you’ve got mail
wednesday, may 4
It’s amazing to me how quickly we heal. In the three and a half days it takes to drive to LA, the pink edges of Eva’s skin melt together and her stitches begin to disappear. There will be a scar, of course, but you’ll have to look closely to see it. As her spunk comes back, so does mine.
Since the drive takes us directly through Las Vegas, I call my grandpa but get Gloria’s answering machine. Her message tells me that the two of them are out of town for the week, visiting the Grand Canyon. I look over at Eva. My grandpa goes on road trips with his girlfriend and I go on them with my dog. When did I become so pathetic? Choosing not to pinpoint a date, I crank up my 2003 playlist and sing along while thinking about the reason I’m going to LA, #18, Kyle Luxe. “My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard . . .”
Kyle and I met two years ago when he got a job working as a production assistant for Elisabeth’s weekly television show, Elisabeth Sterling Style. It was his first real job; he had just graduated from college. Yes, he was young, but that’s why I liked him. I had just come out of a pathetic relationship with Grody Gordy Peterson, and the chances of a twenty-one-year-old recent college grad being married were slim to none.
One week after we started working together, Kyle and I had both mastered water cooler rendezvous and long lingers by the copy machine. I’m not sure what he saw in good OLD me, but I thought he was a breath of fresh air. Being so young, he hadn’t experienced many of life’s disappointments—no real broken hearts, no career setbacks—so he wasn’t jaded. He had an enthusiasm about life that was infectious. I felt young when I was around him.
Well, most of the time I did.
Sometimes, through the course of conversation, Kyle would say things that reminded me of our age difference. For example, the first time he came over to my apartment he looked around and said, “Wow . . . you have real furniture.” Another time I told him about an old Walkman tape player I had that used to eat cassettes. I was reluctant to throw away because I was usually able to save the tapes by sticking a pencil in one of the holes and winding them back up. But the day it shredded my favorite Debbie Gibson cassingle beyond repair, was the day it hit the can. After I told Kyle this, he stared at me blankly.
“You remember cassingles, right?” I asked.
Kyle shook his head. “No.”
“They were cassette singles,” I explained.
Kyle looked confused.
“You remember cassettes, right?”
Kyle shook his head again. “No.”
“Walkmans?”
“Nope.”
“Debbie Gibson?”
“Sorry.”
After seeing the worried look on my face (no doubt accompanied by a few fines lines and a forehead wrinkle), Kyle tried to make me feel better by telling me that he knew what they all were (except for cassingles and Debbie Gibson), he just didn’t remember the time they were actually being used. Kyle didn’t remember the time before CDs or digital downloads.
“How about Atari, do you remember that?” No. Sega.
“Busy signals?” No. Call waiting.
“Do you remember a time when getting up to change the TV channel didn’t only happen because you lost the remote control?” You mean it actually had a knob?
While I shrugged off Kyle’s answers and pretended they didn’t bother me, I silently cursed the rapid advance of technology for emphasizing our age difference.
Within two weeks of meeting each other Kyle and I had gone on a couple of dates and kissed, but our relationship was still very innocent. Just as things were beginning to heat up the television department was moved to another floor in the building, another floor with its own copy machine and its own water cooler. Just like that, Kyle and I went from seeing each other ten times a day to seeing each other once a week. For most budding relationships this would be the end, but for Kyle and I it was just the beginning.
Enter e-mail and instant messaging.
For the first time since I met him, I was happy technology had been progressing at such a rapid pace. Within days of Kyle’s moving, the two of us found ourselves in the middle of a hot and heavy Internet romance. Each day hundreds of e-mails and instant messages between us zipped through cyberspace, messages that at first outlined every detail of our monotonous workdays . . .
DARLING: I hate the copier and I want to kill it.
luxeynluv: did it jam again?
DARLING: Yes. I want to bash it in with a hammer.
luxeynluv: do it.
luxeynluv: i’m gonna eat an apple now.
DARLING: Cool.
. . . ended up outlining every detail of our vivid imaginations as telling each other what we were doing and thinking turned into telling each other what we were wearing . . . and what we weren’t.
DARLING: What are you wearing?
luxeynluv: a black izod shirt and khakis. you?
DARLING: A black and white wrap dress.
luxeynluv: and?
DARLING: Heels.
luxeynluv: and?
DARLING: Panties.
luxeynluv: what do they look like?
DARLING: Black. Lacy. Tiny.
luxeynluv: tiny like a thong tiny?
DARLING: Yep.
luxeynluv: what kind of panties were you wearing yesterday?
DARLING: I wasn’t.1
As Kyle and I began having no-holds-barred discussions about everything, not just sex, our relationship went from zero to sixty over the period of a week. Looking back now, I can clearly see that e-mail distorted my perception of our relationship, but at the time I didn’t know it. Speaking from experience, it is my belief that e-mail moves relationships along at an unnaturally fast pace. Because they’re simply typing words into a computer, people aren’t as guarded as they usually are with their feelings and usually end up revealing way too much about themselves, way too soon. My relationship with Kyle out there in www land couldn’t have been stronger, but my relationship with him in person was practically nonexistent. I knew so much about him and yet I knew nothing. I didn’t know his quirks, his mannerisms, his habits—I knew words on a screen. I barely knew Kyle, but at the time I really thought I did.
Whereas in real life all Kyle and I did was kiss, out there in cyberia we did much more. All our intimate talks, I mean typing, soon led to a rendezvous that wasn’t beside the water cooler but in a downtown hotel room in the middle of a workday. I don’t know what I was thinking . . . It was a Friday afternoon when it happened, and I was sitting alone in my office watching a special on cool hotels when I sent Kyle a message telling him to turn it on.
DARLING: Hotel rooms are sexy.
luxeynluv: yeah. they make me horny.
DARLING: Me too. Have you ever been to the Mercer in Soho? Just walking through the lobby gives me multiple orgasms.
luxeynluv: multiple?
DARLING: Yes.
DARLING: Multiple.
luxeynluv: soho’s only a five-minute cab ride from here you know . . .
DARLING: It is, isn’t it . . .
luxeynluv: yeah.
luxeynluv: meet me there in an hour?
DARLING: Make it a half.
As soon as I agreed to meet Kyle, I started to worry. I was afraid that I wouldn’t live up to his expectation of me, an expectation that I myself created in the e-mails I sent him. Since I’d always had a backspace button at my fingertips, I was able to edit what I said—I mean typed—and knew that I had come across sounding much more put-together than I actually was. I was terrified that Kyle would expect me to be a suave, sophisticated woman because I’m really anything but.
Oh, but why was I worrying? We weren’t going to be talking.
Anyway, seeing as though I was nervous already, what I now refer to as “the underwear fiasco of 2003” only made matters worse. Let me start by saying that, with regard to sexy underwear, I prefer wearing lacy boyshorts and hipsters to thongs. I hate thongs, I do. Every time I wear one, I find myself picking it out of my ass all day. I find them uncomfortable.2 With that said, earlier that day in an e-mail I had told Kyle that I was wearing a thong even though I wasn’t because I knew that he liked them. Because of that, I had to run out and buy one before going to the hotel.
Lucky for me I knew of a lingerie store near the Mercer, so I stopped there quickly before checking in. Problem solved? Not quite. You see, my mother raised me right (okay fine, maybe not), so I don’t wear new underwear unless it’s been washed. Because of this, before Kyle arrived I tried to wash my new undies with the complimentary shampoo in the bathroom sink and then dry them with the blow dryer but I didn’t finish in time. When he arrived and knocked on the door, even though the undies were still slightly damp, I put them on anyway.
When I opened the door to greet Kyle, I didn’t feel much of a connection between us. To be honest, I felt more of a bond with Abogado, a two-night stand, than I did with him. However, I didn’t turn back. Chalking up what I perceived to be a lack of chemistry to nerves, I ended up having sex with him. We were ready to take this plunge in our cyber relationship; we just weren’t ready to take it in our real one. It was so awkward. Afterward, I remember lying in bed, trying to cuddle, but I couldn’t get comfortable. I rested my head on his arm and felt like I was squishing him.
Kyle had to leave town early the next morning for a weekend wedding in Los Angeles, so I stayed in the room alone that night. The next day during a bad case of post-sex regret, I decided that I was going to make things work with Kyle even though we didn’t have any chemistry. After going back to the same lingerie store, I bought a sexy pair of lacy boyshorts thinking that maybe if I was more comfortable next time—more relaxed—the connection between us might be stronger. That Monday, using interoffice mail just for fun, I sent him the boyshorts with a note that said, “How about I wear these next time?”
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 with 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?”
Kyle looks around the room self-consciously, prompting me to do so as well. Everyone’s staring at us. Kyle looks back at me. “Delilah, we should probably go talk.”
“Wait, is this Delilah Delilah?” the woman holding the ceramic planter asks Kyle. I turn to her.
“How do you know my name?” She looks to Kyle.
“Delilah, come on,” he says, motioning to the front door. “Let’s go outside.”
For the next hour I sit in my car eating a bag of Cheetos while Kyle explains himself. He says that he always knew he was gay but was afraid to admit it. He thought that if he ignored it, it would go away. He had girlfriends all through high school and college, and then I came along. He wanted to like me, he did, but told himself that if he didn’t feel a connection when we were physically together, that he’d stop fighting it. The lack of chemistry between us that day at the Mercer wasn’t just in my head, it wasn’t just because I was nervous—he didn’t feel anything for me either. Having admitted this, Kyle looks to me for a response, but I can’t speak. I can’t say anything because I’m in shock. I can’t believe Kyle’s gay. I eat a Cheeto and then give one to Eva.
Kyle tells me that the weekend he went to LA, he really did go for a wedding. Telling everyone in New York that he got a job in LA was just an easier way for him to explain why he moved so suddenly. He wanted to start fresh, start anew and start immediately. Having admitted this, Kyle once again looks to me for a response, but I can’t speak. I can’t say anything because I’m still in shock. I can’t believe Kyle’s gay. I eat another Cheeto and then give one to Eva.
The woman inside holding the planter is his sister. She knows all about Kyle’s and my day of passion at the Mercer because he told her—and his whole family—when he came out of the closet. I’d like to ask if he left out the damp underwear when recounting the details of our hotel rendezvous to his entire family, but I can’t speak. I can’t say anything because I’m still in shock. I can’t believe Kyle’s gay. I eat another—
Oh, shit. I’m out of Cheetos.
For the next twenty minutes Kyle and I sit in my car in silence. While licking cheese off my fingers, I watch as he samples the small bottles of liquor I took from the minibar at the Ritz. They were in the bag I opened this morning, the bag filled clothes, the clothes that I hid under while spying on him. As he holds each bottle up one by one, I watch in awe as he systematically reads the label, cracks the top, takes a swig, swishes it around in his mouth, swallows, replaces the cap and then moves on to the next. It’s fascinating to me for some reason. After taking God knows how many swigs, he suddenly bursts into laughter—uncontrollable laughter—that sends more tears down his cheeks.
“What’s so funny?” I ask.
“I threw a plant at your head,” he says, wiping his face dry. “And you thought it was an urn filled with ashes!” As he burst into laughter yet again, I glare at him.
“Oh come on,” he says, off my look. “You lied about sleeping with my dead boyfriend—it’s funny.”
“No, it’s not,” I snap. “Nothing about this is funny.”
“Yes it is, Delilah. All of this is.”
“All of what is?”
“Life,” he says, looking around. “Life is funny.”
Irritated, I look away from him, away from the mirror, away from myself and stare out the window.
“I’m not mad at you, Delilah,” Kyle says after a bit. “I don’t care. In fact, I’m happy you got me out of that place.” I look over at him. The fact that he’s trying to me feel better on a day like today is just plain wrong.
“Kyle, I should go,” I say. And I should—I should go home. I should go back to New York. This was all a big mistake. I mean, what am I doing, really? Every re-meet has been more disastrous than the previous one.
“Okay,” he says softly. “I understand.” He then reaches over and squeezes my hand. “Do you have my phone number?”
“Yeah,” I say. I have your home number and your work number and your address—I have it all.
“Call me sometime, okay?” he says. “Really, I mean it.”
“Yeah, okay,” I say, but I know I won’t.
After leaving the cemetery, I drive down Interstate 10 heading back to my hotel in a daze. I’m not aware of the cars around me or that Eva’s sitting on my lap licking cheese dust off my skirt. I suppose that out of twenty guys, this was bound to be the case for one of them, but Kyle? No way. Hearing the beep of my cell phone signaling I have a message, I pick it up and check my voicemail.
“Hey, it’s me.” It’s Colin. “I have a couple of updates for you.” Even though I’ve decided to go home I sigh with relief; I need something to take my mind off all this.
“I found Oliver Leet and Shane Murphy,” he says. “Oliver lives in London, Shane in Minneapolis. Both are single, but—I hate to break this to ya, babe—both are gay.”
Gay? GAY? Both of them? WHAT???????
Suddenly everything happens at once. Just as I drop the phone, my hand slips on the wheel and I veer into the dreaded left lane. As cars begin to honk, I begin to scream and then begin to smell something rotten. Looking down, I realize that Eva is pooping on me. As cars continue to honk and I continue to scream and Eva continues to poop, I look in the rearview mirror, begin to change lanes and then reach for a tissue. The next thing you know I’m veering back over to the right while picking up poop and rolling down the window. What happens next is like slow motion. With my hand out the window, I let go of the poop-filled tissue. After fluttering through the air like a bird for a few seconds, it smacks against the front windshield of a police car behind me. Instantly, his lights go on.
Oh. My. God.
I’m going down, there’s no doubt about it.
After quickly pulling over, I sit in my car and watch the policeman get out of his. While doing do, I pray to Zach Holden to help me, poor Zach Holden, poor hot sexy Zach Holden. The policeman, a big guy with a buzz cut, looks like a real asshole. Sporting mirrored sunglasses and a tan uniform, much like the one Ponch wore on CHiPs, he walks over to his windshield. Pulling a pen out of his pocket, he pokes for a few seconds at the tissue, which exploded upon impact. To say the least, it’s not a pretty sight. Eva’s poop, which usually resembles a small brown Tootsie Roll, now looks like . . . well, it looks like any piece of poop would look after hitting a car going fifty miles per hour. It’s splattered all over the place. Shaking his head in disgust, he walks toward my car. Although I can’t see his eyes, I can tell he’s angry. This is not good; this is not good at all.
“What in the God’s name do you call that?” he screams, pointing back to his car with the pen. Okay, he’s not just angry—he’s pissed. Sticking my head out the window, I look back toward his car and decide to play dumb.
“Well, I’m not sure,” I say coyly, “but it looks like it could be . . . a piece of dog poop.”
The policeman gives me a look that says, “No shit Sherlock.” He’s not buying my innocent act for one minute. “Oh, it looks like it, huh?” he says. “Well, what’s it doing on my windshield?”
I try to think of something to say. “Well, sir . . .” Catching a glimpse of myself in the reflection of his mirrored sunglasses, I see the guilty look on my face. He saw me throw it; he knows I did it. Why am I even trying to lie about it? I sink into my seat. “I’m sorry, but my dog pooped on me,” I confess, “so I picked it up and threw it out the window without thinking because I didn’t know what else to do.”
Reaching over, I grab Eva and hold her up like she’s a piece of evidence. While doing so, I try to send subliminal messages to her, asking her to smile for him like she did for me when I got her. But she doesn’t receive them, she doesn’t pick up on it. After staring at the policeman blankly for a few seconds, all she does is fart. Hearing it, the policeman shakes his head in disgust. Suddenly I feel her stomach gurgle—I think someone ate too many Cheetos.
“I’m sorry, sir, please forgive me,” I beg, putting Eva back down. “It was just really smelly and I didn’t want it in my car.”
“Oh yeah? Well I didn’t want it on my windshield!”
Changing his gaze from me to the floor of the front passenger seat, the policeman suddenly gets a funny look in his eye. When I turn to my right and see what he’s looking at, my stomach drops as I spot a few empty small liquor bottles laying on the floor in plain view. Kyle . . . Fuck!
I turn back to the policeman. “I can explain those,” I say, pointing. He shakes his head.
“Ma’am, I’m gonna need you to step out of the car.”
1 I was, but they were big white cotton briefs and I didn’t want to tell him.
2 I mentioned this to my mother one day, that I find thongs uncomfortable, and do you want to know what she said to me? She said, “Maybe you need a bigger size.” Seriously.