I try to think of a good way to frame it, but there simply isn’t one. So I just blurt, “It’s Heavenly Handyman,” feeling foolish already. Especially with the way my extremely gay friend stares at me, clearly dumbfounded.
“The lad from electrical construction?”
“That’s the one.”
“But he’s queer.” Not a question or doubt about the facts of the situation.
“Not quite.”
“Not quite?” He coughs. “I’d say it’s a yes or no situation, unless—”
“He’s bi.”
“Oh, dear Lord, no wonder your humor is foul.” He gives me a wry, knowing look. “His sort’s to be avoided at all costs. By both our kinds. Enter not the forest of uncertainty, for demons dwelleth there.”
I smile back at him, my own expression dreamy and naive. “He’s amazing.”
“Yes, well that’s what we all say, isn’t it? Right before it gets bloody confusing as to which way the wind blows.”
“Trust me, his sexuality is the least of the issues.”
“Really? How’s that?”
I wonder if I can describe Michael’s deep grief about Andrea and all they’ve both lost. I doubt it’s possible to put words to what I’m feeling—to what I felt there with them in that house tonight.
So I close my eyes and think like an actress. It hasn’t been so long that I can’t call upon my method technique. My memory searches for a quarter-inch of something from their house tonight, something tangible to help me translate the emotion to Trevor.
What I instantly recall is their family portrait, the one hanging in the hallway. A dreamy photograph of the three of them, sitting together in that sun-drenched backyard, bathed in a diaphanous halo of light. Alex so alive and vital, like he might step out of the picture and talk right to me. Shock of deep auburn hair, broad grin, freckled face. Natural good looks. A good man, obviously. And then the man beside him, too. Strong and handsome, years younger than the one I’ve met in the past few days. Unlike my Michael Warner, that one’s not weary and weathered; the whole world still bows at his feet.
Then precious Andrea curled in front of them on the grass. Still a little girl, though that would soon change, because the Andrea in the portrait is as gone as Alex. And Michael. None of those three live on anymore. There are only ghosts, shades of what might have been.
Yes, the portrait is the key. My eyes well with tears again, and I feel the loss as if it were my own. It already is my own, in some metaphysical way that I can’t pinpoint. My palm finds its way to my chest, and I massage my breastbone, blinking back hot tears.
I picture Andrea’s clear blue eyes staring up at me while we cooked together. Maybe she was as insubstantial as the girl from the portrait; maybe Michael worried because he knew the truth. That she’d vanished, too.
“He’s a father,” I say softly. “They had a daughter together.”
“They had?”
“His partner’s dead…” I think of Michael in my office, his hopefulness that Andrea might open up to me. “It’s been tough for him, raising her alone. She feels like she can talk to me.”
“Of course she can. You’re a woman, sweetie.”
“I am that,” I say. “I guess that helps with her opening up.”
“How convenient that he’s found you,” Trevor remarks, and I hear an edge to his voice. “Now that he needs a mother for this girl.”
I doubt he even knows what he’s said, but it feels like he’s punched me full-force in the stomach. All the air sucks right out of my lungs, and my head snaps in his direction. I get it now. There’s no attraction. How could there be, when I look like this? What an idiot I am. Michael only wants me because of what I can be to Andrea—not out of any desire for me. Even pure-hearted Trevor can see it from a mile away.
My fingers trace the pattern of scars on the left side of my face. How could it still feel this way after five plastic surgeries?
“I thought maybe there was…something. You know, between us.”
“I’m not saying that there isn’t,” he rushes to assure me, but it’s too late. “Not at all. Just that I don’t want him latching on to you out of some other kind of need.”
“Andrea opened up to me.” I rub my tired eyes. “That’s really all it is, I’m sure.”
Never mind Foot and Cinderella’s slipper. Or the way he kissed me there in the hall, something tender and gentle that somehow burned me nonetheless. Never mind that for some inexplicable reason, I do still dream.
“But what will you do about hottie handyman?” He studies me carefully, protectively. “About this attraction?”
“I’m resisting it.”
He gives a single, affirming nod. “Good. It’s best that way.”
Even better would have been avoiding him to begin with, I think, and close my eyes.