Page 12 of Single-Minded
“I do,” he says solemnly, and then breaks down.
“I’m sorry, so sorry,” he sobs. “I never wanted to hurt you. I’m truly sorry, I was wrong.”
“It’s all going to be okay,” I say in my most soothing voice. I just wish I believed it.
“Wait,” I say. “You’re off the air for two weeks after basketball season ends? And you have to adhere to the ethics clause that you’re already subject to in your employment contract?”
“Yes,” he says.
“That’s not a punishment at all,” I say. “You’re not ever on the air after basketball season ends. Did they add anything new to the ethics clause?”
He shakes his head. “No.”
“So aside from the admittedly mortifying inquisition, there’s really no serious consequence.”
“I guess so,” he says. “The suspension was for what they called ‘fraternization,’ mostly because we gave Bobby a lot of airtime.”
“But that’s your producer’s call, not yours. Besides, Bobby’s a top draft pick.”
“I know,” he says.
“This is good news, right?”
“It is,” he says. “But it feels like bad news. I’m lucky I still have my job.”
“Well, now at least you won’t have to have that pesky, ‘hey, by the way, I’m gay’ conversation with your bosses,” I say. “Or your wife.”
“Christ, I’m an ass,” he says.
“Yep,” I agree.
“Tell me what to do to make this right,” he says. “I’ll do anything. I owe you.”
“Sure,” I say, only half joking. “You owe me big. You owe me a soul mate.”
“Done,” he says, grinning. “What’s your type?”
“Straight,” I say, deadpan. We both start cracking up.
He shoots me a prime-time smile, fires up the rental car, and we head back to New York City, where he’s booked a hotel suite near Times Square. Touristy, but fun anyway. The last flight from New York to Sarasota leaves at 8:05P.M., so we already knew there was no way to get back from Bristol in time to make it. Weirdly, I want to protect Michael from TV and the Internet—so after we settle in to the hotel, we go out for a nice dinner at Delmonico’s, where we drink too much wine and share a fantastic crème brûlée. We’re tipsy when we go for a nightcap at the King Cole Bar at the St. Regis, and by the time we hit another bar at a funky little dive, we’re laughing hysterically about which one of us is the bigger idiot—Michael for thinking he could be happily married to a woman, or me, for not having a clue.
By the time we take a cab back to our hotel it’s almost two in the morning. In our room, Michael takes the fold-out sofa in the seating area, giving me the king-size bed in the master suite. It’s beyond weird not to be sleeping in the same bed, but I guess it would be even weirder if we were. I have nothing whatsoever to sleep in, because when I packed my bag under extreme duress this morning, I apparently felt the need to bring three skirts, five shoes, a knot of costume jewelry, and a sun hat. No underwear. No shirts. No toothbrush. No nightgown. Just wanting to be out of my clothes, I make Michael give me his one clean shirt to sleep in.
That night, I lay in bed watching the chorus line of lights from Times Square beaming through the window, thinking about everything that had happened, and wondering if I’ll ever find someone who will love me as much as Michael does. Someone straight. Just as I’m about to fall asleep, I hear Michael snoring softly from the sofa bed. It’s the first thing that’s felt normal all day.
10
The next morning I look and feel sleazy, like a walk of shame after a one-night stand. Well, I suppose that’s what it feels like, I’ve never actually had a one-night stand. I’ve only ever had Michael.
I should hate him for what he did to me, but I spent all last night laughing with him and supporting him. I feel so dirty. And now I can’t take it back.
Now Michael assumes we’re still friends. And he will not be convinced otherwise.
11
Michael and I fly back to Sarasota on Monday morning, leaving at 6:00A.M., which means dragging ourselves out of our hotel at four-thirty in the morning, after just two and a half hours of sleep. I’m nauseated from too many dirty martinis last night and the massive shocks of adrenaline my body keeps pumping into my gut just to keep me upright. On the ride to the airport, Michael confesses all his past encounters, admitting to several one-night stands in college, and anonymous sex when he traveled. Way more information than I want to know. I don’t want these awful images in my head, so every time he drops another detail I close my eyes and picture Voldemort from theHarry Pottermovies. It helps in a weird way.
“I thought that I was protecting you by keeping the truth from you,” he says. “I didn’t want to hurt you—please believe me. I’ve just realized that it will hurt you more if you have to learn the truth piecemeal—that every revelation will feel like a new betrayal, and I don’t want to do that to you. Please know that I’m sorry for everything, I’ll always love you, and I’ll never dishonor our relationship again by lying to you.”
