I nod bleakly because I’ve already done that math. But we’re heading to Dallas tomorrow, not Anaheim. And after Dallas, we’re back in Toronto, where this time I’ll be the one sitting alone in our condo while Jamie gets to bask in the love and support of his family.
My whole body trembles as I slide off the stool. “I’m going to bed,” I say woodenly.
Blake is clearly ready to argue. I don’t give him the chance. I just lumber off, walking to the elevator with a cloud of misery hanging above me.
TWENTY-SIX
WES
When I let Frank Donovan and the reporter talk me into an on-camera interview, I knew it would feel humiliating. But I didn’t count onmakeup.
I’m gritting my teeth while a dude named Tripp brushes something across my cheekbones with a sponge, humming to himself while he works.
My father would die a thousand deaths if he could see it. And somehow this cheers me.
When Tripp steps back to admire his work through a pair of black-framed hipster glasses, I ask, “They make everyone wear this, right?”
He snickers. “Yeah, hon. It’s not because you’re the gay guy.”
Get out of my head. I hate it when people read me like that. And it’s only going to get worse, because I’m about to sit down for an intimate chat with a few million TV viewers. Shoot me already.
“Good to know,” I mumble.
Frank walks into the room looking all hyped up. At least someone is cheery about this ridiculousness. “Ready?” he asks.
“Sure,” I say. Because what’s the alternative? I promised Dennis Haymaker I’d do this. My team wants me to. And as a side benefit, I’m sticking it to Dad. Better just get it over with. “We’re done here, right?” I ask Tripp.
“One sec.” He leans in with a giant brush and I close my eyes just in time to be thoroughly dusted with some kind of powder.
“Gross,” I cough out when the assault is over.
“Aw. Big tough hockey player can’t handle a little powder? We don’t want you looking shiny on camera.” He giggles.
“You are having way too much fun,” I grumble.
“True! But I don’t usually have a hottie like you in my chair.” He yanks the black nylon cape off my shoulders. “Up you go. Knock ’em dead, Ryan Wesley.”
“Thanks.” But I’m not looking to knock anyone dead. I just want to get through this hour-long probe of my soul and get on with my life.
Frank leads me to a sound stage which is set up to appear intimate. There are two macho-looking leather chairs angled to split the difference between facing each other and facing the eighty-seven cameras pointed at them. Just outside of the faux room sits a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of broadcasting equipment.
How quaint.
They’ve dressed me in a dark suit jacket and dark-wash jeans. Expensive but boring shirt, open at the neck. I’ll bet someone in PR spent hours trying to figure out how to make me seem masculine and hip and casual and interesting but ordinary all at once. They probably have a computer model for this shit.
Whatever. At least I’m not being strangled by a necktie right now.
“This is your seat,” Frank says, indicating the chair on the left.
I don’t ask how they chose that, either. I just sit.
“Now, remember,” Frank says, rubbing his hands together. “Look at Dennis, or look at the camera. This one.” He points at a camera which is just a few degrees to the right of where my interviewer will sit. “If you gaze around the room, you’ll look shifty. Avoid the upward inflection. Don’t raise your voice at the end of sentences.”
A little of my natural cynicism escapes. “Too queer?”
He rolls his eyes. “No. Too insecure. Which you aren’t. So don’t sound that way.”
“Fine.”
