Page 20 of Single-Minded
“I need to slow down,” I say. “I’ve already had two glasses of champagne.”
“Nice tiara, pork chop. You need to let loose, and you’re not driving anywhere,” announces Darcy. “We’re getting you wasted.” She refills my glass, and then fills Sam’s and her own.
“How are you holding up?” asks Sam earnestly. “You want to pop back in the bedroom, do a few downward dogs for stress relief, loosen up a bit?” In Sam’s mind, yoga cures all.
“She’s fine,” Darcy shoots back. “She doesn’t need the downward dog or the flying monkey. Right? She just needs her friends, a full drink, and maybe a howl at the moon. Aren’t you fine?” Darcy is the headmaster of the “fake it till you make it” school of thought.
I nod. “Yes. I’m fine.” It’s only a half lie. I am fine. I’m trying to be fine. Iwillbe fine. Eventually.
“How in the world would you do yoga in that dress?” I ask Sam. “How in the world are you evenbreathingin that—” I crack up before I even finish the sentence and Darcy joins in.
“If I show you, you have to do the Pert30. Starting tomorrow.” She grins, knowing Darcy and I will back down immediately. The longest either of us has ever lasted in one of Sam’s boot camps is six days. Sam makes Navy SEALs cry. We’d never make it the whole thirty days.
Darcy, Sam, and I head back to the living room. Michael’s dad, Fred, is sporting a new rainbow T-shirt emblazoned withGAY PRIDEfor the occasion, and my grandma Leona wears her silver hair in funky spikes, her favorite gold lamé pants, kitten heels, and a fitted fuchsia jacket. Same as always. My pot-peddling eighty-year-old neighbor Zelda is flirting with one of my former clients. He’s about fifty to her eighty, but in typical Zelda fashion, she seems to be charming the pants off him. She has flowered rhinestone clips in her hair, and blows me a kiss when she sees me.
I’ve been trying, really trying, to get myself psyched up for the party all day, but when I look around at our friends and neighbors, I’m positive everyone here thinks I’m an idiot. A sap. That I’m the single worst person in bed since the dawn of time. I know everyone must be talking about me, asking the same questions I’d ask. Asking the same questions anyone with brain matter would ask.How could she not have noticed? She had to have known! How could she not? Did he have to watch an hour of gay porn just to get it up? Is she just completely asexual?
I know they’re wondering those things because I’ve been wondering too.
A dance beat flows throughout the house, and I do my best to mingle even though I’d definitely rather be in my pajamas, curled up in bed with a classic Audrey Hepburn movie and a bag of Cheez Doodles.
“How are you holding up? You look great,” says Carter, embracing me warmly. “So does Michael. I’ve never seen him happier.” I know Carter’s trying to be nice and supportive, butugh. Why not just punch me in the face instead?
“You look gorgeous,” Michael whispers every time he passes me by.
“I’m so proud of him,” says our neighbor Susan. “It’s so important for everybody to support Michael. It’s so brave of him to come out of the closet!”
If stage one of my Michael nightmare was all of my friends and family informing me that Michael wasso obviously Liberace-level gaythey assumed there was no way I didn’t already know, then stage two is those same friends and family telling me over and over again, ad nauseam, how brave Michael is for coming out of the closet. As though he wasn’t pushed. On national television.
“Way to go,” says Grandma Leona, looking me up and down. “Back on the horse. I’m proud of you for supporting Michael in his time of need.”
Truly, I’m grateful for the compliments, but I feel like second runner-up in the Ms. Used Tires pageant. I can’t stop myself from seething every time someone tells me how much Michael needs my support, and how he’s being so brave to come out. He isn’t Jimmy Swaggart’s grandson, raised to believe he was going to hell for being homosexual. He was raised by Unitarians, for fuck’s sake.
Deep breath. I’m letting it go.
Michael rushes to my side, his face brimming with enthusiasm.
“He’s here!” Michael squeals, in a way that reminds me of how the monkeys howl and jump up and down when they get excited at the zoo.
“Who’s here?” I ask. Sam is off chatting with a friend, Darcy looks on with amusement.
“Remember how you said I owe you a soul mate? I’m here to deliver!” he gushes. “Come meet your dream man!” Michael drags me toward the front door, until we find a blond man with a gray fedora pushed so far back on his head I wonder how it stays on. Duct tape?
“Alex, meet J.D.,” Michael gushes. Under his rat-pack hat, J.D. has precision-highlighted,Tiger Beat–perfect hair, shuffled artfully off to the side. His dark-rinsed jeans fit like he’s been sewed into them, accessorized with one of those biker wallet chains hanging down, with a big skull on it. He’s wearing a black patterned vest over a T-shirt.
Also, he seems to be wearing makeup, which is not something I normally see in a straight guy. Although, what the hell do I know?
“Nice to meet you, Alex,” says J.D. slyly. His eyes meet mine with purposeful intensity. It feels like he’s trying to hypnotize me or something. If I start clucking like a chicken or playing Rachmaninoff’s Concerto No. 2 on a kazoo, I’ll know he’s succeeded.
“J.D. is a singer,” says Michael.
“Singer-songwriter,” J.D. corrects.
“Oh, that’s interesting,” I say. But it’s not. There’s something really off and manufactured about J.D. And Michael is fawning over him like he invented the pore minimizer or something.
“I understand you’ve been through a rough time,” says J.D.
“Well, uh,” I say, shooting Michael a dirty look. What did he tell this guy, anyway?
