Page 9 of Single-Minded
By the time Carter and I hang up, I’m ready to turn my phone off and hurl it out the car window, but I need to call my grandma Leona first. There’s no way my mother hadn’t called her the second she hung up with me. Grandma Leona is the kindest, funniest, most loving relative I have who doesn’t belong to Michael.
I hit her number and she answers on the first ring.
“Hi, Grandma,” I say. “So… I’m assuming that Mother told you what’s going on with Michael and me.”
“Oh, dear,” she says soothingly. “Of course, it was bound to happen sooner or later.”
Et tu,Grandma?
7
The sky is as gray and stormy as my mind feels right now, and Michael and I haven’t spoken for most of the car ride. My brain is so juiced up with stress hormones I can’t even think straight. Apparently I’m not the only one.
“Why did you lie all those years?” I screech, like some kind of wild animal. I’m trying to be calm. I’mtrying.
“Most of it wasn’t a lie,” he says.
I roll my eyes.
“Give me a freaking break. It was all a lie.”
He takes a deep breath and continues, “Okay.” Another deep breath. “You and I have been together for our entire lives. There’s no one more important to me than you. And one of the things I’ve always loved most about you is how you’ve always known exactly what you wanted to do, even when we were kids. And it was so easy to get caught up in the excitement of your ideas and your plans.”
“Our plans,” I correct him.
“Yes, our plans,” he says. “But sometimes they were just your plans, and you’d get so unbelievably excited and get out your little notebook and map everything out and we’d both get swept away in the enthusiasm of it all. You’d be so excited and I didn’t want to say anything. And please don’t get me wrong, I owe some of the best things in my life to your plans—I know I never would have had the guts to pursue my dream career on my own. I was all set to get my MBA and do my forty years at some big corporation, but you insisted that I should do the thing I loved most. You figured out the path that would get me there. You believed in me, in what I could do, even more than I dared to believe in myself. But sometimes I just went along with it all and you were so certain, or so excited about something, I just felt like I couldn’t say anything.”
This just pisses me off. “How is that my fault if you don’t tell me when you want something different? Why is it always the fault of the person who knows what they want when the passive person doesn’t say one freaking thing? Why does the person who doesn’t want to be in charge, who won’t take responsibility, always blame the person who does?”
“You know, sometimes I didn’t speak up because I didn’t have a better idea, so I thought it was better to just go along.”
“And then complain about it later,” I snap.
A dozen arguments, from tiffs to blowouts, over our years together zip through my mind. Me asking Michael if he wanted to go on vacation to Arizona. He’d said that sounded good, and then once we got there he said he really didn’t like the desert and that we never went where he wanted to go. When we found our house, he acted like he loved it as much as I did. And then a year into the renovation he tells me he never really thought it was a good idea. A million times when I’d ask him if he wanted to go to a certain movie or restaurant and he’d say “fine” or “sure.” And then afterward he’d act like at best I’d never asked him in the first place, or at worst, like I’d dragged him out of the house by his hair and forced him to eat linguini and watch a romantic comedy.
“I was afraid of losing you,” he says. “I was afraid I’d lose my job or never get promoted again. I love you, I love our life together, I love to make you happy. Iwantedit all to be true, and I thought if I tried hard enough, I could somehow make it all true. What you don’t seem to understand is that I wanted the happily-ever-after with you as much as you did. More, maybe. And I was afraid,I am afraid,of losing you.”
I’m so angry I can feel my pulse pounding in my neck. My face burns. “Don’t ‘oh Alex’ me. You’re afraid of losing me? Are you insane? You ruined my whole life because you were too chickenshit to admit you’re gay before you married me!” I yell.
“I didn’t think you’d be so upset,” he says, shaking his head. “You have a lot of gay friends, we had that fund-raiser for gay rights at the house last year. I don’t understand, you love gay people…”
“Please tell me you’re not that dense,” I say.
He shakes his head, and even as I’m saying it, I can see why he wouldn’t want his job to know. Michael is a basketball announcer for ESPN, and the world of sports isn’t always exactly gay-friendly. He’s the biggest sports fanatic I’ve ever known. He loves basketball and hockey and football and tennis, and pretty much anything that involves physical skill and competition. The guy knows ice-skating competition statistics. Caber tossing. Curling. Roller derby. Seriously, ESPN has been his dream job for as long as I can remember.
But I’m not ESPN. And I sure as hell shouldn’t have to sacrifice my entire life at the altar of the broadcast desk.
I’m absolutely furious. It’s not like I forced him to marry me or lie to me all these years. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“You were so happy,” he says. “I love making you happy. I didn’t want to disappoint you. I love you. And I thought I could love you all the way.” He sighs deeply, and for a second I wonder if it’s manufactured. I can’t believe anything anymore—even his sighs ring false.
“I was afraid,” he says. “I was afraid of losing everything.”
“That’s bull. Carter is gay. My hairstylist is gay. Ouraccountantis a lesbian. Grandma Leona hasn’t missed Drag Queen Bingo in seven years. Our families would have accepted you, I would have accepted you, the world would have accepted you, but you were so freaking worried that the boys at ESPN might not love you that you were willing to let me spend the best years of my life living a lie while you screw around on the side.”
“That’s not what happened,” he stammers.
“That’sexactlywhat happened. We were supposed to be best friends, and you didn’t even care enough about me, about yourself, to be honest with me. You would rather pretend to enjoy having sex with me for the last fifteen years than admit who you are. No wonder I always had to be the one to initiate sex! It’s not like you ever did! You let me feel like I was completely undesirable! I’ve been on a diet for fifteen years because of you! You care more about yourself and protecting your stupid, fragile ego and your career than you do about me.”
