“Kyle?”
One of his PR people approaches.
“We have a table of reporters over here fromDeadline,VarietyandThe Hollywood Reporterwho want to ask you a few questions. Do you have a moment?”
“It that okay?” Kyle asks me. “I promise I’ll be back in a few.”
“Okay? This is your night,” I say. “I’m just stargazing.”
He laughs and moves toward the reporters.
I try to quell my growing anxiety from my interaction with Kyle and feeling so out of place here that I down my glass of champagne and head to the bathroom.
I lock myself in the men’s room, lean against the sink and shut my eyes. Over and over, I see Kyle throwing a champagne bottle at me. I can hear him yelling.
“You will regret this, you piece of shit! I hope you fail! I hate you! And so will the world!”
I turn on the faucet and splash water on my face. I shut my eyes and count breaths until my heart slows. I open my eyes and look in the mirror.
What the fuck are you doing, Barry? Get out of here now.
I unlock the door, ready to leave this mistake of a night.
As I open it, Kyle appears. He puts his hand on my chest andpushes me back into the bathroom. He attempts to lock the door behind us when it pops open again and a man enters, drunkenly stumbling toward a urinal.
“Knock much, asshole?” Kyle mutters.
We walk out, and my instinct is to run like hell and never look back, but Kyle has his arm around my back and is holding on to me closely. People are watching. I feel as if I need his attention, their attention, his eternal forgiveness, his...
Power.
We take a seat again at the bar. Kyle looks at me for the longest time as if we’re in a movie together, and—even for one moment—I know I am in control. I have regained a little bit of power.
Perhaps I just want my power back.
I take a sip of champagne and ask, “So, where is Brent? Home watching Pride and Joy?”
“Talk about a buzzkill,” Kyle says, finishing his glass and pouring another. “Please don’t mention my bore of a husband again in my presence.”
Kyle turns from me and begins to scan the crowd.
“Sorry,” I say. “You’re known in paparazzi as one name: Bryle. I thought you were the perfect couple.”
Kyle turns to me again, smiling that megawatt smile.
“Bryle?” He laughs. “You want to know about beautiful Brent?” Kyle spits his name. “Brent absolutely hates this shit. He likes his alone time. He’s fucking boring. He’s like talking to a candle, but at the least the candle has some light to it. Brent is an idiot, and we’ve gotten used to leading separate lives.” Kyle stares not at me but through me. “Want me to be completely honest?”
“That wasn’t completely honest?” I say.
He laughs. “See, you have a spark, Barry. Damn, I need a spark. And I really needed this new movie, man. I can’t be a fucking character actor playing the bad cop in a two-series arc on a shitty TV drama or some teenage brat’s unhip grandfatheron a multi-camera sitcom anymore. It’s like being a trained gorilla performing before a live audience of applauding baboons.” Kyle shakes his head. “Not to mention, the paparazzi is all over me right now. Lots of stories about how much time Brent and I spend apart.Is Bryle headed for a breakup?” he asks in an announcer’s voice. “And there’s a lot of money at stake on this new project—my money!—and so much pressure on me. I haven’t had a major movie role since I came out. The studio is banking on the fact that an audience will turn out to see a gay leading man who is seen as the grandson every grandmother wants and the son every mother adores. Brent and I are like Neil Patrick Harris and David Burtka. America doesn’t think of us as gay, they think of us as sexual spores, as nice boys. But what if we broke up? What if they found out we play separately? What if they found out we’re not into each other anymore? Gay don’t sell tickets, my man. Family does. Brent and I have grown apart, but we’re golden-handcuffed together.”
“So, there are strings?” I ask.
“There are always strings, Barry. And maybe some ropes, clamps and gags, too, if you want.” Kyle leers at me and then shakes his head. “It’s fucking Hollywood. You gotta learn to play the game again.”
“I’m not in the game,” I say. “You know that.”
Kyle puts his hand on my arm.
