Page 3 of Single-Minded
I’m not sure what’s worse—that Michael is having an affair that’s making national news, or that the media are under the impression that I’m a dude. Humiliating.
An hour later, I’m still glued to the television set, running back and forth between FOX Sports in the living room, MSNBC on my bedroom set, and hittingrefreshon my laptop, phone, and iPad every time I make a lap, scanning for breaking stories online. Do I need to set up a Google alert? Both FOX Sports and MSNBC do about a minute on the scandal, showing a blurry photo of Michael and Bobby obviously taken by some pervert with a smart phone. There are no new details, just the stuff Darcy already told me. Top draft pick, ESPN commentator, lots of sex. I do think it’s bizarre that the news coverage makes Michael out to be some big ESPN juggernaut. I guess that makes for a more exciting story. Mercifully, there isn’t much about me, other than the repeated mentions that Michael is married to a man named Alex. I hope my mother isn’t watching. She’ll probably think I had a sex change or something. Not that she’ll call to find out. She’s an attorney with more of a killer instinct than a maternal one. It’s 5:30A.M.in Sarasota, Florida, where Michael and I live, which means it’s 2:30A.M.in San Diego, where my parents live. So one small blessing, at least; they won’t hear about it for another couple of hours.
My cell rings at six, six-ten, six-twenty, and six-thirty. A New York number I don’t recognize. Letting it go to voice mail, I down two shots of tequila. Who drinks this early? I do, apparently. The phone rings again and again with numbers I don’t recognize. Darcy has been right about everything else, there’s no way I’m going to let myself get sucked into a conversation with a reporter. So far, I’ve been pretty much left out of the story other than the mention that Michael is married. And the man thing. Mercifully, there isn’t much about me. As far as I know, my last name has not yet been released. At least that is something good. Thank God I kept my maiden name. With every update to the story, I feel like I’m getting seasick on my couch.
I’m humiliated and completely livid with Michael, but there’s a part of me that hates to see his career decimated, especially so publicly. Mostly. I helped to engineer it, after all, researching the right internships and plotting the most likely path to get him on air. Michael always says I’m unstoppable, once I get my mind fixed on a goal. Even if that goal is someone else’s.
Michael started his broadcasting career while I was in grad school, working his way up from an internship to an on-air gig on the radio, and then two years later, a spot at ESPN. He was the Wiki of sports knowledge, highly ambitious with TV-friendly hair. All our dreams were coming true.
I’ve always felt lucky to have met Michael so early. Our life together has been practically perfect, thanks to my judicious planning. We fell in love in kindergarten, and attended every single school dance and prom as a couple, dating all the way through college, without a breakup or a blip. I wanted to wait until I’d finished grad school to get married, and so we did. We got married at twenty-six, a week after I finished my doctorate.
I’m an environmental psychologist who consults with charities and businesses to create environments that influence customer and employee emotions and behavior—like helping kids feel less scared at the pediatrician’s office, pulling customers to the newest merchandise by employing strategic throw pillows and signature scents, staging inspiring environments for creative types to do their best work, or keeping diners in a restaurant for exactly sixty-eight minutes, the optimum time frame to create a great dining experience, boost liquor sales, and still turn the tables at a quick pace using things you’d never notice, such as table placement and seatback angles. And once, I gave my eighty-year-old swinging-single neighbor Zelda Persimmon a vial of pink grapefruit perfume, which cues men to perceive a woman to be 6.1 years younger than she actually is, because Zelda only likes dating younger men. She’s totally like the “It Girl” of her seniors-only salsa dancing class.
I never wish bad things on anyone, even someone I’m really pissed at. But it’s hard to resist the impulse to feel a tiny bit of glee as karma comes after Michael’s cheating ass. Weirdly, I’m not at all angry at Bobby. He doesn’t know me. He never made a promise to love and honor me for the rest of his life. He’s young, and obviously naïve, and making some mistakes that all twentysomethings make as they navigate the terrain to adulthood. I feel sorry for him in some ways. This decision is going to follow him around and define who he is, even before he has the chance to define himself. Damn, I’m magnanimous.
I promise myself I’ll turn off the TV and all my devices after ten more minutes. And then another five minutes. Finally, I put myself out of my misery and shut them all off. After the blurry image of Michael and Bobby surfaced, the blogs and news coverage started to include more photos of them together and a grainy video of what looked like them kissing in a parking garage. It was tender, really, the way Michael leaned in to kiss Bobby. Michael used to kiss me like that. Then Michael picked up Bobby, and kissed him ferociously. Michael’s never kissed me like that.
I can’t watch anymore, but I can’t tear myself away—those images of my Michael intimate with someone else are already going to be permanently burned into my brain.
The grainy video is looped, unoriginally juxtaposed against Bobby’s frequent speeches to religious and conservative political groups, along with snippets of locker room commentary where he rails against the sin of homosexuality and claims that he prays every night for his teammates who have not yet found his personal savior, the LordJesusChristAmen.
I can’t stop the tears from coming, so I sit on the floor with a tub of frosting in one hand, clutching our cat with the other. Morley is not exactly cuddling material, so I bribe him to make him stay, letting him lick the strawberry frosting off a spoon while I hug him close.
And that’s right where I am when the phone rings yet again.
3
Michael finally calls, two excruciating hours after Darcy, at seven.
“I’m so sorry, Alex,” Michael says. “I never meant to hurt you. It just happened. It didn’t mean anything. I still love you.”
“Why do people always say that when they cheat? Of course it meant something. Maybe it didn’t mean anything to you, but it means a hell of a lot to me,” I yell. “Did you have sex with that guy?”
“It’s complicated,” he says.
“Oh, that’s bullshit. It’s not that complicated. Did. You. Have. Sex. With. Him?”
“Well,” he says.
“Don’t you Bill Clinton me,” I yell. “Yes or no?”
“Yes, but…” Michael sighs. One of those long, forlorn, manipulative,poor mesighs that makes me want to throw up. On him.
“What?” I ask. If I didn’t ask, he’d just keep sighing until he hyperventilated. And once the paramedics resuscitated him, he’d just start thepoor mesighs all over again. “Stop already. What do you want?”
“I think I’m going to lose my job,” he says, his voice all shaky and quiet. “I need your help.”
“Are you out of your freaking mind? You have got to be kidding,” I say. “You brought this on yourself.”
“I know, I know,” he says. “And I probably deserve it.”
“Probably?” Yes, sure, the jury is still out on that one.
“Okay, I deserve it. But if I get fired from ESPN, I’ll never get another job in sports or broadcasting again. Please,” he says. “You know this is my dream job. It’s all I ever wanted to do. You helped me get here.”
Locker room access and a clothing allowance, it’s freaking homo-nirvana.
God, I’m an idiot.
