Play by the Rules

by Frey Ortega

  “You know, if we scatter your ashes in the wind, you could end up a choking hazard and accidentally trigger someone’s asthma,” Chase said. “And you’d end up inviting a super cute guy with you into heaven.”

  The smile on his face let me know he was trying to be helpful and add some levity into the situation. Unfortunately, the thought of dying alone and then being the cause of someone else’s demise only made things more terrifying than ever before.

  Rye shook his head. “You’re not going to die alone. You’re twenty-five years old. You’re still young.”

  “Not unless my obesity kills me first. I have about ten to fifteen years, tops,” I said, filling myself with even more negativity.

  “Or you could stop throwing yourself a pity party and realize that A) you’re not as fat as you say you are, and B) sex is often just mediocre when it isn’t with the right person, anyway?” Rye said. “It’s good to get your rocks off whenever you can but it’s not the end-all and be-all of a relationship. And if you’re looking for a husband for life, well, a lot of people are, too. When you find the right guy, you’ll be thankful you waited.”

  “That’s just the kind of thing a grandmother would tell her granddaughter to make her not slut it out on prom night,” I muttered underneath my breath. “But sure. I’ll take your words under advisement.”

  “This is a no slut-shaming zone,” Chase said, crossing his hands in front of him and making a little X in the air. “But for what it’s worth, I agree with Rye. If you want to have sex, it’s ridiculously easy. I can find you a guy who’ll want to fuck you right outside your apartment. In fact, any random Joe out there would do. You wouldn’t believe how low someone’s standards are if you just want to bang them. But when you’re thinking about living the rest of your life with another person, of course, they’re going to be a lot more judgmental and discerning.”

  Random Joe. The thoughts of this week’s interview lurched in my stomach once more, and I could feel the anxiety inside me trying to crawl its way out like one of those alien monsters eating through their hosts. “Ugh,” I groaned. “Please, don’t say that name.”

  “What? Joe?” Chase asked.

  I shot him a look of sheer exasperation.

  “I’m not sure why you’re angry, isn’t this your karma just balancing itself out?” Rye asked. “You get spurned in a dating app, and now you’re meeting one of the world’s most eligible gay bachelors. Some people would kill to be in your shoes.”

  “This is something that even Dale has brought to my attention, and while I have always been an eager purveyor of aesthetics, I can’t say I’m happy about this situation,” I admitted, sighing. I sat up and leaned back against the couch, looking my friends straight in the eye. “I can write him a fluffy piece, but what if he’s expecting me to be a cheerful, fun-loving person? What if I fuck up in front of one of the world’s most eligible, gay bachelors?”

  “Does that matter?” Chase asked. “If you’re still going to have the best output for the job, the process of getting there might not be as important.”

  “How very Machiavellian of you. But no, I don’t think this is a case where the end would justify the means. If I fuck this up, there could be repercussions to my career,” I replied, sighing.

  “You’re an obsessive worrywart and I’m starting to think that your flair for the dramatic is what’s keeping you from taking the risks you need to succeed in life.” Rye looked me dead in the eye, and for some reason, my insides lurched.

  Chase grimaced. “Oh, damn. He just went full-on therapist with you.”

  He was right. Hell, they were both right. Rye didn’t need to be a psychologist to know exactly where to shank me with that ideological dagger he was keeping in his pocket.

  But I didn’t like that he was right, and I felt a little as if he’d just smacked me in the face with that.

  “Can you tell me I’m wrong?” Rye asked.

  I sighed, curled up into a tighter ball, and looked right into Rye’s eyes with all the seething I could muster for a friend who was only trying to help me out. So, yeah, not much. “No,” I finally said after a few moments. “No, you’re right. I’m being an asshole for no real reason. But I can’t help how I feel.”

  “And we totally get that,” Chase suddenly chimed in. “But this interview is happening whether you like it or not, right? You can’t get out of it. Worrying and grousing about it isn’t gonna do you much good.”

  “That’s true, too. But I can’t help but feel the way I feel.”

  At this point, I was grasping at straws. I was basically a toddler, sticking out my tongue and crossing my arms over my chest, just looking for every minuscule reason to be pissed off.

  “Oh, totally. Your emotions are valid,” Rye said. “That doesn’t mean you’re not acting like a total whiny ass, though.”

  “And we all know that at this point, Emmett has absorbed the lesson we have just laid on his lap, and we can leave him to eat his curry,” Chase said. “But not before we help him come up with interview questions for Joe Kaminski!”

  The ever-cheerful, effervescent best friend of the three of us stood up and traipsed straight to my bedroom. “Just gonna grab the laptop!” He exclaimed, and within a matter of seconds he sprawled in his seat and tapping away at the keys.

  “Let’s google this guy,” Chase said, brimming with excitement. “I bet we’ll find a couple of shirtless pics of him. Let’s see here. Image search… ‘Joe Kaminski body.’ That works, right?”

  Rye rolled his eyes. “You’re just gonna get horny again.”

  “To be fair, he has the healthiest libido of all of us here,” I offered. “I just really want to eat my rendang.”

  “Go grab your spoon and rendang, then. You can eat while we do some research,” Chase said. “I will inform you all nicely to stay away from the splash zone in case any horniness occurs.”

  I traipsed on over behind the counter and grabbed the little—oh, who am I kidding, the oversized—bowl of rendang from inside my fridge. I immediately put it in the microwave, and scooped some rice fresh from my rice-cooker onto a plate.

  “Joe’s single, or so his Wikipedia article says,” Chase said. “He’s also claimed to be Christian, but also spiritual, has had two well-publicized relationships with a male model and a not-so-well-known actor, and he has four homes. Two here, one in New York, and another in Hawaii.”

  “One of the homes here he bought for his parents,” Rye added. “It’s technically his, and yet it’s not actually his. He only has the one home…and the vacation home. And the New York home.”

  “I only have one apartment,” I said. The fact that I even had it was a blessing.

  “I live with my boyfriend.” Chase was the only one among us who was in any form of relationship. “But it’s his name on the lease for the apartment.”

  “And I still live with my parents,” Rye chimed in. “Acting doesn’t provide the most stable of incomes.”

  “No one ever said acting was a job of stability,” I replied. “But it’s demanding, and people do need the entertainment and the distraction. Otherwise, what would our lives be?”

  Rye smiled, and patted my shoulder. “And you’ve always been open about the fact that if we needed a place to crash, we could stay with you.”

  The fact that I had a job I loved and my own place was a blessing, after all, and it was one that I happily wanted to share with my friends.

  “I thought we were looking at pics of his body,” I said, finally settling back onto my side of the couch.

  “Nah, we’re past that. Chase has saved the links and it’s in his spank bank now,” Rye said helpfully.

  The two of them went back to actively cyber-stalking Joe Kaminski. Not that they were, but the guy had social media out the wazoo and he had a bunch of articles about him and his private life in different places, including The Stylish. They were just reading through it while I was shoveling my curry-and-rice into my mouth.

  It made me
a little happier. Just a little bit.

  Chase flicked his finger on the keyboard and scrolled down the internet browser window. “This guy seems pretty great. He’s upbeat, he’s positive, he’s donated to HIV research, a foundation that helps homeless LGBT teens find a place to stay, and he’s planning on making a comeback to the world of sports to combat homophobia.”

  “This guy sounds as rare as a unicorn,” I deadpanned. “He’s an attractive man whose physique probably looks better than most guys his age, he donates regularly to charity, is gay, and he bought a home for his parents with his money? Tell me there’s something wrong with him. Is he a cannibal? Does he like to pick up hitchhikers in the night and drain them of their blood? Oh, God. He’s a flat-earther, isn’t he?”

  “He doesn’t seem to be,” Rye replied helpfully, smiling. “You’ll find out soon enough, won’t you?”

  I stared Rye down. “Unless he eats me. Like actually eats me.”

  “You wouldn’t be good food for him, anyway. You’re all fat and no protein,” Chase said, and I shot him a look. “What? It’s true. Athletes don’t need body fat. They need protein to keep their muscles and carbohydrates to use on the field. He’d probably only eat healthy fat, too. And you’re here eating a tub of rendang.”

  “Regardless, he doesn’t seem to be a cannibal, a murderer, or a flat-earther,” Rye said, voice firm. “If you’re looking for reasons not to do this interview, you’re not doing a very good job.”

  “I know,” I said. “I’m using humor to deflect the fact that I’m not sure what to make of this. Not yet, anyway.”

  “You don’t need to make sense of anything,” Rye said. “All you need is to do it.”

  And Rye was right. The more I thought about it, the more I knew it to be true.

  It didn’t matter if Joe Kaminski was a cannibal, or a unicorn, or a flat-earther. He was still going to be the subject of my interview. Besides, he was still human, wasn’t he?

  Wasn’t he?

  Maybe that was the point. Maybe that was Rye’s point. I’d find out soon enough, and it was my job to relay the information to the world.

  Or at least, to the thousands of gays who regularly read The Stylish.

  Chapter Four

  The night before the interview, I dreamt I was with my grandparents. I don’t know why this was important right now, but it just reinforced how crazy I actually was.

  We were at a new shopping mall, happy and bright and shiny, but the only way to get back to the car was by crawling through a small crawlspace. The thing was, this little “window” was covered in plastic. There were other little windows I could use to crawl through, and each one was smaller than the last, until I was finally trapped using a doggy door that lead out into the parking lot.

  I’ve had recurring dreams of having to wiggle through small spaces to get to important places; maybe it’s some form of residual anxiety. The non-scientific theory in my head is that it’s some issue from a past life I lived. I’m chubby, after all, and don’t like being reminded of it. Maybe I was fat in my previous life, too.

  As soon as I woke up, though, I knew it was going to be a shitty, terrible day. The only proverbial crappy cherry on top of this poop sundae would be if I’d pissed my bed during my sleep or something. Instead, I’d overslept. It was eight o’clock.

  The interview was at six-thirty, which was a horribly early time to set an appointment but what did I know? I was new at this.

  I wouldn’t have enough time to prep myself, prep my work, and get there on time…because I was two hours late already. The photographer should have gotten there at the ass-crack of dawn because Dale wanted some dawn shots and some artistic shots of Joe in his home habitat.

  And I fucked it up by oversleeping.

  Talk about unprofessional, right?

  But I willed myself forward. I threw myself into showering at the fastest speed I could muster. I put on the outfit Rye and Chase had picked out for me last night, grabbed my bag, my notebook, my keys, my pen—everything I needed—before taking a cursory last look at the apartment and ran out the door as fast as I could.

  I was a freelance editor, part-time writer, and part-time journalist. Interviews—and everything relating to them, including waking up early—were definitely not my forte.

  It didn’t take long for Dale’s name and number to pop up on my phone for the nth time this morning. I grimaced, but swiped to accept the call, anyway.

  “Hey, I’m so sorry. This is incredibly unprofessional of me, and—"

  “No, that’s not an issue. I knew you were going to be late so I scheduled the interview later. Are you on your way?” he asked. Well, damn. I’d expected to be chewed out.

  Dale continued. “The photographer went ahead and took the shots we needed for the magazine. Joe’s waiting for you at his home. You have thirty minutes to get there.”

  “Yes, I am definitely on my way to the interview. I’ve called up a ride as we speak,” I said hurriedly. “I can charge the company for this, right?”

  “Oh, definitely. This is a business expense. I’ll make sure you get repaid for it,” Dale said. What a guy. Why did I get uncomfortable around him, again? Was his cloying perfection just a bit too much? The fact that he knew I’d wake up late was a little unsettling. Just how well did Dale know me? “Just get there soon, okay? And make sure you practice your interview questions!”

  God, did he really have to remind me that I was ill-prepared? I felt even more a mess than usual already.

  Maybe that was the reason I tended to stay away from him, despite his friendliness.

  In the car ride heading over to Joe Kaminski’s address, I took the time to go over my questions, noting them down in my notebook and making sure I looked presentable. I wore my thick-frame glasses that made me look extra nerdy but also extra jolly, a plaid shirt, and a pair of skinny jeans that made my legs look fierce even though my shirt was long and covered up my bum. Not that I had a good butt, anyway. It wasn’t anything special.

  Finally having time to really sit back and relax on the car ride was a big boon for me.

  The car ride was silent, as was evidenced by the sweaty man in front who barely paid me a glance but nodded when I finally stepped out of the car right in front of a rather exclusive-looking little cul-de-sac. In an accent I didn’t quite understand, the man told me that “he no go further,” like we were about to enter into a haunted graveyard somewhere in Eastern Europe or something.

  With the way my stomach lurched, I would have agreed by his sentiment, truthfully.

  The Uber sped away, a good chunk of my money in tow and maybe some of my dignity, and I had to stare at how picturesque the entire community seemed to be. The sunshine was nice and golden, hitting the solar panels on the roofs of each house like the promise of a brighter tomorrow. There were children playing nearby some sprinklers with dogs and no adult supervision, and white women were sitting around a table, laughing while eating salads.

  There were a couple houses that had gates, and it was clear with how ethnically un-diverse this community seemed to be, that there was some form of exclusivity, some form of privilege at work.

  When I saw a woman walk out of a house in a white blouse, black slacks, pearls, and that soccer mom bob haircut, you just knew this place screamed money, and that woman just screamed if she could speak to your manager, because the service of your establishment was not to her satisfaction. This was the kind of slice of American living that I suspected my grandparents came to expect when they first immigrated.

  Weird how a place like this could exist just a few miles outside of a big city. Suburbia was so…different.

  I looked down at my phone and looked around the neighborhood until I found the right house. No gates. White picket fences. It looked so…homely. Like it was the home a family lived in. Hell, maybe it was.

  There were lawn gnomes on the well-manicured grass. Someone clearly spent time making this place a home.

  Then again, Joe Kamin
ski probably didn’t spend a lot of time here. Unless this was his second home…in which case, this was definitely not the kind of house I expected of a bachelor.

  I strode up the little cobblestone path leading up to the front door and took it all in. Swanky. Everything seems so oddly…domestic. It didn’t seem like the kind of house a thirty-five-year-old bachelor would have lived in. I knocked on the door, a booming, masculine voice hollered out from within the house. The voice was enough to send a tingling sensation through my body, and a flutter in my chest. “Coming!”

  But damn, did an actual thirty-five-year-old live in this house.

  I stood there, a little star-struck, when the doors finally opened. I had seen Joachim Jakub Kaminski—or so his wiki article said his name was, and I wonder if anyone called him JJ—on the internet, or on the television, but I’d never seen him in person like this.

  In person, he just seemed that much bigger.

  He didn’t have an archetypically pretty face, but no one would say that he wasn’t handsome, because one would be lying if they said that Joe didn’t ooze charisma. Maybe it had been the obvious signs of his nose having been broken more than a couple of times—probably hit by a ball after practice, when the helmet was off—but every little imperfection just added points to Joe’s machismo.

  He was standing there in a black, long-sleeved shirt that clung to his body perfectly and a pair of denim jeans that fit his form well, and exuded more confidence in every breath than I ever did in my entire life. Maybe it was just because he was six-foot-four and towered over my diminutive height, but he just looked a lot more intimidating than Dale.

  Curse all these beautiful people around me with their beautiful genetics. If only I could borrow an inch or two off of Dale’s and Joe’s height, I wouldn’t feel so much like a chubby cartoon.

  Joe’s brown hair was a little close-cropped and messy, but it suited him. He looked flawless. Almost perfect. The combination of his debonair good looks and the fact that he seemed to be so in his element was extra daunting, and it made me gulp.