Page 1 of Single-Minded
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You know that feeling when you’re suddenly startled out of a deep sleep, and you’re in that hazy middle world where you’re not sure what’s real—like maybe you actually could be chasing after an ice-cream truck wearing only fishing waders and a canary-yellow bridesmaid’s dress, or you’re just one answer away from winning a year’s supply of adult diapers on a Japanese game show?
My cell phone is in my hand, although I have no recollection of answering it.
“Don’t panic,” says Darcy, as I struggle to rouse myself.
Darcy is my closest friend, aside from my husband, Michael, who’s been the love of my life since the first day of kindergarten when I convinced him that the blue Play-Doh tastedexactlylike cotton candy. He ate the whole can, just to prove me right. Michael was like that.
Darcy is a one-woman hurricane: a fiery, tell-it-like-it-is political consultant who is as hard on the men she dates as she is on candidates. As Darcy likes to put it, “I don’t have time for screwups.” She never calls me in the middle of the night.
“Oh my God, is someone dead?” I ask.
“Why is that always the first thing out of your mouth?” she says.
“Because someone always is,” I say.
It’s still dark outside and I check the clock: 5:04. Clumsily, I grope around on my nightstand until I locate the lamp switch and flip it on.
“Darcy, what’s going on?” I ask, propping myself up in bed. “Did somebody die? Or not?”
“Ugh. You’re about to,” she says.
“What do you mean?” I ask, feeling completely freaked without knowing why.
“There’s a story on one of the sports blogs. It’s about Michael.”
“My Michael? What about Michael?” I ask. My intestines do a nosedive and a nauseating cocktail of dread and adrenaline races through my body. Oh God, is he dead? He’s out of town for work, and I haven’t talked to him since last night.
And then, the more obvious, “Why are you up in the middle of the night reading the sports blogs?”
***
Darcy ignores me.
“It’s a post about Michael having an extramarital relationship with a twenty-one-year-old college basketball player.”
“That can’t be true,” I say with all the self-assurance a woman can possess while still wearing her pajamas. “What’s her name?” Michael wouldnevercheat on me. Never. I’d kill him. Kill him dead.
“Alex, it’s not a her. It’s a him. Bobby something. He plays for Michigan, graduates this year, thanks Jesus after every basket, leads his team in prayer before every game,” she says.
“A him? Wait, wait, wait, what? I don’t understand. You’re saying Michael is sleeping with a man? Aman?” And then it dawns on me. “Oh gawd. Did you say Bobby? Bobby Cavale?” I ask. “Michael wouldn’t shut up about him. How talented he is. What a big career he’s going to have. How he was the next LeBron or something. I thought it was just his stupid jump shot.”
“Apparently it was his layup,” Darcy deadpans. I snort and then giggle involuntarily. Darcy cracks jokes during funerals, scandals, and tragedies. It’s her way of helping to break the tension. Because it’s hard to contemplate throwing yourself in the path of a speeding termite truck when you’re rolling around on the floor laughing.
“Wait, are you saying… do you think Michael is gay?” I ask, absolutely incredulous.
“Yes,” she says. “Most definitely.” I feel my chest cave in.
“No, seriously?” I say.
“Seriously,” she responds. The line goes quiet. Which is unusual for Darcy.
“You’re crazy! Why do you think that?” I ask.
“Well, even aside from the whole making-out-with-a-guy thing, I always thought he was gay. I’ve never seen a man more insanely happy, jubilant, even, reporting from the locker room. And then of course there was that crazy Halloween party you guys threw last year. Michael was, hands down, the gayest Count Choculaever. Also, I’m pretty sure he only took up biking so he could shave his legs and gift-wrap his package in Spandex. But that’s just speculation.”
“Why wouldn’t you tell me?” I say, pressing my palms hard against my forehead in hopes of triggering some sort of twenty-minute amnesia, like a reset button for my brain. “Jesus, I feel like such an idiot.”
