Page 6 of Director's Cut

I want to call my sister back and demand she explain why she abandoned me. I want alcohol, for the second time today. But instead I walk over to the couch, drop onto it, and say, “I’m going through a crisis too.”

He moves to right above my head. Lets Eustace go and starts stroking my hair. “We can talk about it tonight.”

Just like that, that boob has weaseled his way into staying the night. One way to fulfill Trish’s ask that I not be alone.

A year and a half ago, a woman would’ve been occupying the space Charlie is in now. And now I can’t even masturbate.

I’m pretty sure Charlie has about 7 percent body fat, so I’m actually quite surprised by what he ends up ordering from Domino’s when I tell him the toppings I like and then leave him to his own devices. But there his beautiful self is, carefully selecting a chicken wing from the tin foil container like he’s trying to find the one with the highest protein value.

“I don’t get why that interview ended you, though,” Charlie says once he finally chooses a wing.

I dip a slice of pizza into ranch. “All people care about is that I’m pretty and gay. Even during an interview that was exclusively about my directing. Hollywood’s never going to see anything else about me.”

“I don’t think that’s necessarily true. Most people can’t even remember an actor’s worst interview. You can always change the way you’re perceived by the public with a great enough future performance.”

I sigh, dread creeping back in. “Maybe I’m just tired, then. I don’t think I can wait to see if the universe changes its mind.”

“Well…that sucks.” He pauses. “Is there anything you’re looking forward to?”

I search my brain as I chew. Even back to the seconds before the interview went sour. “I mean, there’s the guest-teaching gig.”

Something possibly even more intellectual and not about my sexuality than directing. It’s the perfect way to catch my breath, as Trish said.

“There ya go! That’ll at least be a different pace. Flex a different muscle.”

Even though Charlie regularly calls me while reading his weekly scripts for the Star Trek reboot he’s on to ask questions like “Do humans breathe nitrogen?,” he’s picked up on my academic spouting a decent amount, down to the minuscule details of my failed dissertation that I explained to him when we lived in a shitty apartment together four years ago. The warmth prickling at my chest is an old but familiar sensation.

“Yeah, it will be.” A sprinkle of lightness hits me as I let the thought wander. “They’re letting me teach a real course. The kind of class I would’ve led given my specialization in pop music history. The co-professor they assigned me has been hands off and let me design the course. Maybe it will be good for me.”

Charlie smiles, waving his pizza around. “Yeah, fuck Winston Gray. That sounds so fun.”

I sigh, a twist of guilt running through me as I consider the crust of the slice of pizza I just finished. “If I’m even still good.”

He looks up at me and shakes his head. “Hey, look, I’m not saying switch careers, but don’t lie to yourself. You’re great.”

“Even though I haven’t taught since I was a TA in postgrad?”

“Well, sure, but they’re not measuring you up to a regular adjunct. Do you think any of the celebrities who taught at USC could actually teach?”

“No comment,” I say.

I need to focus. Charlie asked if I think the institution thinks I can teach.

I hadn’t considered it. Does USC think I’m not going to be taking this position seriously? The Dr. Valeria B. Sullivan on all my bills is fucking real. I legitimately am qualified for this job, barring some years of teaching experience other candidates would have. I know they assigned me a more seasoned faculty member and a TA to assist with running class and grading papers, but the other professor is just there as a formality. They let me make the syllabus and everything.

That couldn’t have just been celebrity placating, could it? I don’t need a whole new set of people thinking I’m a joke.

“Charlie, do you think they think I’m not qualified for this?” I ask. The salt from the wings is starting to coat my mouth rather than actually taste good.

He studies me. I set down another slice.

“No offense, but if I wasn’t your best friend—”

“You’re my best friend?”

“Best friend, I’d assume you were dumb.” He pauses, as if waiting for me to throw the still-full-and-pointy lava cake box at him. “It’s just the curse of being blond and beautiful. Not to mention there’s video footage of you dropping yogurt on Oscar’s head and then licking it off him.”

“Dude, there’s no blond-and-beautiful oppression. You’re the first canonically gay Captain Kirk because of that.”

---