Except, that’s ridiculous. We all know my fate was sealed a solid thirteen years ago by one sloppy, drunken kiss out on a gyrating dance floor. It was just supposed to be a joke, straight Michael tagging along with his queer best friend to one of the biggest gay bars in town. Some joke, all right; except that it turned out to be completely on me. Al kissed me that night, a soft, full thing that seemed to last halfway to forever, and all I can say in retrospect is that I never knew a redhead could taste so sweet. Especially not one of the masculine variety. Oh, I was a goner by midnight all right, because by then I doubt we ever could have stopped what we’d begun.
Toweling off my naked body now, it strikes me as strange that no one’s touched me in almost a year. That nobody’s held me or kissed me or made love to me in the middle of the night. I flash on the way Alex used to kiss my bare chest, the way he’d nuzzle up close sometimes when I was sleeping, after he’d been on a call at the hospital. How warm the bed would feel when he climbed back in beside me after being away, the scent of him at those times, impossible to describe, and just as impossible to miss when he came back to me.
With that thought comes the familiar ache for my lover, as this deep place inside of me constricts involuntarily for him; my missing heart, beating on alone without him.
Do you dream? she asked yesterday in the bookstore. Such an easy question, with such myriad and complex answers.
Sure, I still dream, but I couldn’t tell Rebecca O’Neill that, because then I’d have had to admit that I dream endlessly of Alex. That he’s still alive, that he’s come home to me at last. And that I dream of Robert Bridges, smug look on his face as he walks out of the Los Angeles courthouse in his expensive suit, flanked by his even more expensive lawyers. He walks out, just like he did on that sunny day last fall, without having to spend one night in jail for killing Al. Oh, I dream all right—poisonous, heartbroken dreams that I wouldn’t want to tell anyone about.
Makes sleep something to avoid as much as possible, so it’s no wonder I drink myself into oblivion most nights, just to be sure the monsters won’t come prowling around again. Standing there in the bookstore yesterday, though, I wanted to talk about the good kind of dreams. I wanted to believe they could still exist; I even felt a little innocent, and I think that’s why I had to get away.
Explain to me, then, why I asked her over to the house? Because of Andie, that’s what I tell myself. Because somehow Rebecca’s gotten behind the fortress, infiltrated the sacred land. Andrea hasn’t talked to a soul about that scar. Not Marti, or me, or her counselor, or even her Grandma.
Just Rebecca O’Neill.
One last inspection in the bathroom mirror before Rebecca arrives and I’m looking all right. Clean-shaven, and I’ve even managed to comb my usually ornery hair into place. In fact, this is fresher than I’ve looked in days, maybe even weeks. So is my wardrobe: a crisp white polo shirt tucked into a creased pair of denim jeans. The shirt belonged to Allie, and just ’cause he’s gone doesn’t mean I have to stop raiding his wardrobe. In fact, it makes me feel a tangible connection to him, this soft cotton shirt of his against my body. A shirt I took off him on more than a few plum occasions, as a matter of fact.
Makes me feel a little better about having an attractive, single woman into our home, too. Less disloyal, more like I’m keeping him in the center of what we’re doing here. Since this is about our daughter, not about some kind of strange attraction that I feel crackling to life. I’m not straight—haven’t been in more than a decade—so it doesn’t even make sense to me, the way I find myself preening here in front of the mirror tonight. Besides, she’s going to know I’m queer within a few seconds of walking in our door; the evidence is all around this place.
Then how come I didn’t tell her the truth about my sexuality when she asked about my wife? I could have been honest then, when she mentioned my wedding ring. Damn, my ring! I touch my naked hand with a start, panicked to realize I’ve forgotten to slip the band back on my finger after my shower. Reaching for the soap dish beside the sink, I slide the familiar silver band into my open palm.
Alex put that ring on my hand on a sunny fall day in 1998, in an unorthodox chapel out in Malibu, a little seaside building, all white and gleaming in the sun like a bleached shell. I remember my heart was a gull that day, lifting upward and upward into the azure sky. Our future was wide open. We’d have children and dreams and a life together.
I stare down at the weathered band in my palm’s center. It’s taken a beating over the years, but it’s still beautiful. For a moment, I hesitate. Alex is dead, so maybe it’s time to put it away. Maybe I should just drop it into his jewelry box there on our dresser, lay it to rest beside his cufflinks and Rolex, and stop holding on.
Turning the silver ring between my fingertips, I study the inscription on the inside. October 10, 1998. Just a date, a marker back in our personal history, but I’ll be damned if I won’t still wear his ring. I slip it on my finger and turn off the bathroom light.