Now, I have to tell you that picturing my Michael Warner with this round, squat woman beside me is almost as hard as picturing him with a man. Harder, maybe, because I can’t fathom a lick of chemistry between these two. Some women exude motherhood and comfort, and Marti’s one of them, which in my mind doesn’t exactly translate to romantic allure. Then again, looking into her luminous green eyes, wide-set within a heart-shaped face that’s framed by carefree black curls, I can also see the natural beauty that would have attracted my guy. In fact, between Alex and Marti, and now disfigured me, I think I might be detecting a pattern here.
Michael Warner goes with his heart.
“It didn’t last long,” she says with an almost nostalgic smile. “We were much more friends than anything. We bickered constantly, like brother and sister, but we had a lot of fun, too. I met Dave right after, and Michael…” she hesitates, glancing at Andrea, then stage-whispers in my ear, “…he figured out his Alex
thing
pretty much right away, too.”
“Was that bizarre?” I’m thinking about Trevor and our close bond of friendship. “Seeing your boyfriend hop from you to your best guy friend?”
“It might have been, but none of us knew for a long time. And when we finally did know, well, the bigger shock was how they’d hidden it from us in the first place.”
“Really?” I can’t imagine someone as confident and honest as Michael keeping his sexual orientation a secret from his friends. For some reason, this newfound knowledge fascinates me. “For how long?”
“Six months, can you believe it? Poor Alex, he was going crazy getting shoved back into the closet like that.”
“So what happened?” I take a slow sip of bourbon-spiked Coke.
“Michael was so scared by the whole thing, so uncertain and weirded out, that apparently they almost broke up before he’d even let Alex tell us.”
“But they did tell you.”
“Not exactly. One Saturday morning Casey showed up at Alex’s apartment, wanting to drag him off to breakfast. Michael was in the shower, and never heard him enter the apartment, and then, bam! He wandered right into the kitchen wearing only a towel and a sloppy grin on his face.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Oooh, Casey was pissed, too,” she titters in my ear, clucking her tongue. “Oh, my Lord! Warner was totally on his shit list for a long time. The Closeted One, that’s what he called him every time we got together.”
“Was Casey jealous, you think?”
“Protective. Possessive, maybe,” she says, reflecting. “But not jealous. It was never desire with Alex; they were too much like brothers.”
“How’d he handle his death?”
Her expression darkens, and she looks to the field, contemplative. “How have we
all
handled it?” she finally reflects. “We’ve tried like hell to be there for Michael and Andrea. Ignored our own pain, because we know it’s nothing compared to…” She glances next to her at Dave, who is listening to his Walkman for the radio play-by-play. She slips a fleshy palm onto his forearm, squeezing.
“To what Michael and Andrea lost,” I finish and she nods with a faint smile.
“My point, though,” she says, “is that Casey put Michael through some serious hell over ‘queering up’ with Alex, as he called it back then. Now that you’ve come along, he’s just as protective of Michael as he used to be of Alex.”
“He’s afraid I’ll hurt him?”
She nods and is about to say more, but beside me, I become aware of a soft tapping on my forearm. Then a tugging on my T-shirt hem, so I turn sideways and find little Andrea staring at me. A Mona Lisa smile plays at her lips, and she asks, “Wanna go get some ice cream?”
“Now, sweetie?” I glance back to Marti, afraid of losing this confessional moment when there’s so much more I want to learn. But a pair of bright blue eyes are actually crinkling with happy expectation, an auburn ponytail bobbing excitedly. Michael leans around her, extending a twenty-dollar bill and explaining, “I told her maybe just the two of you’d go?” There’s apology in his expression, and I push his hand away. “My treat,” I say, thinking of that first time we met in my office. There’s a similar lost look in his soulful eyes now—all the more when Andrea ignores him as he tells her to have fun.
He and Casey stand so we can press past, and it’s that melancholy thing in his gaze that makes me reach for his hand as I squeeze past him. For a brief moment there’s the feel of fingertips brushing mine. There’s electricity and nerves and a flare of desire.
Then there’s just baseball and beer and a gay man glaring at me like I’m the über bitch as I worm past him into the aisle.
***
“I’m not sure this is working, Michael.” We’re the last ones left in his driveway, since everyone else has pulled out and gone home. Andrea’s scuttled inside to brush her teeth and put on her nightgown.
“
This
?” He blinks at me, dark eyebrows furrowing together.
“You know, the whole… whatever we’re doing.” I’m thinking of how little we’ve even talked all evening; how distant he’s seemed at times. And I’m thinking of what a bust I was with Casey. I’m pretty sure I’ve never hit it off so poorly with anyone in my whole life.
“It’s working for me,” Michael protests, searching my face uncertainly, and I drop my head, feeling awkward and self-conscious. Feeling way too aware of the numb area to the left of my mouth, and how my lips tremble gracelessly into a smile.
“But what are we doing?” I ask after a moment, looking up into his eyes again. I always forget how tall he is until I’m standing close like this, and then I feel delicate as my nana’s Wedgwood beside him.
“Well, I think we just had a date,” he answers quietly; then, frowning, adds, “At least I think that’s what it was. I told my boss I had a date. Hope that’s okay?”
God, could he be anymore adorable? Could he?
“Sure. That’s okay,” I reply, my voice all quiet and filled with emotion. Relief washes over his face, his playful grin spreading wide.
“Scared me there for a minute, Rebecca.” He reaches for my hand. “Thought maybe you were about to dump me right in my own driveway.”
“I thought maybe we were only friends. You’ve seemed kind of strange tonight.”
“Ah, strange. Yeah, guess maybe so.” He stares up at the full, lazy moon that’s perched right over the hillside, reflective. “Lately things with Andie have been…tough,” he says, kicking at the asphalt. “Bad counseling session today. Good in theory, but it hurt.”
“I’m so sorry, Michael.”
“Did you really think we’re only friends?” he asks again, back to his original question. I can tell it troubles him.
“I know it felt like a lot more, but I wasn’t sure.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re gay?” I blurt, then shake my head, wishing I could erase that statement. “No, no, because…” I try to pinpoint the insecurity that’s plaguing me, and finally explain with a heavy sigh, “Because Casey didn’t like me.” His fingers thread through mine, solidifying our physical connection, as he steps closer. I continue, “And he’s one of your very closest friends. He really, really didn’t seem to like me, and I think he wants you with a guy, not a girl.”
“Think I give a damn what Casey Porter wants?”
“That’s the thing.” I shrug, shaking my head. “I don’t know.”
“Well, I don’t. Hey, and do you really think I’m gay, by the way?” he asks, cupping my cheek within his other palm. My face turns upward toward him, and there’s unabashed desire in his golden eyes. “That it’s really that simple with me?”
I have to swallow hard, and murmur, “Not gay. Not…exactly.”
“I have
always
liked women, Rebecca,” he rumbles, closing the distance between us. “Alex couldn’t change that. Never tried to, matter of fact. He liked the way I was.”
“Me too,” I practically purr into his palm. I’m aware of rough skin against my cheek, of long thick eyelashes lowering sexily to half-mast as he looks at me. I’m aware, too, that I’m not beautiful—I can’t be to this gorgeous man, and yet I see lust glinting in his eyes as he leans low toward me. Desire shoots to every part of my body, alarming and arousing me, and completely silencing any doubt.
My eyes close, my lips part, and I’m ready.
And oh my GOD my
cell phone
is ringing? It actually thrums right between our two hips, like an angry little vibrator. Our eyes lock and I sigh. “My phone.”
“I just thought you were happy to kiss me.” He grins, and I stare at him blankly, not believing that my freaking phone is interrupting this divine moment. “You gonna get that thing?”
I nod, checking the incoming number. Now, I have to tell you, I am a big believer in signs and omens. Nobody has to convince me that God speaks to us in ways both subtle and obvious. The Big Guy loves a good symbol like any great writer, and I have always known that. But Jake calling me right now? Managing to interrupt my first kiss since he dumped me? That’s not a sign, that’s a billboard. That’s a flashing neon message that something’s wrong with my life.
“My ex.” I cough, still staring at the telecommunications weapon holstered at my side.
“Does he always call you at eleven-thirty at night?” Michael’s clearly feeling a little possessive and it shows.
“Considering I never gave him this number, the answer to that question would be no.”
The phone rings again, calling out between us into the dark, sweltering night. “What about at home?”
“Michael!”
Getting sheepish, he asks, “Okay, want me to answer it?” He’s sounding protective. A bit angry, too, as he waits for my answer.
“No, let’s ignore him.” Finally the ringing stops, but the moment is already shattered.
We both stare at the phone like it’s an alien entity, a virulent thing that burst into our pure connection.
“I still want to kiss you,” Michael says after a moment, “but I’m not going to do it now.”
“Why not?”
“Because when I do, it’s going to be sweet and perfect. Not second best.”
I laugh bitterly. “Yeah, well, don’t worry, I’ve already had second best.”
He leans close, brushing a long wild strand of hair back from my cheek with his fingertip. His skin against mine; I could
so
get used to that sensation.
“You deserve perfect,” he tells me, his fingers lingering against my cheek. Near the scars, but he doesn’t even seem to notice; his eyes are locked with mine. “Rebecca, you are perfect. And this
is
working.”
“This?” I rasp, burning beneath his touch, his intense gaze.
“We’re dating, Rebecca. That’s what this is. Right here, right now, I’m saying so. No more confusion about that, okay?”
I nod, and he adds, “’Cause I know it’s got to be confusing as hell to date someone… like me. So I want to be clear about what we’re doing, absolutely clear. This is dating.”
“This is dating,” I repeat dazedly and an absolutely adorable smile fills his face, his single dimple flashing from nowhere.
“Good! We’re on the same page now,” he says, still grinning at me. “So when you least expect it, expect that perfect kiss.”
“I’ll be ready.”
“How’s Saturday?” He opens my car door for me.
“For the kiss?”
“For our next date.”
“Uh, it’s my friend Cat’s birthday party,” I say. “You’re welcome to come. I mean, I’d
like
you to come, if you want to, but it’d be like a group thing with all my friends. And you might not want to actually do that, now that I think about it—”
“Rebecca?”
“Yeah?”
“I’d love to.”
Oh, my.
This
is dating. This is dating, and it is very, very cool.
Chapter Ten: Michael
I want to kick Casey’s ass in a serious way. The taillights on Rebecca’s car aren’t even fully vanished down the end of my palm-lined street, and I’ve already got him on speed dial, standing right there in the middle of my driveway. We need to have this talk now, and not where my daughter can overhear it.
I don’t even let him speak when he answers his cell phone. “You were a first-class prick tonight, Porter.”
“So?”
“What happened to ‘you need to get back out among the living, Mike’?” I shout, not caring whether my neighbors hear. “What happened to ‘you should start dating again’?” I feel hot anger burn my face, even as the next-door neighbor’s dog whelps like I just kicked him.
“A
guy
, you freak,” he counters bitterly. “I was talking about you dating a guy. Not some girl. Some scarred girl, by the way.”
“I should come beat your face in for that.”
“I’m serious, man,” he says. “What’s wrong with you? You are gay, Mike. Queer as hell.”
“No,” I answer with a forced patience that I definitely don’t feel. Voice lower, I add, “I’m bisexual.”
He groans into the receiver. “Huh—let’s page Alex on that one.”
“
Alex
is the first person who would agree with me.” I stop, closing my eyes to halt my churning rage, and notice the sound of a distant siren down on Ventura. “And don’t try and tell me what my own damned partner would say,” I continue. “Matter of fact, you ever try that again, and I
will
come beat your fucking face in.”
“He was my best friend,” Casey answers evenly. “And he’d be sick to see what you’re doing.”
“What I’m
doing
?” I cry, pacing the length of the flagstones that lead toward the street. “What I’m doing? God, I’m hanging up on you. That’s what I’m doing! I can’t even fucking talk to you right now.”
“You’re queer, Warner. All the way, and whatever this thing is you’re up to with that girl, it won’t work.”
“Her name is Rebecca,” I say with blistering quiet. “And don’t ever try and use Alex’s memory against me again.”
“I’m just here to tell you the truth, man. You may not like it, but that’s what I’m here for.”
“I
like
her, Casey,” I answer bitterly. “Really like her. Is that too much for your heterophobic brain?”
“I’ve got no problem with straight people,” he says, his voice echoing innocently through the cell. “Some of my best friends are straight.”
“Right, I forgot.” I stare at the roses he planted by the mailbox for my birthday four years ago. “Your only problem is with me.”
He’s silent a moment, until I nearly think he’s gone, then says, “You can’t go back, Mike. Not after this long.”
“It scares you,” I hiss, realization dawning. “That’s it. It scares you to see me with her.”
“You may not believe it, but I’m trying to look out for you.”
“Know what, Case? I think I’ll fall in love with her just to really piss you off!”
And with that proclamation, I hang up on one of my last remaining true friends in this world.
***
“So Casey’s disapproval of this relationship upsets you?” Dr. Weinberger probes, scribbling something on his notepad.
Lying back on his sofa, I stare at the ceiling and think about why Casey’s reaction pisses me off so much. Then I get it. “He should support me. Be my friend.”
“Maybe he believes he’s being your friend.”
“He wants me to be a certain way,” I clarify, staring at the soothing upholstered wallpaper—taupe and cream-colored, intentionally neutral. No loud artwork here, no edgy prints.
“You’ll agree this is a drastic change, you dating a woman.”
“From what? Being alone all the time?” I ask belligerently. “Damn straight it’s drastic.”
“Drastic from being with Alex,” he clarifies. “From being in a long-term homosexual relationship.”
I shrug, settling down again, closing my eyes. Another headache’s brewing, and I can tell it’s gonna be a bad one. “Wouldn’t it have been drastic for me to date a guy, too?”
“At this point? Not quite so much.”
“Thanks a lot, Dr. Weinberger,” I grumble, massaging my forehead. “At least Casey’s not taking my money every month.”
“Michael, please.”
“I’m serious, I just want someone to let me do whatever the hell I want with my love life.”
“All I’m saying is that it’s been how long since you dated a woman?”
Blowing out a breath, I close my eyes again because I have to think hard and do the math. Marti was my last feminine kiss. That’s more than a decade, a few presidents, and some major global conflicts since I last slept with a woman.
“Thirteen years.”
“Maybe that’s why Casey thinks you should have a few dates with men first. To find your way back out there.”
“And you think so, too.” I fold my arms across my chest disagreeably.
“I’m not saying that,” my doctor explains. “Our sessions here are for exploration.”
“I want to
explore
why my daughter calls me by my first name.”
“You can’t push her, Michael. You know that,” he urges, but all I can hear are Andie’s words from the other day.
But you’re Michael. That’s who you have to be.
“I want to know, for God’s sake,” I mutter, frustration reaching a fever pitch. “For almost a year you’ve told me to wait. Not to push. To be patient.”
“She is making significant headway.”
“She calls me Michael.”
“You know what she’s been through. How traumatized she’s been.”
“Why do you think she won’t call me Daddy?” Sitting up, I plant both feet on the floor, despite the headache that swells behind my eyes. “Really?”
Dr. Weinberger smiles at me sympathetically. He rocks in his leather armchair, fingertips forming a thoughtful pyramid beneath the bridge of his nose. “I have some theories about that, but let’s keep giving Andrea time.”
“No,” I demand, rising to my feet. “You tell me what you think right now.”
“She’s trying to sort through her grief, Michael,” he says in a lowered voice, staring up at me. “To make sense out of so many emotions. Guilt.
Survivor
guilt. Abandonment. Loneliness. It makes it hard to connect with anyone, even the people she loves most.”
“She’s connected with Rebecca.”
“That’s good. Very good.” He nods enthusiastically. “Why do you think that is?”
Andrea and I have something in common.
That’s how Rebecca put it that day in her office, in her delicate sidestepping of her own obvious ordeal.
“Andie feels like Rebecca understands,” I explain, collapsing onto the sofa again wearily. “Knows something the rest of us don’t.”
“How’s that?”
“Rebecca has some scars. She’s been through stuff. Heavy stuff, and Andie feels like she relates, I guess.”
“And you feel that way too,” he observes, eyes narrowing astutely.
“Yeah, I kinda do, actually. Only Rebecca’s stronger than me. I can see that.”
“Don’t be so sure,” he says. “People handle their grief in all kinds of ways, Michael. Some are just better at coping on the outside.”
I think of her hand, the jagged rough scar in the middle of it. And I think of how ashamed she is of not being perfect. “She’s lost a lot,” I say, “but she keeps moving forward.”
“As do you, Michael.” Maybe. Or maybe not until I met her.
“I have another date with her,” I confess softly.
“How does that feel?”
I’m not completely sure how to describe what being with Rebecca does for me, how it’s awakening me for the first time in a year. “You ever see any of Spike Lee’s movies?” I ask after a moment, and he nods. “Well, there’s this weird visual effect he uses. Almost kind of a Hitchcock thing, where the people seem to move forward, but the background recedes, and it’s like they’re not even walking. Ever notice that?”
“I think I know what you mean, yes.”
“That’s how I’ve felt for the past year,” I explain, raking my fingers through my hair. “Like I’m moving among all these people, everywhere. My family. Work. My gay friends. Straight friends. Strangers.” Pausing, I gaze up at my doctor for emphasis. “Like I kind of see everyone from the end of this really dark tunnel.”
“I’ve heard grief described precisely that way before.”
“But that’s just it. The other night, at the game? The tunnel was gone. The weird Spike Lee effect, all gone.”
“That’s great, Michael. Very healthy.”
“Are you sure?” The tunnel was my comfort zone, and like a suicidal man constantly staring down the barrel of his rifle for a year, I’m wary of its sudden absence.
“You know that it is.”
“I’m jazzed about the date tomorrow night.” I smile. “But I feel guilty, too.”
“You’re the one who’s still here, Michael. You can’t feel guilty about that.”
“I haven’t stopped missing Alex.” That much needs to be clear: Rebecca and Alex exist on two different planets for me. Venus and Mars, I guess. Falling for her hasn’t altered an ounce of how much I long for him.
“Michael, you will probably never stop missing him,” he answers firmly. “If that’s your goal, it’s an unrealistic one.” This is news to me. I thought Weinberger wanted me to move on, to let the pain go. He continues, “Your loss is a part of you. It’s organic, in a way. Your goal is to learn to live with that.”
“But it can’t possibly keep hurting so damn much.”
“I didn’t say it would always hurt. Just that it would always be a part of you.” Like Rebecca’s scars, or my tattoo, I realize. Same as loving Alex will always be.
“Loss is a natural part of living,” my doctor continues gently. “We have to make our peace with that fact.”
I nod, and we fall silent for a while; I lie back on the sofa again, watching the bend and sway of the leggy palm trees outside his office window. Dry leaves, dead leaves, still hanging in there though. A lot of crap’s muddling around inside of me, a lot I probably should tell my doctor. Like the fact that lately I have this weird sense that Alex is spying on me. That I’ve developed a mini-obsession with wearing his old clothes, and sometimes I even swear I can still smell his scent on them, too.
Maybe I should tell the good doctor that I have a midnight tendency to wander into Al’s surfboard room, a small dimly lit spot at the back of our house—little more than a closet really—and just run my fingers along the fiberglass, feeling the rails and fins and concave curves of all those smooth shapes he used to love so damned much. It helps me to go in there, when I can’t sleep, like I’m in some kind of Richardson temple or something. Like a little piece of him is stowed away, too, along with the twelve boards he left behind.
Sometimes I fantasize about paddling out with him, feeling the swell of icy ocean beneath my body, the foam and spray in my face. I hear him whooping beside me with pure, unadulterated joy just to be back in the water again; we’re together, exactly like we’re meant to be.
I wonder, too, if I shouldn’t tell Weinberger that I’m thinking of taking Allie’s ring off before my date with Rebecca tomorrow night. Maybe that’s something he should know—or not, because maybe that should remain between Alex and me for now. Like all the other secrets we’ve kept between us, to the very grave.