Lucky me, as early evening falls I find a marathon of About the House reruns on TNT. This minister’s son might even say that kind of “luck” has an air of the divine to it. Never did watch the show before, not with Rebecca begging me not to. But since she’s dumped me on my queer ass here in Malibu, I think it’s only fair that I view her past as openly as she’s always gazed at mine. God, she was breathtaking then, with a ballsy confidence like she had the whole world by the tail—Alex’s style of confidence, not the fractured eggshell kind I’ve always seen in her.
Sipping my sixth beer of the evening, I lean back in bed and study my girl, all sassy and funny and shoving Jake Slater right in his place—my girl, just a different version of her, back once upon a time before life played havoc with her. Closing my eyes, I imagine kissing that Rebecca, her lips meeting mine, her delicate hands threading through my hair, her cheek soft and porcelain beneath my fingertips.
And I blow out a grief-stricken sigh of remorse, because whether we’re talking that Rebecca or my Rebecca, there’s not one iota of difference for me. They’re both like shooting for the moon because I’m nothing but a common electrician sitting in a rich friend’s beach home aching for an unattainable celebrity actress.
Andrea appears in the doorway, watching me. Sharp light from the living room makes me squint.
“What, doll?” I slur at her and she looks worried, her auburn eyebrows furrowing. Entering my room cautiously, she stares at the television, then glances at me sprawled gracelessly on the bed. “You’re watching Rebecca’s show.”
“There’s a marathon.”
“Cool,” she answers, settling on the end of the bed, spreading her hands neatly in her lap. The more outrageous and stupid I’ve become, the more adult she seems. “Can I watch, too?” It’s less a question and more a statement of her intentions as she sits by my feet, back ramrod straight.
“Guess it’s ’cause of the holiday weekend,” I explain thickly. “This marathon.”
Jake is chasing Rebecca around the living room; she’s swatting at him, then Cat opens the front door. Laugh track. Rebecca gives Jake a saucy stare and she has never looked more gorgeous to me. Except the night we made love in this same bed. Except the night we kissed the first time. Except this morning, walking out of that damn bedroom without me…
“Michael, are you okay?” Andrea stares at me over her shoulder, translucent blue eyes wide and worried.
“Yeah, Andie, sick. That’s all, just sick.” She looks at the bottle of Heineken clutched in my hand, then back at my face. “It’ll get better,” I promise, the soundtrack of About the House overlaying our conversation.
Turning back to the television, she responds quietly, “You miss Daddy, don’t you?” The room spins, and I close my eyes, murmuring, “Yeah, I sure do miss Daddy.”
“And Rebecca. You miss her, too.”
“I definitely miss her, too.”
“Is she coming back?” I know she doesn’t mean to Malibu, but back into our lives at all.
My head hurts like a mother, and I rub the bridge of my nose, still not looking up at my daughter.
“Michael? Is she?” There’s fear in her voice that I don’t like, and my eyes snap open. She’s standing at the foot of my bed now, Rebecca on the screen behind her, beyond her small shoulders.
“I hope so, sweet pea.” I reach for her with my hand. “I sure hope so.” I fear she might flee from me as she stands there just chewing her lip, staring at my hand. I’m cursing myself for being such a terrible parent, for not having it more together than this. She knows how out of control I am—she can see it plain as day, and an eight-year-old needs her father to be okay.
“Don’t worry, Michael.” She lifts her chin resolutely, brave to the core as always. “It will get better, you’re right. It always gets better,” she says, and then leaves me alone in my misery.
***
Casey answers his cell phone on the second ring. I have no clue what time it is; I’m suspended, hanging somewhere out in the drunken ether, a timeless void of being in-between. I know it’s nighttime; I know that Andrea’s in bed asleep. I know that slowly I am sobering up, having made some coffee for myself a while ago.
“I’ve screwed up,” I announce without even saying hello. He hesitates on his end, and I reckon he knows something’s wrong from the cotton-mouthed sound of my voice. He’s heard me in this place before: back months ago when I used to call him at dark, off-kilter moments like this one. “Totally screwed up. I’m dishonest about everything.”
I gulp down a few swigs of black coffee. “That’s what my girlfriend told me. Right before she dumped me on my fucking ass.”
“Well,” he asks seriously, sucking in a breath, “so what’re you going to do about that?”
“Don’t know. Go pink triangle again, reckon.”
“That’s not the answer, man,” he chides me gently. “You’re in love with Rebecca O’Neill.”
“She agrees with you about me,” I grudgingly admit. “About me being a fag, like you said.” It’s not the full truth, but at the moment it’s enough for me to share. “That I should be with a guy, not her.”
“Yeah, well people say all manner of shit when they’re upset.” Clearly he realizes how hurt she must’ve been to tell me something like that, but thank God he doesn’t ask for details.
“I love her, Case.”