I sell about twenty headshots during the break, enough to keep me from locking myself in a bathroom stall and weeping, enough to shut Teddy up for another week or two, but not enough to keep me here to endure this new-school/old-school humiliation.
After everyone disappears, I’m packing up my wares when I hear, “Barry?” My heart stops. I would know that twang anywhere.
“Kyle?”
Kyle looks around, concerned I’ve said his name too loudly. He puts a finger over his lips and winks.
Everyone in the world knows the famous face of Kyle Moses. It’s featured inPeopleand the trades nearly every month. I also—between us—might have been stalking him online for decades out of jealousy.
“What are you doinghere?” he asks.
I deserve to be punished for being so...
Kyle glances back at the men’s room.
...shitty.
“Doesn’t every A-lister get the table just outside the bathroom?” I quip.
He laughs.
I know he likes funny men because he’s said his perfect husband (Brent, but of course, right?) makes him laugh harder than anyone. I also know that he has two Labs (named Pride and Joy,of course) and that his favorite paint color is Elephant’s Breath by Farrow & Ball (Architectural Digestsaid this was a “very bold color” when he chose it for both his libraryandbedroom in his Malibu home).
“What areyoudoing here?” I ask.
He leans over the table until his face—which, for God’s sake, still looks the same—and his mouth—which, kill me now, looks even better—are inches from mine.
Kyle stage-whispers, “I’m a surprise guest tomorrow. They sneaked me in the back to show me where I’ll be going tomorrow. We’re announcing a newBilly the Hillbillysequel:Billy’s Back. The TV showOzarkmade the whole genre popular again.”
“Congratulations,” I say, my heart sinking into the gray carpet. “That’s amazing.”
“You should come,” Kyle says. “I’ll put your name on the list.”
“Sure,” I lie. “That’s very sweet of you.”
“So?” Kyle shakes his head and stares at me for the longest time. “Barry freaking Goggins? How have you been? It’s been way too long.”
“Forty years,” I say. “Give or take a few.”
“Jesus,” Kyle says. “That long?”
It feels even longer. Years in Hollywood are measured like dog years: Every year is like seven you age on screen. I nod.
“I can’t believe our paths haven’t crossed,” Kyle continues.
“I’ve been red carpet–adjacent these last few decades,” I say. “And by that, I mean men’s room–adjacent. And all the friends we used to know gave up the dream and moved back home to start families. They’re grandparents now.”
“What are you up to? Are you married?”
I want to tell Kyle there’s this thing called social media now, which is how I know so much about him. Obviously, I’ve never crossed his mind. Not even one time where he might have thought,God, what happened to the man I used to love?But isn’t thatjust like rich, famous people: They simply erase their pasts under a mantra of positivity that saysI am constantly evolving. I embrace change with an open mind and heart.But what if you can’t let go?
Kyle puts his hands on the table, and I suddenly remember when I would hold them as we ran dialogue together. They were smooth and strong. I glance down. They still are.
I open my mouth to answer, to say I’m sorry for hurting him, to ask why he was never happy for me, to tell him I’m still running and lonely and hanging on to the last rung of hope with my increasingly arthritic knuckles when a woman yells, “Billy the Hillbilly!”
From every corner of the Palm Springs Conference Center, people run, swarming Kyle until he’s in the eye of a hurricane.
I grab my stack of headshots and disappear into the darkness of the desert, walking—faster and faster—until the pandemonium becomes a dull din.
