“Alex is the first person who would agree with me.” I stop, closing my eyes to halt my churning rage, and notice the sound of a distant siren down on Ventura. “And don’t try and tell me what my own damned partner would say,” I continue. “Matter of fact, you ever try that again, and I will come beat your fucking face in.”
“He was my best friend,” Casey answers evenly. “And he’d be sick to see what you’re doing.”
“What I’m doing?” I cry, pacing the length of the flagstones that lead toward the street. “What I’m doing? God, I’m hanging up on you. That’s what I’m doing! I can’t even fucking talk to you right now.”
“You’re queer, Warner. All the way, and whatever this thing is you’re up to with that girl, it won’t work.”
“Her name is Rebecca,” I say with blistering quiet. “And don’t ever try and use Alex’s memory against me again.”
“I’m just here to tell you the truth, man. You may not like it, but that’s what I’m here for.”
“I like her, Casey,” I answer bitterly. “Really like her. Is that too much for your heterophobic brain?”
“I’ve got no problem with straight people,” he says, his voice echoing innocently through the cell. “Some of my best friends are straight.”
“Right, I forgot.” I stare at the roses he planted by the mailbox for my birthday four years ago. “Your only problem is with me.”
He’s silent a moment, until I nearly think he’s gone, then says, “You can’t go back, Mike. Not after this long.”
“It scares you,” I hiss, realization dawning. “That’s it. It scares you to see me with her.”
“You may not believe it, but I’m trying to look out for you.”
“Know what, Case? I think I’ll fall in love with her just to really piss you off!”
And with that proclamation, I hang up on one of my last remaining true friends in this world.
***
“So Casey’s disapproval of this relationship upsets you?” Dr. Weinberger probes, scribbling something on his notepad.
Lying back on his sofa, I stare at the ceiling and think about why Casey’s reaction pisses me off so much. Then I get it. “He should support me. Be my friend.”
“Maybe he believes he’s being your friend.”
“He wants me to be a certain way,” I clarify, staring at the soothing upholstered wallpaper—taupe and cream-colored, intentionally neutral. No loud artwork here, no edgy prints.
“You’ll agree this is a drastic change, you dating a woman.”
“From what? Being alone all the time?” I ask belligerently. “Damn straight it’s drastic.”
“Drastic from being with Alex,” he clarifies. “From being in a long-term homosexual relationship.”
I shrug, settling down again, closing my eyes. Another headache’s brewing, and I can tell it’s gonna be a bad one. “Wouldn’t it have been drastic for me to date a guy, too?”
“At this point? Not quite so much.”
“Thanks a lot, Dr. Weinberger,” I grumble, massaging my forehead. “At least Casey’s not taking my money every month.”
“Michael, please.”
“I’m serious, I just want someone to let me do whatever the hell I want with my love life.”
“All I’m saying is that it’s been how long since you dated a woman?”
Blowing out a breath, I close my eyes again because I have to think hard and do the math. Marti was my last feminine kiss. That’s more than a decade, a few presidents, and some major global conflicts since I last slept with a woman.
“Thirteen years.”
“Maybe that’s why Casey thinks you should have a few dates with men first. To find your way back out there.”
“And you think so, too.” I fold my arms across my chest disagreeably.
“I’m not saying that,” my doctor explains. “Our sessions here are for exploration.”
“I want to explore why my daughter calls me by my first name.”
“You can’t push her, Michael. You know that,” he urges, but all I can hear are Andie’s words from the other day. But you’re Michael. That’s who you have to be.
“I want to know, for God’s sake,” I mutter, frustration reaching a fever pitch. “For almost a year you’ve told me to wait. Not to push. To be patient.”
“She is making significant headway.”
“She calls me Michael.”
“You know what she’s been through. How traumatized she’s been.”
“Why do you think she won’t call me Daddy?” Sitting up, I plant both feet on the floor, despite the headache that swells behind my eyes. “Really?”
Dr. Weinberger smiles at me sympathetically. He rocks in his leather armchair, fingertips forming a thoughtful pyramid beneath the bridge of his nose. “I have some theories about that, but let’s keep giving Andrea time.”
“No,” I demand, rising to my feet. “You tell me what you think right now.”
“She’s trying to sort through her grief, Michael,” he says in a lowered voice, staring up at me. “To make sense out of so many emotions. Guilt. Survivor guilt. Abandonment. Loneliness. It makes it hard to connect with anyone, even the people she loves most.”
“She’s connected with Rebecca.”