Grace grimaces. Liev grunts.
“She was at this art opening I went to. Saw her the second I walked in. For like a minute, I thought it was actually Twyla. And, you know how it is, she dropped hints. Flirted. It was her smile, maybe, the way she watched me—like she had a secret. Reminded me so much of… Couldn’t resist.”
“Fifteen years you’ve been living like this and you’ve never once fucked up.” Liev shifts and I lift my head. “Then you decide to go and get married—for reasons no one quite gets, even now—”
“Oh,Iget it,” Grace cuts in, looking pleased with herself.
“And then came the video.”
“I mean, Zion.” She looks from Liev to me, wide-eyed. “It’ssoobvious.”
I wipe my hand down my face, remembering the moment she approached me at that event. “Even sounded like her, you know? Got my dick so fuckin’ hard.” I blow out a long, exhausted breath. “I don’t…do this. I don’t do…” I can’t say it. I mean, how the fuck can Idoa thing if I can’t even say it, right? Relationships, love, vanilla sex. Take your fucking pick. None of it’s for me.
“I know,” Grace says, patting my shoulder with a smile. “You’ll get over it.”
Will I?
I suck in the smell of beer and dust and summer in Virginia. Smells of home. Not where I grew up, definitely, but where I became the person I am now. I exhale and look around the familiar space. A lot of shit has gone down in this place. Not just out there at camp, but right here, in Liev’s studio. On this sofa.
I’ll never forget walking in a few months after Liev’s wife died to find him on the floor, pale and still and waxy-looking, an empty bottle of bourbon beside him. I was sure we’d lost him, that time. And we damn well would have if Lamé and I hadn’t stuck around to spoon feed and wean him off the booze and pills.
I’ve never been so scared.
My next inhale’s full of other things—Liev’s sweat, Grace’s shampoo or something. I smell Twyla on me, too, but it’s not as strong, not as potent.
“Yeah.” I’ll get over it. I can. I will. I sit up tall. “You’re right.” As usual. Grace is good like that. She sees people and reallygetsthem. She got Liev pretty fast. Hell, she saw right the hell through me. I swallow, nodding. “Whole thing’s just a blip.” Turning, I give Liev a light smack on the shoulder. “Probably just tired after the shit hit the fan.” Ignoring the look on his face, I stand and stretch. I’ll get over it. I already am. “I like Twyla, you know? But I…” Shaking my head, I give the two of them a rueful grin. It’s not easy, but I get it out and by the time a couple seconds have passed, it feels natural. Almost real. “I fucked up marrying her. You know, we had that red carpet thing and the PR people went wild and, with the rumors about my…” I manage a low laugh. “I’ll have to reach out to them tomorrow. See what I can do to fix the shitstorm out there. Anyway. I’d better hit the sack. Got a couple play partners set up for tomorrow.” This is a lie, but I’ll remedy that first thing in the morning. The best way to handle this whole thing is to find someone to scene with and work this out of my system.
The idea sits heavy in my stomach, but I’ll get over it.
I walk over to the door, forcing a spring to my step. “Hell, if y’all see my wife around, tell her I said hey, would ya?”
Ignoring their twin looks of skepticism, I push the door open and head outside.
Hours later, I’m in their house, in bed, still awake, when Grace’s words come back to me:“You’ll get over it.”I took that to mean I’d get over Twyla. Like this whole episode is just a snag. Easily repaired. Quickly forgotten.
Except in the dark, after hours of running over it and over it in my head, it occurs to me that Grace might have meant it differently. As in maybe it’s not Twyla she thinks I’ll get over, but the other thing, the thing that keeps me from entering into any relationship, ever.
I don’t like this, at all. Which is why, first thing tomorrow, I’ll make sure Twyla’s long gone. And if she’s not, I’ll just have to convince her to leave.
12
Twyla
The screen door to the sweetest little log cabin swings open and a tall, lean silhouette appears in the rectangle of light. From inside comes low, smooth music, Chet Baker singing about his funny valentine.
“They’re playing it cool,” Max says under her breath.
“They?” I whisper in response.
“Lamé’s pronouns are they/them. And, since your last movie came out—the one with you and Zion—they’re a little obsessed.”
“Obsessed with wha—”
“You’re here! You’re actuallyhere!” We’ve made it about halfway across the garden when Lamé, clad in bold reds and blues, swoops down the steps toward us. “Oh my goddess, I can’t believe you came. In the flesh. You must be burning up in the mask. Can you take off the mask? Get up in here and let me look at you.” I’m half-carried up the steps and inside and my mask’s somehow unzipped and pulled off me and I’m suddenly draped in the arms of this tall, gorgeous person, clad in scarlet and peacock blue and smelling like expensive perfume and coffee. Mid-hug, I’m abruptly released and left to wobble on my own against the screen door. “Oh no. I’m so sorry.” They take a step back, hands to their face, which is wrinkled up in dismay, morphing into outright horror. “I can’t believe…I’ve never done that. I mean what the hell happened to safe, sane, and consensual, right? One glimpse of you and every last brain cell just fled! I am so sorry. Please forgive me, Twy— Ms. Hernandez. It’ll never—”
“It’s Twyla.” I put a hand on their arm. “I’m fine. It’s okay. I appreciate the welcome.” Calmer now myself, somehow in direct opposition to them, I follow them into the most colorful, plush, cozy space I’ve ever seen. “Wow.”
“Look… Don’t tell Zion, okay?”
