An hour later, and I’ve explained everything, or most of it, at least. Michael’s past, that Alex was his only experience with a man. When I got to that part, I was hoping Trev might root a little harder for my team, but he only offered a dubious look, to which I explained that Michael’s an upfront guy, and I couldn’t imagine him lying about his sexuality. Trevor apologized for his naturally skeptical nature, but I noticed that he didn’t apologize for his doubts.
What I didn’t admit is that I do know there are secrets in that house. I sense them all around the place, especially around Andrea. Heavy things Michael’s not able to tell me yet. I wonder if he ever will be. And I wonder if Alex went to his grave bearing those same mysteries and unspoken truths.
Trevor wonders aloud why Michael didn’t just tell me he’d been “married” to a man, and with that, nudges just a little too close to my own reservations. That’s when I deftly change the current of conversation, laughing about the occasional duplicity of the gay male—present company excluded, at least ordinarily. “Which makes a perfect segue to Julian’s manuscript proposal,” I encourage, steering us out of the treacherous waves and into safety.
“Oh, thanks, love. Appreciate that, I truly do.”
“You did keep it from me,” I remind him with a cheery laugh.
“Only temporarily. I was going to show it to you on Monday.” He reaches for the engraved cigarette case on his marble-topped coffee table. “Mind?” He taps one out, and I shake my head as he fingers his familiar black Zippo. Unlike with Ed’s chain-smoking, Trevor’s fast cigarette won’t aggravate my asthma very much.
There’s the sound of flint striking metal, the momentary pause of quick inhalation, followed by a soft swoosh as he blows smoke away from me. I watch a silver gray ribbon curl into the lamplight. “Terrible habit. Must quit soon.” We both know better, but we also know the comfort that self-deception can bring.
“When you give me permission, I’ll become your nag hag.”
“Not yet.” He waves me off with a slight cough. “Every good boy must have at least one bad habit.”
“I thought you already had that covered,” I tease, and his dark eyes narrow in confusion. Then he gets it, and there’s that wide, open smile of his that I love so much.
“Yes, well Julian is bad.” He giggles like a girlfriend. “At least we both agree on that point.”
“But his proposal is freaking amazing!” I slap my hands together emphatically, feeling generous all of a sudden. All hail scotch whiskey! Then, just as suddenly, I grow somber again. “I don’t have to love him to see that.”
“It’s his best work yet. You should read the chapters…” He takes another long drag on his cigarette. For a moment he stares thoughtfully across the room, at the antique bookcases filled with cracked, leather-bound volumes of classic novels and poetry. Books I know he brought from England, probably from Julian’s place. From the flat they once shared during their glory days together.
“He’s gone deeper. To places I still wish I could go. That I may never go.” He hesitates, and there’s a haunted silence that I wish I could fully comprehend. When he finally speaks again, it’s in hushed, reverent tones. “He hasn’t had a drink in four months, Rebecca. And what it’s done for his work almost frightens me. To realize how truly brilliant he is. If only he will be. It makes me wish I were something that I’m not,” he confesses, glancing sideways at me.
I sit upright, turning to face him. “Trevor, you’re a great writer.”
But being a great writer isn’t really what he’s even talking about; we both know that.
“How could someone with a gift like that be so careless with it?” he reflects, and I understand what he’s really asking; the deep, soulful question that he’s always pondering about the one man he’s ever truly loved.
“Only a fool would take something so precious for granted,” I reply meaningfully.
He looks away again, avoiding my probing gaze, and I’m reminded of what I often forget. We all have our scars. Most of mine just happen to be on the outside.
***
The next morning finds me hurrying across the studio lot, not yet late for a development meeting. Suddenly the stifling heat makes my black fashionista suit seem like an imprudent choice. Silly, silly Rebecca. Hoping you might see him. It’s a great, big studio lot, little girl.
“Ms. O’Neill.” The familiar, husky voice angles right into my thoughts with all the gracelessness of a crowbar.