by Frey Ortega
I kept the thought in mind as I adjusted the bag slung over my shoulder. The minimalist, Zen décor was interesting. It was all muted hues of ash gray, black, and white. The only sprinkling of color were these large pop-art paintings of ramen that hung in perfect symmetry to one another. Everything else, from the bamboo slates on the windows to the muted uniforms the waiters wore, seemed like a perfectly calculated attempt to attract a certain kind of clientele.
Some people called such establishments pretentious. I couldn’t care less, truth be told. I was just there for the good food, which Wakaba’s served with panache, flair, and an extra-large helping.
It was that last part that really appealed to me. Nothing beat an extra-large bowl of curry udon noodles. The warmth, which wasn’t enough to be anywhere near spicy, could probably heat up a heartbroken person’s cold, dead heart.
That sounded good to me.
Dale stood up as soon as I arrived, waving me toward the table and placing his cellphone to the side. As soon as he did, the professional inside me rose to the surface. I offered up that same, outwardly-pleasant smile I mastered just for social situations.
Truthfully, I didn’t really want to leave the house. If I thought that curling up in bed and crying myself to sleep while listening to a British woman belt out soulful melodies about how better off she is now than when she was with her ex was better for me than a free lunch and the promise of a busier tomorrow, I wouldn’t have stepped foot outside..
Sadly, I knew that this was much better for me than hiding away would be.
“I’m so glad you could come! And here I thought you’d cancel,” Dale said, that winning smile ever present on his face. “We both know how fond you are of solitude.”
Ouch. Well, he was right, but it just felt like an extra knife to the heart to hear someone say those words. “I wouldn’t say I’m fond of solitude,” I hedged, clearing my throat and hoping that I didn’t sound like I’d gargled glass from my sudden bout of melancholy earlier. I took a seat right in front of Dale. “But you’re right. I don’t tend to leave the house much.”
“And that’s perfectly acceptable,” Dale said. “The office only requires that you come in for the weekly meeting. You’ve been writing excellent content for us working from home.”
It felt different to be under Dale’s gaze in person and when there were no computer screens between us. For some reason, Dale’s smile seemed brighter. His gaze seemed more penetrating, and it made me feel uncomfortable and small.
After all, the guy was six feet tall and looked like he could easily be the replacement of one of those perfectly polished male models on those billboards. I could feel my insecurities settling in, and the flash of perfect white teeth from the blond man in front of me did nothing to assuage my looming, all-encompassing feelings of inadequacy.
Dale’s blue eyes felt a little judgmental scanning me from top to bottom. Despite wearing my favorite checkered button-up and a pair of jeans that fit well, I still felt like the ugly step-sister. I dressed casually because he said we were meeting at this restaurant, after all, but in front of Dale, I still felt frumpy. Maybe it was the extra donut of fat wrapped around my midsection, but when I compared myself to the man before me, it was no contest.
“I’m glad you think my writing is excellent,” I replied as diplomatically as I could. It’s not as though I could tell him my articles had been crap to me for a long time now. “So, what’s this about a sports piece?”
Dale nodded. He clasped his hands together in front of him, and leaned forward. Everything about him oozed confidence. The constant, self-assured eye contact was downright disconcerting. “Right. Do you know much about our home football team here?”
I shook my head. “I know that they’re called the Phantoms, and that’s about it.”
“Right, well, there was an old joke about how their name was apt because they don’t win anything, and they can’t get past any of the other teams at the start of the season. But a couple years ago they finally started to improve. They even got some good press because they were able to compete at the Super Bowl semi-finals about two years ago.”
“You’re surprisingly well-versed about them,” I said. I hadn’t known any of this before. Then again, I really didn’t have much of an interest in sports in general.
“I did my research for this meeting. I didn’t want to come ill-prepared, and I wanted you to know you have my full support on this task,” Dale said. “The reason for how well they were playing was the star quarterback, Joachim Kaminski. They call him Joe. He retired before the start of the current season.”
“Was it an injury?” I asked. It was almost always an injury, or something cliché like that.
“No. He’s thirty-five years old, and didn’t want to play anymore, so he retired. For all intents and purposes, he’s set for life. I’m talking tens of millions of dollars at his fingertips,” Dale replied. “Anyway, the story we’d like you to do is a human interest piece on Joe Kaminski and the team. More specifically Joe, though. Run the angle of what he’s been doing since retiring. Maybe we’ll include some information on how the team is doing, although anyone who’s even remotely interested in sports won’t be reading The Stylish, anyway. We’re just doing it to provide a more rounded image of where Joe came from, and what the team is up to now and if they’re providing a safe environment for non-heteronormativity in their team. Because we’re aiming for a human-interest piece with this one, and I know how well you write those, I thought you’d be perfect.”
Dale leaned back against his chair, and he sighed. I raised a single eyebrow at him in question. This still didn’t really add up. “Why does The Stylish want to interview Joe Kaminski, anyway?”
“Besides the fact that he’s eye candy, our avid readers will want to see him on the main page of our website in various levels of undress, and he’s an unattainable bachelor?” Dale asked rhetorically. “He’s just come out of the closet on social media. A shame he didn’t come out sooner, but score one for us gays, I guess.”
I blinked. There wasn’t really much I could do or say at that moment, and instead I just let that sink in. “So basically, you’re telling me to do this interview with a handsome, rich, ex-football superstar who happens to be gay? And you’re expecting me to keep my cool all throughout?”
Not that I would lose my cool. I’d probably stammer a little bit and grow hot under the collar, but I was a damn professional. It was easy enough to keep whatever sexual fantasies I might have to myself.
It’s not like I hadn’t had to do that before.
Somehow, I kind of understood why Joe would want to keep his sexuality a secret until he was completely out of that world. Homophobia in sports was still a big issue. It didn’t surprise me one bit. The world’s biggest homophobes were the ones who wore their masculinity on their sleeve, after all.
“Yes,” came Dale’s succinct answer. “Because you’re a professional.”
“And why exactly did you choose me for this assignment, again?” I asked.
“Well, apart from the fact that he’s only opening up to The Stylish, and therefore we have an exclusive with him, I figured you’d be the best fit for this assignment. The other editors were all clambering to take this assignment on, but I knew I had to have you do it.”
Dale seemed so assured about his decision, I was almost afraid to ask why.
Almost.
“Why did you pick me?” I asked yet again. He hadn’t given me a real answer. I grasped the glass of water that had been carefully laid out for us by one of the brightly-dressed waitresses nearby. “Can you give me a straightforward answer to that, please?”
Dale sighed. “Well, if it were anyone else, they’d probably screw up the interview by offering to do unspeakable things to a very important client, which I know you wouldn’t do. Even if you were attracted to the guy, I know that you won’t do anything to fuck your work up,” Dale explained. “But even more than that, Joe specifically requested you.”
At that point, I was gob-smacked and almost choked on my own water. “What?”
“You heard me, Emmett. Joe Kaminski specifically requested you to do the interview,” Dale stated once more. There was that unsettling smile on his face again, and a glimmer of mischief that passed through his eyes. “Well, actually, no he didn’t.”
I sighed a small breath of relief at that. Now, that was more like it. I was just a no-name writer on a news site, after all. Some people might’ve been offended by the little joke, but I knew Dale well enough that I knew he didn’t mean anything by what he’d said. He just wanted to see me get as excited as him.
He’d have gotten what he wanted, if by “excited” I meant “on the cusp of hyperventilating.”
Dale continued. “He told me that he wanted his interview to be full of levity, to be written by the happiest, most positive member of our writing staff. You were the first person that came to mind, so I was quick to recommend you.”
This was a little bit too much to process right then and there. Positive? Full of levity? Happy? And why did it need to be those things? Weren’t truthful and honest more important?
There were too many questions buzzing through my brain.
Granted, I’d written my fair share of positive articles. My work was quintessentially a bunch of fluff pieces. I made sure that each piece was upbeat and hopeful. With the reports of gay concentration camps and queer-bashing in mass media, I was tasked with providing a little hope. Even in my spare time, with the manuscripts I edited and the stories I wrote on my own, I was trying to provide an escape.
This intrinsic human desire for the romantic, for the optimistic, for the happy, was a job that paid the bills, but didn’t really describe who I was as a person.
I’d say I was generally unhappy, negative, and full of bullshit, for the most part. The complete antithesis of what Dale needed.
“But… but…” I stammered.
Dale tilted his head slightly in question. “But what?”
“Dale, have you met me?” I asked. “I’m not exactly a ray of sunshine here...”
Dale, bless his heart, rolled his eyes at me. “You aren’t that bad.”
I really wasn’t. Or maybe I was, but I felt like what I’d said was a pretty accurate description of who I was as a person.
“I guess I have to ask, why does he want a fluff piece?” I asked. Technically it wasn’t very polite to call my work fluff pieces, but what better, blunter way was there to say it?
Dale shrugged. “You’ll have to ask him yourself. He’s already giving us the exclusive, and I’m sure you can make time in between your editing work, right?”
There was no use whining about it. Dale was watching me, as if waiting for another question, or another witty comment. But I’d said my piece, and he still wanted me to proceed. He was my boss. I couldn’t say no. I simply remained quiet, placing my hands on my lap and noted how my belly seemed to be slightly farther out than a few weeks ago. Well, it sure felt that way, anyway.
Looking smugly satisfied, Dale leaned back against his seat. “Anyhow, the interview, I’m guessing, is going to be at his home. I’ll double-check for you and we can coordinate the details later. In addition, you’ll have some creative control over the photos so that the content of your piece and the pictures are in sync,” Dale said. “And he’s scheduled it for Friday this week, so you have the rest of the week to prepare your interview questions and work your jitters out.”
I gawked, but only nodded slowly. “Okay,” I said after a few moments. A little bit of numbness set in.
Numbness always set in before the panic attack.
“May I take your order now?” the waitress chimed in, almost as if she telepathically knew our conversation was finally over. She was standing there with her hands primly clasped in front of her and an upbeat smile on her face, mimicking the one on Dale’s own.
“Yeah, I’ll have the vegetarian ramen with the vermicelli noodles and the tamari base,” Dale said. “I want some of that hot springs egg, but only the egg white, none of the egg yolk, please.”
For the briefest moment in time, all my concern and worry about fucking up this interview was replaced with wanting to punch Dale in the face once more. Good ol’ Dale, ever the health nut, made me feel a little bit more like myself again. But just as quickly as it came, the feeling evaporated like a fine mist.
I didn’t need to think about the fact that Joe Kaminski wanted a chipper, upbeat interviewer; two qualities of which I was sorely lacking at that moment in time.
And I definitely didn’t need to think about how this was an exclusive for the site that was probably going to net us thousands of views at least, and millions of views at best if the thing went viral.
Like mono on prom night.
Now there was only my health-conscious boss, and the fact that I was eating a bowl of ramen three times as calorie-dense as Dale’s to worry about.
And if the universe was merciful, maybe lightning would strike me dead before the interview.
One could only hope, right?
Chapter Three
I had planned on having such a beautiful night in with my sad music and my Indonesian rendang, but like an ironic comedy, my best friends decided to visit me that night out of nowhere.
Well, not completely out of nowhere. The invitation was always open for them to come over. The only problem was that I really didn’t feel like having company, but I’d been open about that in our chat conversations. I sent them update after update of the day’s events, starting from this morning’s episode of “I’m going to die alone” to this afternoon’s riveting dramatization of “Holy shit, this job is a big deal, guys, and I may not be the right person for this task.”
The doors busted open because I had given them a spare set of keys. In case they stopped hearing from me for a week and I needed someone to delete my search history before they shipped me off to the funeral home, of course.
Chase plopped into the seat right next to mine, as I curled up into one corner of the couch, wrapping my blanket around myself even tighter. He ran a hand through his long, slightly wavy brown hair, and offered one of those big, lopsided grins that would have totally melted a lesser mortal’s heart. Rye, on the other hand, sat down on a chair he dragged from the little kitchenette in my one-bedroom almost-a-studio apartment. The friendly, be-dimpled smile on his face was charming, as always.
My friends were attractive…like, you’d look twice if they passed you in the street kind of attractive. I was the designated ugly friend in our group. But maybe that came from years of neglect of my own body and had nothing to do with their looks.
Maybe it was also because Rye was an actor trying to make it big in the world of theater, and you know those fuckers deal with dance numbers, theatrical training, keeping their body, their voice, and their mind healthy to make sure they had the best possible shot at landing a decent role.
Chase, on the other hand, was just good-looking. He didn’t really have an ugly duckling phase. I’d known them both since the third grade, and it was a miracle they still talked to me at all.
“So, let me get this straight,” Chase was the first one to speak. “You decided to delete all your dating apps because you got rejected, once.”
“Yup,” I said, without even batting an eye. I pulled out my phone, swiped at the screenshots folder inside it, and handed it to Chase. “Here’s photo evidence of the message I received. Swipe a couple of times to see the other messages.”
Chase took my phone and stared down at the screen. He swiped once, then twice, before a little frown finally appeared on his face.
“This doesn’t seem so bad,” Chase said, finally handing me back my phone. I nabbed it from him and stared down at the last image on the screen for the briefest moment before handing it to Rye. “I’ve certainly had worse rejections.”
Rye raised an eyebrow as he looked down at my phone. “Well, it’s certainly a rejection,” Rye said as diplomaticall
y as he could, though already I could see the wheels of mischief turning and churning in Rye’s head. “You can’t really compare your experiences with Emmett’s. This is the first time he’s put himself out there since the whole online boyfriend thing.”
“An online boyfriend whose existence still eludes us to this very day, I might add,” Rye added, smirking. “One might even think that a certain someone was making it all up.”
I scoffed. “Are you calling me a liar?”
“I’m calling you not not a liar,” Rye said. Chase squinted at him, as if trying to process what he’d just said.
I rolled my eyes. “A double negative is a positive.”
“Oh, I know,” Rye said, and once more he smiled. He handed me back my phone. “I’m proud of you for putting yourself out there, though. It takes guts, and if you really want that happily-ever-after you’ve been reading and writing about, a little bit of pain and discomfort are needed.”
At that, Chase nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah, I totally agree. It’s just like anal, you know? It’s a little uncomfortable, and maybe a little bit painful if you’re not doing it right, but it’s worth it in the end.”
Rye chuckled. “Yes, it’s exactly like butt stuff, Emmett. And if you don’t insert a finger or two in there before the big finale, you’re gonna have a bad time.”
Chase nudged Rye’s side. “Or, you know, you could say Emmett’s going to be having a hard time. Get it?”
I couldn’t contain the disgruntled noise that came out of my mouth at that. Puns? At a time like this? I was in full-on crisis mode. This wasn’t funny to me, although I did think about how if the situations were reversed and it was one of the two of them suffering, I would have been the one to poke them and be an all-around pain in their ass.
“Either way, it’s done,” I said with finality in my voice. I pushed my glasses up my nose and sighed. “I guess I just have to accept that I’m going to die alone, and my body will be recycled into stardust. I hope the part that holds my consciousness gets remade into something shocking, like a dildo or something.”