She groans, giving in. “Fine. Miss Melange is still coming to breakfast though, right?” she asks hopefully, and I nod. “Okay, well, tell Mr. Shawn he should come too.”
I eke out a smile for my daughter, unable to admit that I doubt he’ll give me the chance.
In the immediate aftermath of Milford Sound, I went straight to emergency surgery in Queenstown. Barnes, who had seemed well enough, collapsed waiting for updates about me, and internal bleeding sent him to the OR too. Fortune, however, was inexplicably, magicallyfine. Like a drunk driver with loose limbs, being unconscious was apparently the way to hit.
What followed remains hazy. The daisy chain of decisions; the flurry of hospital rooms; lawyers shouting on speaker. By the time we were cleared to fly home for further procedures, settlement negotiations were complete. For agreeing the bridge “malfunctioned” in a “freak accident,” the five of us received $6 million. Each.
En route to Los Angeles, Barnes and I reached our own compromise on the plane. I could never stay married to him, but we were bonded. Not just by the children, but also by the truth that he would have risked his life for mine, and I’d never forget it. With Imogen as witness, we crafted a truce. Joint custody and equal responsibility for the kids’ expenses. We also would live in the same city. “Your choice,” he promised. “If it’s Charlotte, it’s Charlotte…”
But what was there? Aside from memories of the last time I hadn’t defined myself by another person? And what hadthatbeen but loneliness?I glanced at Imogen, then around the cabin to Erika, Greta, and Zara, all asleep, the sisterhood who’d kept vigil by our hospital beds. And I thought of Shawn, no doubt anxiously pacing his apartment until we landed. I’d been chasing the past enough, and home had somehow migrated to one spot. “What if we stayed?”
“In DC?”
“In California.”
I never dreamed I’d live in Los Angeles, and I technically don’t. Pasadena is its own municipality, a tidy grid of palms and jacarandas beneath the San Gabriels. Barnes agreed a new town, a world away, might be best for the kids. A fresh start in the city that already contained the people who most understood what we’d endured. Even Jenny’s initial incredulity faded.
“I’ll miss you being nearby,” she admitted one day while we toured potential houses.
“So apply for a job at UCLA.” I grinned.
“Don’t hold your breath. Besides, I never really thought the Charlotte plan would last.” I looked at her quizzically, and she rolled her eyes. “Come on, Luke, you need to be in the middle of things. You come alive in chaos.”
“I… wouldn’t say I like chaos.”
“But you like wrestling it, to prove you can. At least here you won’t do it alone.” And then she parked at the last house we visited before I finally selected a remodeled Craftsman not far from Old Town. When we walked in, my shoulders dropped entirely on their own, and I felt like this might work after all.
Imogen’s new house isn’t far away, a mid-century bungalow she fell in love with more for the garden than anything. In the yard, she’s erected a massive tree house for the kids in the arms of an old oak, claiming the godmother role which had always been hers by right. On Saturdays, I sit reading with Wallace while Andie practices penalty kicks, Imogen or Erika relentlessly defending the goal, and my mind inevitably drifts to theold backyard in Charlotte, Mitch throwing a football to me that blots out the sun for a fleeting half-breath.
My divorce was finalized on July 29, 2015, one month after the Supreme Court officially made gay marriage the law of the land. “Well, we always were ahead of the curve,” Barnes noted ruefully when we signed, both of us still bruised all over. He dozed off on the couch of my hotel suite that night. I hadn’t bought the house yet, and I didn’t have the heart to usher him to his own room three doors down. Watching him sleep, I no longer saw the point in punishing someone while they’re trying to earn forgiveness.
The nights he doesn’t have the kids, Barnes cruises the WeHo gay bars like he’s jump-starting a candidacy for mayor—and there’s no guarantee he isn’t. Much of the first season ofAlone Togetherhas focused on him publicly educating himself on trans rights and advocating for the trans community, starting with both of us donating 10 percent of our settlement money to various trans charities. He also sought guidance from Erika—both before cameras started rolling and after—and she’s beenbeyondgracious in counseling him. He wisely let her dictate all talking points, but no one expected the positive press they got for the “accountability” segments they filmed with trans athletes and college students. I suspect nearly dying also minimized public flack for Barnes’ policy shifts, but I think it also helps he’s finally pushing an agenda he sincerely believes in. He even did a photo shoot with Balthazar Orgullo (“Crossing the Aisle” painted across their bare chests), somehow escaping the encounter without getting drenched in margarita mix. In fact, the only thing Bal threw at him was himself. “So much saliva,” Barnes recounted, a haunted look in his eyes. “It was like being kissed by a Newfoundland.”
Even Barnes seems surprised by how many men proposition him. His Grindr profile features him pensively cradling a coffee mug branded “GOP” (“Gay Old Politician”), which I suppose solicits a self-selecting bunch. “Isn’t it risky? Some of these guys must hate you,” I finally said one day. “I don’t want you stabbed mid–blow job by a lunatic with a hero complex.”
“Don’t be naïve,” he replied. “They’re fucking mebecausethey hate me.” He offered to show me his account to prove the point, but I shoved the phone away. Because he knows me so well, he discerned the real reason. “He’s not on there… At least I haven’t seen him, and I never forget a headless torso. Especially one with a tattoo that bad.”
“Who?” I asked dumbly.
“Spare me the Elinor Dashwood routine. Just call him.”
Before changing topics to the kids’ new dentist, I dismissed it. “He doesn’t want that.”
And he didn’t.
Shawn had been waiting at Cedars-Sinai with Jenny, Melange, and the kids when we landed in LA. He’d even picked them up at the airport the day before. He’d buzzed his hair and wore a crisp blue dress shirt, almost resembling a young teacher, especially with Wallace clinging to his leg. He was so stalwart, fetching meals for everyone, showing the kids movies on his laptop, making notes each time the doctors shared information. Two days later, we were at last alone, my aching hand in his, when he firmly declared, “We’re never doing this again.”
“Agreed. No more hospitals.”
“Well, definitely that, but I meant reality TV. Any of it.”
“I… sorry, I wasn’t expecting you to say that.”
“After everything with Barnes and Troy, I figured you’d be the first person saying to run for the hills. Seriously, how many times have you said you were done withEndeavor?”
I hadn’t told him yet. There hadn’t been time. However, the news I was moving to LA was quickly overshadowed by the reason why. I recited the benefits—the money, the control, the chance for us to make the new show whatever we wanted—but he just stared at me, absolutely stunned. “You want me on camera withhim?”
“No, you don’t have to film with Barnes—”
