“I like that you have a gay male secretary.”
“Owen’s not my secretary. He defies traditional description.”
“So do I.”
I laugh. I meant that Owen’sjobdefies traditional description, thanks to everything he does for me and the label. But Mom’s retort was too funny—and accurate—to correct. “That’s true, Mom. You most definitely defy traditional maternal description.”
“Have I met Owen?”
“No. But guess what? His last name is French.Boucher.”
She gasps. “Butcher! He’s from France?”
“Not Owen himself. But somewhere along the line, someone in Owen’s family tree was French. He told me about it once, but I forget the details.”
“Yet another reason for me to meet this man. My instinct tells me Owen Boucher and I would be kindred spirits. He’s got a French butcher somewhere in his family tree and I’ve got a French carpenter in mine. We’re soulmates.”
“Owen’s name is ‘yetanotherreason’ you’re soulmates?” I say. “What’s the first reason?”
“He’s gay,” she says matter-of-factly. “And I’m an artist. Artists and gay people always get along. We share a common understanding of what it means to be anoutsiderin this dark and lonely world.”
I smooth a lock of her gray hair. “Maybe I should bring Owen the Butcher here to have chicken pot pies with Eleanor the Carpenter some time, eh? You two can sit in the garden and talk about art and sexuality and Sylvia Plath and beingoutsidersuntil your heart’s content.”
“And our French lineage.”
“That, too.”
“I’d like that.” She frowns sharply. “Seeing as how my son hardly ever visits me because he’s too busy going to rock concerts and awards shows inCalifornia.”
I close my eyes and pray for strength from a God I don’t believe in. “I visit as much as I can. If you’d let me move you to?—”
“I’m not moving to Malibu, Reed. My home is here.”
My gaze drifts to Mom’s painting again. To my nephew on the outskirts of the grassy park—the first new “family” member she’s ever painted. And it’s enough to keep me from going completely mad. Barely, yes, but it is. “If I bring Owen to visit, will you promise to include him in your painting that week?”
Mom shrugs, as noncommittal as ever. And I know in my heart, even if I were to fly Owen to Scarsdale to have chicken pot pies with her, even if they were to have the best conversation in the world about art, sexuality, ‘outsider-ism,’ Sylvia Plath, and France—a torture I’d never subject Owen to, by the way, unless I were paying him a hefty bonus—she wouldn’t paint him in that week’s opus. Because he’s not family, and she’d needyearsto shift gears enough to let an outsider, even an exceedingly pleasant gay one, intrude in her reality.
I also know something else as I stand here with Mom. A thought I quickly stuff down and push away the moment my brain conjures it: no matter how many “Owens” I might arrange for my mother to talk to, or what fancy French paints I might buy for her on rush delivery, none of it will ever be enough to make her love me. At least, not like most mothers love their children. Not the way she loved a certain four-year-old who never grew up to become imperfect in her eyes, who never grew up to remind her of his father, Terrence—a dashing, charismatic, broad-shouldered man who, many moons ago, promised to take care of and love a gorgeous, tempestuous teenager named Eleanor... but, instead, only wound up shattering her already broken heart.
20
REED
Islide into the backseat of the car picking me up from LAX and confirm with the driver he’s taking me to RCR’s concert at the Rose Bowl. Logistics sorted, I pull out my phone to answer the million and one unread emails and texts requiring my attention. But I can’t concentrate on them for shit. Because...Georgina.Yet again, that woman has hijacked my thoughts. Only this time, now that my body senses it’s once again in the same city as hers, that I’m mere minutes away from actually being in Georgina’s glorious presence again, I literally can’t think of anything but her.
If only I hadn’t been a pussy and agreed to stay for lunch with my mother, I would have arrived at the stadium in plenty of time to personally greet Georgina when she arrived, her shiny new press pass around her neck. Damn. I really wanted to see the look of excitement and anticipation on her face in that moment, and then watch with amusement as her features instantly morphed into anxiety when she saw me and realized that, maybe, those double-birds she flipped me a week ago weren’t such a good idea, after all. Oh, God, that moment was going to be such a turn-on for me. But thanks to those chicken pot pies, and my eternal soft spot for my mother, I missed it.
Plus, I’ve missed out on some other good stuff, too. For instance, being the one to show Georgina around backstage and introduce her toeveryone. I very much wished to do that, not only to be helpful to Georgina, but to communicate to every fucker within a mile radius, especially a certain drummer for RCR, that Georgina ismine. Not to be touched. Not to be flirted with. Off-fucking-limits.Mine, mine, mine.
Plus, of course, I very much wanted to be able to pull Georgina aside, after initially letting her twist in the wind for a bit, to clear the air about the other night. After some reflection this past week, I’ve come to realize Imighthave overreacted a bit when I found out about her stepsister’s musical aspirations. But I also think Georgina fucked up, too. Royally. And I’m interested to see if, after a week of her own reflecting, Georgina is ready to own up to her part in the way things blew up between us. Is she going to hold tight to her prior indignation with white knuckles, or admit she flew off the handle like a fucking lunatic and apologize to me, as she should? Frankly, I’m dying to know.
I’m going to fuck her, either way, of course, whether she doubles down on her “fuck you’s” or has the good sense to start kissing my ass, now that she realizes it’s in her best interests. But I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I’m hoping to witness another round of fiery sass from feisty Georgina, just for the pure entertainment of it. Oh, and also because watching her fly off the handle makes me so fucking hard, it physically hurts.
“There’s a VIP entrance at the back,” I say to my driver as we approach the Rose Bowl’s parking lot. And, five minutes later, he’s pulling up to the restricted-access loading zone in the back. Sure enough, I spot Owen standing curbside, awaiting me as instructed. At the moment, he’s staring at his phone while smoking a cigarette. Being punctual and reliable and humble and patient. You know, being Owen. “Right here,” I say to the driver, while simultaneously shooting off a text to Owen:Look up. I’m here.
When Owen looks up, it’s just in time to see me barreling out of the parked car and marching with urgency toward a large metal door.
“Tip the driver and get my luggage delivered to my house, would you?”
