wanted her despite being scared, not to mention I had promised to do it, and there was an actual due date stamped on the event. I kept to my Monday check-ins with Fiona, but her tone remained distant, briskly informative, only a few lines each time. I respected Sebastian’s advice, giving her space. But the year was advancing, the mid-September due date creeping closer. Eventually I would have to say something if she didn’t.
The first Monday morning in August, I contacted her again.
All the Better Part of Me Page 20