We’re.The word makes my heart sing. I spent so much time pouring overwevs.oursthat I never stopped to appreciate how lucky I was to have anoursto begin with.
“You mean there’s no secret message from Doop down there?” Iask jokingly. “No tea-leaf-type reading or proverbial wisdom etched onto the bottom?”
He places his left eye at the top of the neck. “Afraid not.” A smile hints at the edges of his lips when he looks back up. Maybe it’s from the alcohol. Maybe it’s me.
I hope it’s me.
But the hope is outweighed by overbearing guilt. Guilt for actions I have no recollection of. So I broach a topic neither of us is and likely never will be ready for. “What happened between us?”
“I might need another before I answer that,” Drew says, shaking the empty whiskey bottle, still devoid of any secret notes or portentous imagery. Not at all jarred by my abrupt change in subject, given he used to be well acquainted with my ADHD.
When I return from my hunt for alcohol, finding a particularly pricey bottle with a gift tag still attached in a cabinet in my shrine-room, Drew is wearing the blue light glasses. Pulled up on the TV is a YouTube video of me at the Broadway Laugh Box. The upload date is a few months after CeeCee’s wedding. For some reason, I’m wearing the peacock-blue suit again.
Now that I think about it, in many of the photos adorning the walls, I’m wearing a suit. Not the same one, but a similar cut. All in bright, vibrant colors. It’s as if it’s become my go-to costume. It’s vastly different from the casual, relatable look I turned out for the folks at the Hardy-Har Hideaway, which leads me to believe this “new” Nolan dresses up to be above his audience.
“Should I have gotten something harder? Absinthe? Moonshine?” I ask, sitting down next to Drew on the couch. As I pour, I’m careful not to invade his space. We no longer hold that familiarity. He won’t rest his head on my lap. I won’t stroke his hair, even if it is just as red and thick and luscious as I remember. We aren’t settling in for aDrag Racemarathon.Drag Racemight’ve been canceled at this point.
Oh, who am I kidding?Drag Raceis forever.
Drew coughs into his hands and slides the glasses off, but the video stays—presumably until the next wearer thinks up another site. The shaky YouTube video starts playing from the middle when Drew hits the remote.
I’m wearing a shit-eating smirk, holding a wired microphone. “I was in love with my best friend for a while. That’s not the joke, but thank you for laughing. It is funny. Being the gay boy cliché like that. I found out recently that he was in love with me too.” Aww’s sound off in the crowd, tinny due to the low quality. “Thank you for the aww’s. It is cute. Or it would be cute had you been listening. I said ‘was.’ As in the past tense of is. Seems likesomepeople need to retake elementary school English class.
“No, in all seriousness, he told me he didn’t think he could be with me because, and I quote, ‘I don’t think you have the space in your life to love anything more than comedy.’” I hold as tension overtakes the audience. “Clearly he’s never seen me devour a whole banana pudding from Magnolia Bakery. True love is spending two hours on the toilet for ten minutes of creamy banana bliss.”
Bathroom humor was never a part of my sets. I avoided jokes like that for their cheap laughs and easy punch lines, but it kills the crowd and shows up often in the script for my special that I’ve been combing through. In the video, I’m soaking up the attention, mugging to extend the joke.
“In a way, I think that’s how our relationship would’ve gone in the end. Sweet on the tongue, heavy on the stomach, and then straight down the toilet.” The self-satisfied pout on my face is aggrandizing and grating. I want to slap the smug punk onstage even though that punk is me. “But it’s alright, I wish him all the best…all the best punishments in the seventh circle of hell.”
Quickly, I grab the remote and stop the video. My heart is racing.Sweat beads at my hairline. Cramping, my stomach feels as if it’s trying to evacuate my body. I can’t bring myself to look at Drew. Those haunting words vibrate here between us. History, unbeknownst to me, pushes us farther apart.
I’m so lost in my own head that I don’t even register when he stands, bag hiked up to the top of his shoulder. “I should go,” he announces, crossing in front of the TV and moving toward the door. Milkshake is hot on his tail.
I call after Drew on autopilot, “No, you don’t have to go.” There’s so much more I want to say and so few words to say it in.
He keeps his back to me, hand poised on the doorknob. “That’s not the only skit,” he says gravely. “And I–I think you should see it. I just can’t. Not again.” I can hear the strain in his voice, sense the tears welling behind his eyes.
Part of me wants to go to him, hug him from behind, absorb the blow of your best friend publicly stabbing you in the back for nothing more than a dozen laughs. Only, I’m the knife-wielder. There’s metaphorical blood on my hands. I don’t know how to reconcile that or make it better.
“Okay. Um, how will I—”
“You know where to find me,” he says, abruptly exiting. Milkshake, seemingly as sad as I am at this, whimpers and scratches at the bottom of the door.
Needing the comfort, I go to Milkshake, scoop him up, and scratch him behind the ear. We return to the couch. I hover over the play button, knowing what I’m about to witness must only get worse or Drew wouldn’t have left. Wouldn’t have been upset over this still.
“Let’s see how much damage I caused this time.” I sigh, snuggle Milkshake, and prepare for the worst.
Chapter Nineteen
“I’m a terrible person!” I announce, out of breath as I burst through the front door of Bound by Mayhem Books.
Since it’s nearly 7:00 p.m. on a Tuesday night, a Tuesday I spent at a torturous rehearsal spouting off jokes that I didn’t write and that don’t reflect my values, I assume the store will be as devoid of customers as it was when I first visited. However, a group of four, including Drew, sit on folding chairs in a circle at the center of the store, books open in their laps. Their aghast looks are hardly a warm welcome.
“Oh,” I stammer, peering around at the elderly folk eyeing me suspiciously. “Sorry to interrupt. I’ll, uh, come back later.” Without thinking, I’d bolted out of rehearsal and straight to the store, disregarding Jessalynn’s insistence I go home instead of going out to party. Little did they know, I was making my way to Drew.
“We’re almost finished here,” Drew says.
“We can skootch over. We don’t mind skootching, do we, gang?” comes from the older Black man closest to me.
