by Karyn Bosnak
Long story short, there was no next time. Kyle never came back from LA. Ever. He didn’t even come back to quit his job in person or pack up his apartment. He was just gone. Six days after our hotel-room rendezvous, he finally called me to explain his sudden departure and said that he didn’t go to LA for a wedding but for an interview. He said he didn’t tell me before he left because he didn’t want word getting around the office. I was so insulted. “You’ll tell me how hard your dick is, but you won’t tell me about a job interview?” I snapped. “That’s kind of fucked up, don’t you think?”
“I’m sorry,” Kyle apologized. “But it’s my career and I take it very seriously.”
I hung up on him.
After a couple futile attempts, I gave up trying to track down the envelope with my underwear inside. I thankfully never signed the enclosed note so if someone opened it they wouldn’t know it was from me, but still, I would’ve liked to get it back; I mean, the undies were so cute. Two weeks later I had all but forgotten about them, when I got a phone call from the executive producer of Elisabeth Sterling Style, a woman named Margaret saying she wanted to talk to me about something. I immediately began to worry. Even though she’s not my boss, she’s known for being as tough as nails and is definitely above me on the totem pole. I was positive she found the underwear; I was positive I was going to be fired.
As I sat in her office later that afternoon, Margaret got right to the point. She was so angry that Kyle left without giving her notice that she personally went through his e-mail, hoping to find an instance of him violating his confidentiality agreement just so she could fuck with him. Unfortunately for her, she didn’t find any such instances, but unfortunately for me, she did find something else: my e-mails. Kyle deleted them but didn’t empty his trash. Dumb ass.
Although she could’ve been a bitch, Margaret was cool about things and said that she wasn’t going to tell Roger because she knew he was an asshole. After advising me not to make the same mistake in the future, she dismissed me. Instantly feeling relieved that the only thing she found was a few sexy e-mails, I got up to leave her office. On my way out the door, she called out to me. “Oh, Delilah?”
I turned around. “Yes?”
“You forgot your undies,” she said, casually sling-shooting them to me.
“Oh, uh . . . thanks,” I muttered, catching them. I then backed out of her office and made it my business never to run into her again.
another one bites the dust
thursday, may 5
When I arrived in LA last night, I decided not to stay in another budget hotel (every room I’ve stayed in so far looks like the setting for a bad porno), and instead treated myself to a room at the Viceroy, a luxury oceanfront hotel in Santa Monica. Yes, it’s totally out of my price range, but I have a credit card for life’s little emergencies, so I decided to splurge.
While in New York, I was able to find out where Kyle lives and works on the Internet—his name is listed in the credits for a home show that airs on NBC. I doubt that he’s married—he’s still too young—so I didn’t think it was necessary to have Colin look into it. After unpacking my bag and taking a dip in the pool, I decided to call NBC late last night. After navigating my way through their phone system, I ended up in Kyle’s voicemail. Since I wasted so much time in rehab, I had decided to cut to the chase and leave a message telling him I was in town, but after hearing his outgoing message I changed my mind. Kyle said he’d be out of the office on personal business until Monday, which is five days away. Since there’s no way I’m staying in LA for five days (I can’t afford it; my room at the Viceroy is $400 a night), I’ve decided to drive by his house this morning to see what I can find out. Maybe he went out of town.
Kyle lives on a curvy road in the Hollywood Hills, right under the D of the Hollywood sign, as a matter of fact. His house, like most in the neighborhood, looks small from the front but goes halfway down the mountain in the back. In short, it’s enormous. Kyle must be doing well. I bet he has real furniture by now.
After parking across the street, I put on my disguise and begin to look for signs of life in the house. The blinds are open, which is a good, and oh!—
As a car pulls into the driveway, I duck. Peering up ever so slowly, I watch closely as three people get out. As they walk to the front door, I see that one of them is holding . . . a pie? Yes, it’s a pie. They ring the bell and then wait for a few seconds until a woman opens the door and lets them inside. Twenty minutes later they emerge, get back in their car, and drive away. Hmm.
Over the next couple of hours, this same thing happens over and over again. Random groups of people stop by with food and/or flowers and stay for a half hour, tops. Since I can’t see inside the house, I can’t tell what’s going on. I suppose I could hike down the side of the mountain and look in the back, but with my luck I’d have a run-in with a pack of rabid coyotes or a couple hungry mountain lions. After thinking about what to do, I make a plan.
Pulling my car up as close to Kyle’s driveway as I can get, I roll the windows partly down and hide on the floor of the backseat. My hope is that I’ll be able to hear people talking as they get in and out of their cars and figure out what’s going on. To cover myself so no one can see me, I pull a bunch of clothes out of one of my bags. As I bury myself underneath them, I’m thankful that I left Eva at the Viceroy because she’d make this very difficult to do.
After about ten minutes I hear a car pull up, but the people inside don’t say much as they come and go, so I don’t learn anything. A little while later a second car arrives, and then a third, but just like the first, the passengers inside are quiet. Just as I’m getting antsy, a fourth car pulls up. When the people get out, I finally hear voices. As someone shuts the door, I hear them say, “It’s such a shame. He was so young.”
Instantly, everything makes sense. The visitors, the food, the flowers—someone must’ve died. Having listened to Kyle’s voicemail message, I’m sure it’s not him so I don’t freak out, but I begin to wonder. Was it a family member? A friend? A roommate? I need to find out. As quietly as I can I pull out my laptop. Lucky for me, I’m close enough to Kyle’s house to pick up his wireless Internet signal, so I type his address into a reverse address search bar and hit enter. Hmm. The house has two phone lines. One is listed as Kyle’s; the other belongs to someone named Zach Holden. I Google Zach Holden and—
Yep, just as I suspected. The first thing that pops up is an obituary in the LA Times. I read it. Although it doesn’t say how or why, Zach Holden has definitely died. He was young, only twenty-five years old. My heart goes out to Kyle. Poor, poor Kyle; his roommate died. A memorial service is being held tonight, beginning at six o’clock, at a place called the Hollywood Forever Cemetery. After closing my laptop, I think about my next step. My first instinct is not to go to the memorial service, but the more I think about it, the more I think going’s not such a bad idea. I mean, Zach and Kyle might not have even been friends; they might’ve just been roommates. If I were to show up, Kyle might be happy to see me, an old friend. It wouldn’t hurt to just check things out I suppose.
Later that evening, after showering and changing at the hotel, Eva and I hit the road. (I felt bad about leaving her alone all day.) While we’re driving, I tell her my plan. If Kyle looks devastated when I see him, then I’m going to turn around and leave. If he looks devastated but looks like he needs comforting, or if he looks bored like he’s there out of obligation or loyalty, then I’m going to stay.
Due to a bad traffic jam on Interstate 10, we don’t get to the front gate of Hollywood Forever Cemetery until almost 7:30 P.M. Afraid I might’ve missed the service, I haul-ass down the long driveway and quickly park my car. After cracking a window and leaving Eva in the car, I head to where the service is being held.
Holding my head down, I enter the chapel and begin looking around for Kyle. Since it’s already so late, I’m surprised to find the place still crowded. I would’ve guessed most people would’ve
gone home already, but apparently not. Because of this, it’s not as easy finding Kyle as I thought it would be; I don’t see him anywhere. While studying the crowd, I realize that it’s made up of mostly men. Sad men, somber men, and well, to be honest . . . hot men. Seriously, the place is filled with babes. Young cute babes. Well dressed babes. Babes who smell good. Damn . . . if the crowd here is a random sample of men in LA, then I need to come out to the left coast more often.
After looking around for a few more minutes, I don’t spot Kyle anywhere and decide to stop searching. Assuming he’s gone home, I head over to where some pictures are hanging in the distance, curious to see what Zach looked like. When I arrive at the display, I gasp.
Holy smokes.
Zach Holden wasn’t just hot, he was Orlando Bloom hot. My eyes dart from photo to photo. What a looker. What a hunk. What a shame. He seems so happy and fun-loving too. In many of the pictures he’s whitewater rafting, bungee jumping, skydiving—he’s so adventurous! You know, I have to be honest . . . I don’t like wakes, I don’t like caskets, and I don’t like dead people—but I gotta see Zach Holden in person. Turning around, I begin to look around for a coffin.
After scanning the room for a few moments, I don’t see one, so I nudge a man standing next to me. “Excuse me, sir? Where’s the casket?”
Turning to me, he gives me an angry stare.
“The casket?” he shrieks. I nod.
“Yeah, is it an open casket?”
The man shakes his head in disgust. “What kind of a sick person are you?” he asks. “After what happened to Zach, after the accident, do you really think they’d have an open casket?”
The accident? What accident? Before I have a chance to ask, the man storms away. When he does, I see something in the distance: an urn.
Oh no. Poor Zach Holden. Poor hot sexy Zach Holden. He was cremated.
Suddenly I hear my name. “Delilah?”
Recognizing Kyle’s voice, I turn around. Looking into his eyes, I’m more taken aback than I was when I saw Zach for the first time—Kyle looks good. He looks really, really good. LA has treated him well. “Kyle,” I say slowly, pretending to be surprised, “hi.”
“Hi.” He leans in to give me a hug. “This is odd.” As we embrace, I think, There’s nothing odd about this at all. He feels good. His body is so young, so solid, and so perfect that I don’t want to let go. So I don’t.
Shit. I’ve turned into my mother.
“What are you doing here?” he asks, trying to pry himself away from me.
“I’m here to say good-bye to Zach,” I say, squeezing the living daylights out of him.
“You are?” Pulling away from me with all his might, Kyle finally frees himself and backs away. “I didn’t know you knew him.”
Nodding, I look over at the urn. “Yeah, poor guy. He was so young.”
Kyle sighs. “Yeah, I can’t believe he’s actually gone.”
“Me neither,” I say, shaking my head. “And the accident . . . what a horrible way to go.” Poor Zach Holden. Poor hot sexy Zach Holden.
“I told him not to go,” Kyle says. I look back at him. “But did he listen? No.”
“Well, he never was a good listener,” I say quickly, like I knew him.
“You got that right. The whole thing is so stupid, really.” Kyle rolls his eyes. “I mean, it’s stupid that he was even there. But that’s Zach for you; always doing crazy things.”
“Yep . . .” I say, even though I have no idea what he’s talking about.
“He sure did go out in a blaze of glory though!”
Blaze of glory? What happened to Zach Holden? Poor hot sexy Zach Holden?
“Hallelujah Zach,” Kyle whispers.
“Yeah, hallelujah Zach,” I say softly . . . “you crazy son of a bitch, you.”
Giving me a funny look, Kyle cocks his head.
Oops. Perhaps I’ve overdone it.
“How did you know Zach?” he asks. His tone changes. He seems suspicious.
“Oh, well . . .” Oh, well I never thought about this. Looking over at the pictures again, I try to think of something to say. “We were . . .” The word ‘gym-buddies’ comes to mind, but part of me wishes that Zach and I were more than that. “Zach and I were . . .” Although I’d give anything to say ‘lovers’ right now, I have to keep in mind that I’m trying to get Kyle to like me, not hate me.
“You and Zach were what?” Kyle asks, pressing me to continue.
Looking over at him, I suddenly remember that guys his age are fueled by competition. I wonder what would happen if I did tell him Zach and I were lovers. Would he get jealous? Let’s see.
“Zach and I were . . . very close,” I say warmly, suggesting we might’ve been romantically involved. Kyle’s eyes widen; that’s a good sign.
“Very close?” he asks. He seems surprised. “In what way?”
“You know, I don’t think this is the appropriate time or place to talk about it,” I say quietly, glancing around. “I mean a memorial service is hardly a place to gush about your love life—oops!” I quickly cover my mouth with my hand, pretending I didn’t mean for that to slip out.
“Love life?” Kyle’s face turns white. Clearly I’ve struck a nerve; I just hope it’s the competitive, jealous one, and not the hateful one.
“You know, I didn’t want to talk about this today,” I say softly. “The only reason I came here is because, because—”
“Because what?” Kyle interrupts. His voice is loud and sharp.
“Because I miss Zach.”
Kyle doesn’t say anything. He simply looks me up and down while furrowing his brow. I think he’s jealous. Yes, he’s jealous! I bet right now at this very moment he’s regretting leaving me high and dry in New York.
“How long ago were you and Zach—I mean, how long ago did you and he—When was the last time you saw him?”
“Gosh . . .” I pretend to be thinking. “It had to be just a few months ago.”
Kyle begins breathing heavily. Oh, he’s jealous. He’s so jealous!
Turning back to the pictures, I look at one of him and Kyle whitewater rafting and begin to ramble. “Gosh, I remember a time when Zach and I went rafting and he refused to hold on. I kept saying, hold on, hold on, Zach! But did he listen? No. Of course he ended up falling over the side. He was such a daredevil.” After glancing over at another picture, I’m just about to tell Kyle about the time Zach’s parachute almost didn’t open when we went skydiving, when suddenly I hear a racket behind me. Just as I turn around, something comes flying at my head.
“Ouch!” I scream as it slams into my forehead. I hear people gasp.
Reaching up, I realize that I’m a covered in a gritty substance. It’s all over my face and in my hair. What in the hell just happened? Was there an earthquake? Did something fall from the ceiling and land on top of me? As I try to wipe my eyes clean, they sting and tear. Turning to where Kyle was standing, I open them as best I can and look at him. Although I can’t be certain, I think he looks a little . . . angry.
“I knew it!” he screams at me. There’s hatred in his voice. “I knew it!”
Yep, he’s angry. And I’m confused.
“You knew what?” I ask. “Wait—Did you throw something at me?”
“I knew he was cheating!” Kyle screams.
Cheating? Just as I’m about to ask Kyle what in the hell he’s talking about, something dawns on me. Slowly turning back to the pictures, I look at them again more closely and realize that Kyle’s in almost every one of them.
Oh my God.
Was Kyle dating—
“Zach!” he screams. “That’s who! Zach’s nothing but a cheat!”
Oh my God, he was!
I cover my face in horror. Kyle’s . . . gay?
After taking a moment to process this, I uncover my face and turn back around. Kyle’s staring at me. The look on his face is so hateful. Suddenly a morbid thought crosses my mind . . . Kyle thought Zach was cheating on him w
ith me. He threw something hard at my head. Now I’m covered in grit. Oh my God . . . Could the grit possibly be . . . ashes?
Oh my God, it could be!
Completely losing all sense of reality, I begin jumping up and down wildly. “Get it off me!” I scream hysterically. Grit flies out of my mouth as I do. “Get it off me now!” Bending over, I violently shake my head from side to side. My arms are flailing in every direction. “Please! Somebody! Help!” As I begin sobbing uncontrollably, tears gush from my eyes, washing them clean.
Suddenly someone grabs hold of me. It’s a woman—the same woman who answered Kyle’s door. “Calm down,” she says, trying to shake me still. “It’ll wash off—calm down!”
“I can’t calm down! I have death on me! Death!”
“Death?” She’s confused. Suddenly she has a moment of realization and gasps. “Oh no—you have it all wrong! It’s not death. It’s just dirt!”
Dirt? Wait, huh?
The woman bends down and picks up an empty ceramic planter and chunk of soil from the ground. As she hold them out to me, I slowly stop shaking.
“See?” she says. “Kyle threw a plant at you.” After looking at the chunk of soil—roots are coming out one end, green foliage the other—I look over to where the urn was sitting and see that it’s still there, in one piece. I let out a huge sigh of relief and then look back at Kyle. He’s crying. Oh my God . . . I can’t believe this. I can’t believe what I’ve done.
“Kyle, I lied,” I quickly say. “Zach and I were never lovers.” Kyle doesn’t react. All he does is blink. More tears slide down his cheeks. “Seriously,” I continue. “I didn’t even know him.”
“Why would you lie about something like that?” he asks, his voice cracking.
“I wanted to make you jealous. Obviously I didn’t know you two were dating.”
“If you didn’t know we were dating, then how would that make me jealous?”
“I thought you’d be jealous because I was with one of your friends, not jealous because your boyfriend was with one of your friends.” Kyle looks at me blankly. “Kyle, I didn’t know you were gay!” I blurt out. Hearing myself say it aloud suddenly makes it real. “Wait, you’re gay? When did you become gay?”