******Author’s Note******

This is Part 3 of Confessions of a Drag Queen and a Girl Named Dot. This will be pretty hard to understand for newcomers, so if you happen to be one, head over to the first part on my homepage. As always, this story contains both slash and hetero stuff, though nothing sexually graphic. F-word is common. Oh, and a drag queen, if the title didn’t give it away. Can’t handle it; don’t read it. This isn’t so much a trilogy as it is two books, and Part 3 is just an extension of Part 2 because Part 2 got far too long to publish in one part.

Thanks for reading!

Part III

1—A Girl Named Dot—1

Oliver and Griffin were at the bar that night, but none of the other band members. Oliver and Griffin behaved as they usually did upon entering the bar, laughing and muttering to each other conspiratorally. Oliver slid up onto a stool across from Eddie and pounded a fist on the counter.

“Okay, I want a beer, and I want it quick.”

I watched Eddie out of the corner of my eye. I offered to take the ten hour shift for him (actually, it was more of an eleven hour shift, if you added the time it took to open and close up shop), but he claimed he could make it. I’m glad Peaches wasn’t here, but even without Peaches here, Eddie looked fragile. It was something I thought I’d never say. Eddie? Fragile? Impossible!

“Okay,” Eddie murmured. “But can I ask you something first?”

“Yeah?”

Eddie took a deep breath. “I’m going to politely and kindly ask you to do me a favor, a favor which would mean a lot to me.”

Oliver stared at him a second, a bit thrown off by Eddie’s weakened tone. “Uh, okay . . .”

“I am not in the best mood right now, and I don’t think I can handle your jack ass comments with usual shrug-off. So please, Oliver, can you keep all your mean slurs to yourself for the next few days?”
Oliver blinked, as did Griffin. Eddie had always told them to be nicer, but he never begged them to be like he did now. Peaches had once told me that Oliver and Griffin responded to just treatment like anyone else would, and they did seem to be affected by Eddie’s sincere plea.

Oliver cleared his throat. “Well, um, er, I . . . guess. Sure.”

Eddie nodded. “Thank you,” he said softly, then moved away to get Oliver and Griffin drinks.

Oliver tossed an inquisitive look at me. I returned with my one “I’ll tell you later” look, and then Oliver went back to talking to his brother.

When Eddie was occupied elsewhere, I decided to fill the twins in.

“What’s up with blondie?” Oliver asked, watching Eddie from across the bar.

“I hope you’ll honor your promise.”

“Well, yeah, I suppose. He asked nicely.”

I just sighed.

“Tell me what’s going on,” Oliver insisted.

“Peaches didn’t tell you?”
“No, not really . . . Tell me what, exactly?”

I inhaled sharply. “They broke up.”

Griffin, who had been sipping his beer, snorted and coughed several times. Oliver stared at me, literally slack-jawed. I’d never seen their eyes bigger.

“What?” they gasped at once.

I nodded solemnly.

“That’s—how is that possible?” Oliver looked over at Eddie. “They are, like, infatuated with each other.”

“Were infatuated, it seems. I don’t know the details, okay? All I know is that I dropped Eddie off to speak to Peaches and never heard from him until this afternoon, when he showed up at the house, a total wreck. He cried nonstop for an hour or something. He told me he didn’t want to talk about it. I drew conclusions.”

“Damn,” Griffin hissed.

“My thoughts exactly,” I muttered.

“It’s not possible.” Oliver blinked in astonishment. “Peaches never tells me much about his personal life, but I know he has it bad for Eddie. He always has. Whenever we went on our two day tours up to Sacramento and San Francisco, Peaches spent half the night on the phone. It’s almost unnatural, how those two get along.”

“Yeah, well, not anymore.”

“Why? What happened?”
I shrugged. “I’m not sure.”

“Dude, Eddie told me about the blow job thing, but so what? That’s something you work out and get over together.”

I shrugged again.

“Man.” Oliver leaned back on his stool, still reeling. “I should talk to Peaches. Though he’s been in a foul mood lately. I mean, really foul. He’s usually a nice guy, but he’s been moping around for weeks . . .”

“He won’t want to talk to you anyway,” Griffin added. “You know how Peaches is, man. He doesn’t want help with anything.”

“Yeah. Like, I had to go to Eddie for answers about Peaches’s behavior, because Eddie was the only one who was able to find things out . . .”

“Peaches has always had something dark under the surface,” Griffin stated. “I’m not one to judge personalities well, but the boy has issues. Baggage. Everyone does, but he refuses to talk about it. It’s like cracking open a—a bowling ball or something.”

I looked at both boys carefully. When did they suddenly become compassionate human beings? And since when did Griffin use creative analogies that made sense? It was weird. I’d like it better if they were their usual jack ass selves and said something like, “Oh, he’ll feel better after five beers or so”.

“Eddie must be bummed,” Oliver said.

As if on cue, we all turned and looked at Eddie. Eddie was standing with his legs slightly apart, his hands shoved in his pockets, and his shoulders hunched up around his ears. He seemed to sense our attention, because he turned and looked at us. We looked away immediately, trying to look natural, which automatically meant we didn’t look natural at all.

“We probably shouldn’t get involved,” Oliver said, clearing his throat. “Let them work it out.”

“Is that your answer to everything?”

“They are old enough to take care of it themselves. I’m not a mediator, and I’m not a counselor.” Oliver jabbed the air with his finger. “I’m the last person who should be giving advice. I’m pretty fucked up too, you know. Just not in a depressing way like Peaches is.”

“Yeah, I mean, our mother was killed too, but we didn’t find her body or anything.”

I blinked at the boys, wondering how the hell they just brought up topics like this without a qualm. They didn’t seem bothered at all by the death of their mother who, according to my sources, had apparently been shot by a drug dealer she’d been sleeping with when they were four. She wasn’t a hooker; he was her boyfriend at the time, an affair that meant she’d been cheating on their father.

Sometimes I hated Oliver and Griffin. And sometimes I thanked a nonexistent God that they turned out as well as they did.

“Wait.” I blinked. “Peaches found her?”

“Yeah. Didn’t you know that?”

“No. No one told me that.”

“Eddie told me when I asked,” Oliver admitted. “Like I could ever find that out on my own.”

“That’s awful.”

Oliver shrugged. “Well, it happened.” He leaned forward. “Messed the kid up a bit, you know?”

“Poor thing . . .” I sighed heavily. “So, uh, I guess Peaches won’t be hanging around The Smoke much now.”

Oliver suddenly pouted and looked at Griffin, who returned the expression.

“I hadn’t thought of that!” Oliver said. “Goddamnit! This is our hang out, you know? Ever since we were fourteen! And now Peaches—goddamnit!”

“Maybe you can get him to come on Eddie’s days off.”

“Maybe. Still. Damn.”

I hadn’t thought of how this whole break-up thing would change my life. Peaches and I weren’t fantastic friends, but we could hang out and joke around without it being awkward. We were pals, I think, but now I knew we couldn’t be that anymore. We’d only been pals because of Eddie. Now that the tie was severed, Peaches probably wouldn’t want to hang out with me. After all, he might be frightened than anything he told me would be recycled to Eddie. Furthermore, half the things we discussed revolved around the stupid, eccentric stuff Eddie did.

That wasn’t all. My nights off sometimes consisted of me going to clubs to listen to the boys. Now that things were awkward with me and Peaches, would it be weird to hang out with them after the performance? Peaches used to be the sane one I could hold a normal conversation with without being interrupted by some slutty blonde who wanted a ride in the twins’ laps. Without him, I’d have to talk to the twins, Hector, or Zared. Hector was okay, but he had a weakness for women like the twins, and Zared was just as guilty. In fact, they were all just obsessed with getting laid. Peaches was the different one, the decent one, the guy who always treated me nicely and didn’t stare at my rack when he discussed the repercussions of teaching creationism in public schools (yes, he did this in the back room after shows. Sometimes I wanted to marry him).

At least Miguel wasn’t here to muck things up even further.

I couldn’t get it through my head that this wasn’t a dream. I remembered the last time I saw Eddie and Peaches be affectionate with each other, which was at the beach. They’d seemed just fine! How did things decline so quickly? How could a relationship so healthy and perefect turn into a nightmare before I had time to even realize something was wrong?

I thought I knew Peaches, but maybe I didn’t. I knew Eddie inside out; this wasn’t a question to what he was doing. Eddie was being Eddie, as usual, often lying to cover up inconvenient truths that he knew would make people angry. He did that to avoid conflict, which was understandable. Eddie hated to argue, which was probably why he forgave me immediately for all the hurtful things I said.

But Peaches . . . I didn’t get him at all. He was always so quiet and mild-mannered, prone to small, almost shy smiles in the presence of strangers and tossing inside looks with Eddie across the table. I wondered why he was so bitter and angry lately. I didn’t think it was all because of his mother. There had to be more. I knew about the foster homes, but I didn’t know much. Had something gone horribly wrong there?

Even if it had, why couldn’t Eddie fix it? Eddie was great at listening and giving advice. People usually felt better after chatting with Eddie, not before it. What was Peaches trying to do by pushing Eddie away?

The only reason I could come up with was that he resented Eddie’s efforts. I guess Peaches wanted to deal with his own issues. Pft. Typical man. What a douche.

Eddie was weird all night, giving me tiny simpers instead of the usual big grins. He acted almost timid which was freaking me out, because Eddie was every antonym of timid. He was always in everyone’s face, laughing and joking and being fabulous. Everyone at the bar noticed his new mood, and they gave me inquisitive looks. I just shrugged and went on my way.

My dad noticed for sure, and he cornered me, demanding answers.

“That boy isn’t doing something stupid, right? Like drugs?”

“Dad, look at him and then ask me again if you think he’s on drugs. This is Eddie, after all.”

Dad nodded sharply. “I figured. He throws the biggest fit over Oliver’s smoking. I can’t imagine him doing drugs.”

“He’s having personal issues. Um . . . romantic issues.”

“Oh.” Dad sobered. “So that would explain why Peaches isn’t here with his dipshit friends.”

Oliver and Griffin were within hearing range. Oliver raised a hand.

“Thank you, Mr. Walker. You continue to flatter me!”

Dad grunted, which was his way of showing affection. He called Oliver and Griffin all sorts of demeaning names and they seemed to enjoy it. It was some weird male bonding ritual I never understood. Thank God I was a female. I mean, the fine print of it sucked, but overall, I was proud of my vag.

Dad looked over at Eddie. Then he called him over, which was probably a bad idea.

“Yes, Mr. Walker?” Eddie asked. He lacked his usual flamboyantly flirtatious, “Yeeeessss, Mr. Walker?” Dad noticed the change.

“Are you all right, boy?” Dad asked. “You’re mopey, and when you get mopey, I get frightened.”

Eddie put on this pained smile that made my heart break. The poor thing was trying so hard. “I’m fine.”

“This bar is depressing enough without you joining in. I count on you to bring the place up.”

“Dad.” So much for not pressuring Eddie to put up pretenses.

“I know. I’m fine.”

Dad pursed his lips. “Well, if you need anything, you ask, okay? You know I’m here for you.”

“You always have been, Mr. Walker.”

Dad nodded and walked away, taking the order from a customer on his way.

Eddie stared at his back, then sighed and looked away. “Even your oblivious dad notices.”

“He’s just worried about you. We all are.”

“I’m fine.”

“Don’t be a liar.”

“Okay. I’m drowning in a pit of misery and self-loathing. Honest enough for you?” He ran a shaky hand through his hair. “I’m a wreck.”

I petted his arm. “Well, um . . .”

Eddie’s phone beeped. He flipped it open to look at it. “Mom just texted me. Can you believe she figured out how to do that? Some preacher’s wife she is.” He pressed a few buttons, then stared at his screen longer than needed.

“What?” I asked.

Eddie slammed the phone shut and shut his eyes. “He’s number one on my speed dial.”
“Not me?!”

“Dot.” He turned puppy eyes to me.

I snorted. “Pft. Fine.”

“Should I change it?” Eddie whispered. His face tightened, and he looked ready to cry. “I feel like I should, but then I realize that if I do, I’ll really have to accept that it’s over, and I can’t—how can I . . . I’m still not convinced. . .”

“Hence why I made you my number one on speed dial. Mitchell probably wouldn’t like to hear that, but hey, everything seems to change but me and you.” I gave him a sad smile.

“I didn’t think it would change. I thought—oh, geez, I just figured it would be, you know, forever.”
“Me too.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t have broken it off. Maybe I should have just—I don’t know. Maybe I should have begged.”

“All you do is beg. Admit it. Peaches is being a stick-up-the-ass jerk. Don’t blame yourself for it. You did nothing wrong. He just has issues.”

“Issues I should be able to deal with! Dot, I’m always fixing everyone’s problems. Like remember when I had to fix you and Mitchell’s argument?”

“Yeah . . .”

“I’m good at fixing relationships! Everyone always comes to me for advice. Well, I can’t even fix the most important relationship of my life, and I’m supposed to be an expert! God!” He ran his hands nervously over his face. “What am I doing wrong?!”

“Nothing—”

“Shut up, okay? Stop feeding me what I want to hear! Tell me the truth.” His eyes looked a little glossy when he looked to me desperately. “Just please tell me the truth.”

“I am.” I frowned at him. I didn’t appreciate being told to shut up. Of course, I wasn’t exactly nice to him when Miguel and I split. I forgave him instantly, like he usually did for me. “I honestly don’t see what you did wrong. I don’t know what Peaches is going through, and no one seems to know what’s going through his head. We all agree he has issues though.”

“Exactly! I thought I fixed those issues already. We argued a little, but in the end, it worked out just fine. He conquered his demons and life went back to normal. But this . . . this . . . why won’t he just tell me what’s wrong?”

“Maybe he doesn’t actually know.”

“Maybe he doesn’t. But I could figure it out if he sat down and talked to me about it. I’m a good listener, right? All he has to do is sit there and fucking talk to me, and he won’t even do that. He claims it’s all my fault. And okay, I agree that the thing he saw at Prescott’s party wasn’t the most flattering, but I wasn’t lying. I didn’t blow anyone. He won’t believe me.”

“He knows how—er—forward you get when you drink.”

“I’d tell him if I actually had blown that guy. Hell, I’m willing to fess up to it just so that we can move on already.” Eddie snorted. “Not like he’d ever forgive that. He’s always had a problem with my past promiscuity.”

The door clapped open at the front of the bar, and Zared entered.

Great.

“Hey!” he called to Eddie, slipping onto a stool beside Oliver. “Who wants to get me a beer?”

“I’ll take care of him,” I muttered.

“Hey, Eddie. You could almost pass for a man in that outfit you’re wearing,” Zared said with a sneer. “Almost.”

“You know what, Zared? Go suck your father’s dick.”

“I have you to do that for me.”

“You set yourself up for that one, dude,” Oliver told Eddie, taking a swig from his bottle.

“I am in no mood to put up with you tonight.”

Zared ignored Eddie and turned to me. “I’m getting plastered tonight, by the way.”

“Good for you. I’m not taking you home.”

“Nah. Oliver will.”

“I’m not your taxi service,” Oliver muttered.

“And how often have I been yours? Oh, hey, by the way, our gig has been moved to Sunday.”

“What? Why didn’t you tell us this earlier?” Griffin asked.

“I just got the call from the manager or whatever. Some people had to switch schedules, and of course we got the shaft. But I mean, we’re fucked now, right? Peaches is gonna wanna have his fag holiday or whatever—”

“Peaches’s Sundays are free now,” I said plainly, slamming a drink down in front of him. “Don’t worry about it.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Eddie eavesdropping on us, though his back was turned.

“Really? What’s the occasion? Did Eddie finally take him off the leash?”

“You know it was Peaches’s decision to take Sundays off, not Eddie’s demand.”

“Whatever.” Zared tipped back his head and took a slurp. “Anyway, this is great. Now I don’t have to find a replacement drummer or put Griffin on, which is such a pain in the ass.”

Oliver and Griffin looked at me, then Eddie. They were waiting for a reaction.

It was a weird thing, Zared’s relationship with Peaches. Zared was always so nice to me when he and I were alone. He’d talk about his family and how weird they all were, joke with me, ask questions about my life, and generally be a nice guy. But something about Eddie and Peaches set him off, and I still didn’t know why. Griffin claimed it was because Zared hated people who weren’t solely dedicated to music like he was, that he resented Peaches’s strong bond with Eddie, but who knows if that was true. I know he wasn’t homophobic; I’d seen him get along fine with other gay guys Oliver knew. I know he used the gay slurs to simply piss Peaches and Eddie off.

The guy was almost as complicated as his drummer.

“Hang on.” Zared tapped his chin. “Tell me again why Peaches is free Sunday.”
We all just kind of stared at him, daring him to come up with the conclusion himself.

He did. Because despite how he sometimes acted, he wasn’t a dumb ass.

“Shit, are you serious? Ha!” Zared clicked his drink against the table. His laugh was more a bark than anything that implied amusement. “Well, good. Peaches has been a self-righteous pain my ass since day one. Now at least I won’t have to put up with his ‘Essie this’ and ‘Essie that’. About time he realized what a douchebag he was for being the most whipped homo in the city.”

While Peaches and Eddie seemed to have more differences than similarities, it seemed they both lacked the capability to refrain from kicking Zared’s ass. Because in two seconds Eddie had crossed over to me, took Zared’s hair by the roots, and slammed his head against the counter. Not hard enough to knock him out or make him bleed, but enough for it to hurt. And then he held him there, knuckles white from the strain.

“Eddie!” I exclaimed, taking his arm. “You know he just said it to get you upset!”

“Yeah, man,” Oliver said, standing up. “You should—”

Eddie ignored us both and hit Zared’s head on the counter again. Holy shit. I’d never seen Eddie do more than toss water at Oliver or something. Now he looked particularly murderous, and I was reminded that while I thought of Eddie as this cute little harmless gay boy, he was in fact six-foot-three and outpowered me threefold.

“Fffffuck,” Zared hissed, struggling.

I glanced nervously over at Dad, but he didn’t seem to notice the chaos. If he saw Eddie doing this, he might fire him. He didn’t tolerate violent employees, period. It didn’t matter how much he cared for Eddie. One look and Eddie would be banned.

“Eddie,” I whimpered again, tugging on him.

“Zared, you are the most vile human being on the planet. Even a mother with a heart of gold couldn’t love you.”

“Don’t you say shit about my mother,” Zared gasped against the counter.

“And I’m pretty sure if you died, I wouldn’t even care.”

“I don’t want you at my funeral any—ahh! Fuck, let got of me!”

“If you’re going to say things to piss me off, be smart about it. Pick on a weasly guy who can’t fight back.”

“How was I supposed to know you did more than scratch? Let go of me!”

At this point, I wasn’t sure if Eddie would hurt me too.

I started at the thought. Eddie hurt me? Are you insane?

“I ho—hope you live the rest of your life deprived and alone,” Eddie said, and I saw his hard exterior cracking. Even the poor pretenses he put up for the customers tonight was crumbling. Any moment he was going to fall apart. I couldn’t let anyone see that. Eddie would be humiliated for eternity.

“I—I absolutely hate you,” Eddie stuttered. Then he released Zared with a shove and vanished into the kitchen.

We all glared at Zared as he sat up.

“Ow,” he whimpered, rubbing his scalp. “What a fag.”

I went into the kitchen, where Eddie was leaning stiff arms against a counter, bent over and inhaling air sharply through his nose. He was fighting something powerful. I wasn’t sure if it was murderous rage or deep despair.

“Honey—”

“Get out,” he whispered, eyes still clenched shut.

“But—”

“Go away. Please.”

I stared at him a moment, wanting nothing more than to hug him. But he didn’t seem to want the same.

I sucked in everything I wanted to say, turned on my heel, and left him alone.

*****

A week passed. Nothing of much significance passed. Eddie rarely texted or called, so I figured he didn’t want me around. I knew he just needed a little space, but I felt a bit hurt. Maybe he thought I was a crappy friend who couldn’t help him. Maybe I wasn’t as good a listener as him. Maybe I should have baked more cookies and complained less. If he’d let me near him, I could hug him until the pain went away.

I saw Eddie at work every night. He worked his day off for reasons I didn’t understand, and since it was busy, Dad let him stay for an entire shift.

Peaches never showed, but I didn’t think it was that strange, since Oliver and Griffin only came one night anyway. Hector and Zared were missing as well. Oliver said it was a hectic week for the band. I took his word for it, even though he might have been lying to spare my feelings.

My time with Mitchell suddenly made me feel guilty. It wasn’t right, to have a nice, loving boyfriend when my friend had just lost his. Every “I love you” sent a dagger through my heart. It made me think of Eddie, and how he was in want of those three words now.

Mitchell noticed my lack of enthusiasm after awhile.

“Are you mad at me?” he asked when I didn’t respond to his cuddling during a movie Sunday night. I kept checking my phone, waiting for Eddie to text me or call. I asked if he wanted to hang out today, but he told me he was going somewhere with his mother. I didn’t know if it was a lie or the truth, but I didn’t want to argue.

“No,” I told him.

“Then why are you acting strange?”

I guess I couldn’t hide it from Mitchell any longer. “Eddie and Peaches broke up.”

“Oh.” He paused a moment. He wasn’t impacted much, of course. He liked Eddie a lot, but he didn’t know Peaches much, and he wasn’t very familiar with their powerful relationship. To him, they were just acquaintances. “I’m sorry.”

“Eddie is so heartbroken, and I’m afraid he’s going to do something stupid.”

“Not anything drastic, I hope.”

“No, he’s not suicidal. But . . .” My thoughts drifted to the last time he’d been through a nasty break-up. When Anwar left, shortly afterward Eddie found solace in drinking and sex. That was how he became renowned for his sexual prowess, and I did not want him to resort to such now.

“But what?”

“I’m only worried.”

“Break-ups always suck. But I guess you gotta just keep plugging away, right?”

I sighed. “Yeah. I guess.”

Mitchell kissed the side of my mouth. “You feel guilty, don’t you?”

“A little, yeah. I don’t want Eddie to feel left out.”

“So you want to pretend you’re single so you don’t make him feel bad?”

“No. I don’t know. I’m being irrational, but I still feel guilty.”

“He’ll find someone else.”

I loved Mitchell, but sometimes he didn’t get the point. “I don’t want him to. Peaches and him were perfect together.”

“There might be someone out there who will make him just as happy. I mean, I had this girlfriend sophomore year of high school that I was totally infatuated with. I worshipped the ground she walked on. And so we dated for two years. Every day felt amazing and perfect. When we broke up before college, I thought I’d die. I was certain I’d never find another thing like her.” He raised his eyebrows at me. “And here you are.”

I pursed my lips. “It’s not the same.
He chuckled. “And how isn’t it?”

“That was high school. Every person you date in high school feels like The One. That’s how adolescent hormones work.”

“Oh, so you’re saying I don’t know my own feelings for someone? You’re saying what I had wasn’t as real just because I was a few years younger than Eddie and Peaches were when they hooked up?”

“Well—”

He leaned back and looked at me. “Relationships are never a done deal. Even the best ones can end badly. But you move on and get on with your life. You find someone else. You fall in love again. Humans have a large capacity for healing.”

We do? Then how come I still dreamed about Miguel? How come his memory still made my chest hurt? Did I simply need more time? Or was I just weird?

“It’s not the same,” I insisted again. “Because you’re straight.”

Mitchell laughed. “Oh, right. That makes all the difference in the world!”

“I’m just saying they’re different.”

“Okay, yeah, that’s one difference. A difference that doesn’t actually matter. At all.”

“Actually, I think gays get along better with each other than straights. I think it’s because you know your own gender better than the other.”

“Hmm, really? Because I’ve met a couple of gay people that sure do know how to moan and whine about how their partner confuses them.”

I tapped my mouth. It was true. Women confounded me almost as much as men did. Like the whole “buy this three hundred dollar designer bag to match my lipstick” thing made me want to disassociate myself from everything female for the rest of eternity.

“They were cute,” I pouted.

Mitchell shrugged.

His answer didn’t help much.

2—A Boy Named Eddie—2

Music was out, except for maybe Weird Al and System of a Down. So were movies. And most books. Everything got me depressed. Even an advertisement for jeans in the store window, showing a girl smiling from beneath the embrace of a man, ruined any good mood I tried to conjure. So I either hung out with my mother and talked about boring day-to-day things, cooked at home, or slept. And worked, of course.

Mom, like me, was very receptive to other people’s moods. She asked me what was wrong the first five minutes I spent with her.

“I’m going through a rough patch with Peaches,” I told her.

I didn’t tell her it was over. That would mean it was true. Which it was, but I didn’t want to believe it.

I was also a masochist. A hypocritical masochist. I claimed to avoid anything to do with love, but then I sat around and reminded myself of him constantly. When I couldn’t fall asleep, I pulled out my phone and scanned through all the texts we’d sent each other, going to the really old ones that I never deleted them because I always read them when I was sad.

I hate texting. It’s so hard to sound intelligent when it’s so fucking difficult to capitalize i’s. i luv u just sounds moronic.

That one still made me smile, despite the circumstances.

I went further back, the the first text he sent me after we got together.

Hey, I just wanted to know if you are working tonight. Thought I’d stop by and say hello. I’m still kind of sick, but seeing you may make me feel a little better.

Damn it. Why was I doing this again? Oh, right. To torture myself.

As I flipped through the messages, it was clear that Peaches got more comfortable as time went on. He even sent me crazy, irrational texts that had no purpose other than to make me worry for his sanity.

You betta watch yo back, b cuz I KNU WHERE YOU LIIIIIIIIVVVVEEEE!

I still remembered my reply to that: WTF?

Then there were texts he sent when he was on tour. I could tell, because they were really long and he never spent more than five minutes texting unless he was really bored and tired, which only happened when he was away from home. I had a knack for keeping him busy when he was home.

Hey, it’s four in the morning and Oliver just passed out in the back of the van. Everyone else is asleep. I’m not that tired, even though I should be and we have to get up at seven in the morning tomorrow to drive to Sacramento. I guess I’m not tired because we were really on tonight, and my heart is still racing from it. And I didn’t have groupie sex to tire me out, haha.

Would you be considered a groupie? And when we have sex, would that be considered groupie sex? Because that’s gross. Groupies have herpes.

I should call you, but I know you’re asleep, so I’ll just spent forty-five minutes typing this all out and draining all the minutes on my phone.

Miss you, as usual. Sometimes everyone is just screaming and jumping and really into our music, but I still feel like it isn’t enough, because you aren’t out there enjoying it. I love it when you stand right at the edge of the stage, where you dance and look at me like we’re all alone. Still gives me shivers just thinking about it.

Where would I be without you?

I love you.

Peaches, a.k.a. Baby Pussy Cat Honey Muffin Cakes or whatever the hell you call me.

A phone was a horrible thing to have. I even had short ten second video clips on here of random moments in my life, seventy percent of which included him. Why didn’t I just get that cheap ten dollar phone at the grocery store when I had a chance? This thing tormented me.

I felt an odd desire to reply to this text. I felt like it could transport me back in time. As if he could read my reply and instantly remember this text, as if that would make everything perfect again. I wish I had replied to this message. I never did, though, because he called me the next morning, therefore making it pointless. Why hadn’t I? I could have sent him just a short, “I love you too”. I don’t know how that would have helped with this moment, but I felt guilty now, months later.

I turned off the phone and put it on my nightstand. Taking a deep breath, I realized I had to do something. If I sat around wanting him, thinking about him, crying over him and blaming myself, then I was going to spend the rest of my life in misery. There had to be a moment when I said “enough” and tried to get on with my life.

I didn’t know if I could do it, though. Because, once again, that was admitting that it was over. Peaches hadn’t texted me since our meeting, so I assumed he didn’t want to deny my suggestion. I wished he had begged me to come back. I wished he’d hounded me with pathetic texts to why we had to be together.

But I received nothing, so I knew I wasn’t alone in thinking we were best apart.

I could do several things. I could go on as if nothing had happened. That wasn’t working very well. I could also go out, get drunk, and have sex with some stranger whose name I couldn’t remember thirty minutes later. While I hadn’t tried that yet, it didn’t sound appealing. I was older now. I felt like drunken rebound sex was beyond me. Besides, the idea of having sex with anyone other than Peaches made my skin crawl. I suppose if I were in the moment, I wouldn’t mind. But thinking objectively, I was turned off. I knew each touch was built upon love and adoration, upon not only his desire to please himself, but me too. Could I even handle someone touching me in the same way, but with no foundation beneath? Hollow touches that were as shallow as puddles. Touches that were for the purpose of satiating desire and nothing else.

Besides, I’d come to learn that I was an intensely cuddly person after sex. Sex with Peaches had me feeling happy and perfect afterward. Meaningless drunk sex would only have me feeling dirty. And there sure as hell wouldn’t be any cuddling. Nor would there be those really deep, murmured conversations Peaches and I held with each other, conversations that carried twice the weight than our daily conversations. That was when he confessed things to me, things he kept hidden otherwise. Maybe that was why I didn’t know what was going on with him right now; we hadn’t had sex in a while.

Thinking about sex and Peaches was a huge mistake, because despite everything shitty that had happened, I was starting to feel a little hot, as if my anatomy didn’t give a shit what my brain said; it wanted sex now.

“That’s impossible,” I sad, looking down at my lap.

I was going insane. I was talking to my own goddamn dick.

*****

Once again, I was reminded why I hated gay bars so much.

People liked to complain about them, asking why gays just couldn’t go to regular bars and stop segregating themselves from the straight community. Why does there have to be a community?, they’d ask. If you’re no different from straight people, why do you hide in your neighborhoods and gay bars and hang out with your own kind?

I knew the answer to that one. Because a gay man couldn’t walk into a regular bar and flirt with whoever he liked like a girl could. If a guy flirted with a girl who didn’t like him, he just got laughed at and turned down. If a guy flirted with a man who didn’t like him, he’d get punched in the face. So I totally understood the point of gay bars, and yes, it felt nice to be with my own kind for one night. It felt nice to walk in there and know that almost every single man would open up to my advances. There was no fear of rejection here, and everyone knew it was a perfect place to get laid in a bathroom without any promise of commitment.

I didn’t want to get laid in a bathroom. I just wanted to convince myself that yes, I was still a desirable human being. Peaches’s rejection had me feeling useless and ugly, and for the first time, I wanted creepy guys hitting on me shamelessly. Just to prove to myself that I was someone of worth and that Peaches was wrong about me.

I should have gone in drag, because this was one place where it would be welcome. But I didn’t feel like it. My Mary Janes were growing a thin film of dust at the back of my closet. I was shocked to how much I didn’t care. I didn’t feel like going through the make-up routine, messing with my hair, finding an outfit that flattered my un-feminine figure, and making it all match. Too much effort was involved, and I felt manly tonight anyway. To me, depression and anger seemed like man emotions, where as my perky, upbeat attitude seemed feminine. So here I was, dressed in a pair of jeans stolen from Squire (not really. They gave them to me) and a tight cotton T-shirt that had a picture of a shell-shocked lamb with the words “OH NOES!!” written above his head. It was the sort of random thing Dot bought for me.

“You okay, hon?” the bartender asked.

I shruggged. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Hmm, I know what puts an expression like that on a man’s face. Nasty break-up?”

I took a sip from my neon green drink that I’d ordered and quickly forgotten the name of. It tasted super sweet, probably to cover up the overwhelming taste of hard liquor. Three of these and I’d be smashed into oblivion.

“I guess you could say that,” I said after a long pause.

“Well, a night of dancing should cheer you up,” he said, winking and then moving away.

Nice advice, I thought sarcastically. I was a way better bartender than him. When I noticed a poor soul after a break-up, I did my best to talk and cheer him up. I didn’t just say, “Good luck with that!” and move away.

I was unnaturally bitter. I didn’t care.

An image of perfection took the stool next to me. By perfection, I meant the stereotypical six-foot tall jock-type that always seemed to have a five o’ clock shadow and a too-white smile. I hated guys like him. There were a million of them, and each one was pretty much the same.

Three . . . two . . . one—

“Hi,” he said.

Great come-on, I thought, resisting a sudden urge to roll my eyes. But even a horrific break-up couldn’t deter my natural instinct to smile and nod politely.

“Hey,” I said, merely glancing at him and then back at the bar.

“You look familiar.”

I was waiting for him to say something like, “You look familiar because you’ve been in my dreams.” One time Peaches and I spent a whole hour thinking up lame come-ons, then would act them out to each other amidst our hysteric laughter.

Don’t think about him, Eddie.

“Yeah?” I tossed a glance at him. Someone shuffled up onto a stool beside me, but not to hit on me. He ordered something from the bartender and turned around to talk to someone else. I ignored him.

“Oh, I know!” he exclaimed excitedly. “You—you’re that guy on the billboard, aren’t you! On the PCH!”

I took a sip from my drink. “No, I’m not.”

“But you look just like him.”

“I wouldn’t know. I haven’t seen it.” At this, I turned and gave him a blank-eyed stare.

“Oh, well . . .” He scratched the back of his neck. Then he shrugged. “Just so you know: saying you look like him is a compliment. I mean, that guy is just gorge—”

“Thank you.”

The jock-type extended his hand. “I’m Miles.”

Upon hearing his name, I didn’t want to touch him. I did, but I didn’t want to. Miles was Peaches’s middle name. I would know, since I forced it out of him through threats of extortion and black mail, then spent three days trying not to laugh about it. Miles? You’re name is Miles? Mwahahaha . . . I could remember how much Peaches pretended to hate me after that.

“Hi.”

“And you are?” he prodded.

“Ed.” It wasn’t technically a lie, right?

“You don’t look like an Ed.”

“I must have when I was a baby.”

He blinked at me. I wasn’t helping him out with this. He seemed astonished that I wasn’t flirting obnoxiously, and I bet it was because he got hit on all the time. I didn’t mind taking him down a peg.

“Yo, Miles!” came a call from the guy beside me. “Why don’t you go blow Howie in stall four and spare the kid, okay?”

I turned and looked the guy. He was over thirty, slightly balding, and a little soft around the middle. He was smirking at Miles, drink raised.

“Back off, Brian. I don’t need your shit.”

“Just protecting Howie’s interests.” Then Brian took a greedy swig from his drink and turned his smile to me. “Is he bothering you, hon? Just tell him to fuck off. He needs to hear it for once.”

“I’m fine,” I grumbled, sitting straight and glaring down at my drink.

“Brian, shouldn’t you be home baby-sitting that kid of yours?”

“Nah, Marlene has him. She always has him. She’s fighting for custody on him, the little bitch.”

They shared chatter over top of my head, and I fully considered just leaving the bar altogether. I turned to the bartender after draining my drink.

“Can I get another one?” I asked, holding up my empty glass.

“Sure thing.”

Another green drink was placed down in front of me. By the time I took a sip, Miles had vanished. But Brian remained.

“Sorry about him. He’s oblivious to ‘get away from me’ glares.”

“Are you?” I looked at him.

“Hmm.” He scratched his chin. “That’s not so much a ‘get away from me’ glare. It’s more like a—a ‘who do you think you are?’ kind of glare. There’s a difference.”

I sighed and shook my head.

“You know, you shouldn’t be here if you can’t handle getting hit on by Miles, of all people. I mean, there are far more aggressive guys here. Like me.” He jabbed a thumb into his sternum. “So let’s skip the pleasantries and get to the meat of the issue. Do you have any interest in joining me in my car this evening?”

“No.”

“And there we go. Straight answer. Or is it gay answer?” He laughed and took a drink from his beer. “Oh, I hate puns so much. Anyway, if you’re not here to get laid, what are you here for? Because the music sucks and the drinks are too expensive. You could go somewhere else if getting drunk was your purpose.”

I sighed. Brian was far more tolerable than Miles, and I think it was because he reminded me a little of Oliver. I could tolerate a guy like that.

“I would say you just broke up with someone, but usually people come here to get laid if that happened—”

“You have a kid,” I interrupted. “And a wife?”

“Ex-wife, to be exact. It appears she didn’t much care for the whole ‘my husband is a homo’ thing. She hates my guts, naturally, but not because I’m gay. She just hates me for the usual reasons a woman hates her ex. She says I’m lazy, insensitive, irresponsible, and can’t take anything seriously, to name a few.”

“Why did you marry her if you were gay?”

“Don’t judge me. I grew up in a family that hated gays. And not for the usual religious reasons. Hell, there wasn’t a religious bone in my father’s body. But you know how it is with rednecks. Their manhood can be threatened by pretty much anything: black people, vegetarians, liberals, gay people, French people . . . As for the kid, totally not my idea. But birth control can fail, which is why I even married Marlene in the first place. For the kid. And now look at me. Divorced at twenty-four and still single by age thirty-two.”

I just peered at him. unable to think of anything to say.

“And you?” he asked, crossing his legs and leaning back to survey me. “What’s your tragic story?”

“Ran away from home. Ended up here. Became a bartender.”
“And a model.”

“I don’t know what you heard from that conversation, but I already told Miles that the guy on the billboard isn’t me.”

“Don’t patronize me, babe. I see that billboard every day, and you most definitely are that kid.” He leaned forward and flicked a curl that hung in front of my forehead. “That hair gives you away.”

I sighed. “Fine. Whatever.”

“And is your real name Ed?”

“Sort of. It’s actually Eddie.”

“That name suits you far more than Ed.”

“How do you figure?”

“Ed reminds me of a lumberjack or a construction worker. Eddie reminds me of . . . well, a guy like you.”

“A guy like me.”

Brian nodded. “Yeah. Someone pretty.”

“Thanks,” I muttered sarcastically.

“So. Tell me. Who did you break up with?”

“None of your business.”

“Fine.” Brian shrugged and went back to his beer. “Don’t tell me.”

“I just came here to feel . . . to feel wanted, you know? That’s all I came here for.”

“So you just want people to hit on you?”

I ran a hand over my face. “I’m pathetic.”

“No, I can see what you mean. I felt pretty worthless when my dad beat the shit out of me after he found out about my homosexuality. So I went out and slept with eight different guys in a week. Didn’t do much for my self-esteem, and I actually did feel just as worthless as when I started, but I proved something to myself. Not sure what, but something.”

“I don’t want to sleep with anyone.”

“That’s probably a good idea. It never really leads to much.” Brian stared at me as I made circles on the counter with a finger. “Still feel loyal to him, then?”

“I should probably leave.” I drained my drink.

“Oh, come on. Let’s not talk about that. Let’s talk about . . . baseball.”

I snorted and shook my head. “Baseball?”

“Or football. Or goddman raquetball if that strikes your fancy. Let’s not talk about romantic failures and just talk like good buddies, capische?”
I nodded wearily. “I’d—I’d like that.”

“Hey, John! Another Fuzzy Catepillar over here!”
“Fuzzy Catepillar?” I asked, looking down at my empty glass.

“Yeah, don’t ask.”

“Oh, Brian. Can you promise me something? I don’t know you that well, so I’m probably a moron to ask you of this . . .”

“What?”

“When I get drunk, I’ll probably ask you to sleep with me.”

Brian snorted. “What?”

“I’m serious. I ask everyone that when I’m smashed. So please, please say no, okay?”

He nodded. “Sure thing, kid. I don’t have sex with drunks anyway. That’s how my kid happened.”

“Thought you said it was birth control failure.”

“It was that too.”

By the fourth Fuzzy Catepillar, I was done. My mind was reeling, my heart racing. My misery seemed to melt away as my usual drunken joy seeped through. I’d never been a miserable drunk, and this was once again the case. You’d think I’d be weeping like a moron and falling to my knees, but I suppose my subconscious had better ideas. So I wasn’t much shocked when I was practically crawling in Brian’s lap, laughing too loudly at almost everything he said, and kissing his cheek. I think we danced a little, but I was a bit too drunk to move with my usual grace. I soon got so shit-faced that I couldn’t even stand, and Brian had to drag me out to his car.

I don’t remember what happened after that, but I know I woke up on a strange couch, still dressed. Groaning and clutching my head, I stumbled into the kitchen, where Brian was standing in a red robe, smoking and frying up some eggs.

“Hey, beautiful. How do you like your eggs?”

“We didn’t have sex, did we?”

“No.” He looked over at me. “I promised.”

“Did I ask?”

“Several times, actually.”

I groaned and leaned against the threshold.

Brian gave me a slow smile, the sarcastic kind that I began to recognize as his signature expression. “Don’t worry, gorgeous. I don’t take advantage of drunken pretty boys. Not my style.”

“Thanks.”

He shrugged. “How do you like your eggs again?”

*****

Brian drove me home an hour later, which I very much appreciated. I offered to pay him with what was left in my wallet, but he declined.

“I do this all the time with everyone,” he said, smiling.

“You’re a nice guy.”

“If you knew me better, you might not say that.”

“Well, I know a lot of guys who would have taken advantage of me. You didn’t. Thanks.”

“If I wanted sex, I could have gotten it from someone else, no prob.”

“I don’t usually go to gay bars for this reason.” I blushed slightly. “I get kind of carried away.”

“Tell me about it. You know, I thought you were a little girly when I met you, but I didn’t know you were a full-fledged fem.”

I chuckled nervously. “Yeah, well, I get pretty girly when I’m drunk.”

“And naughty.”

I groaned. “What did I say?”

“Some things I wouldn’t confess to a priest, that’s for sure.”

“I say kinky things, but I never really mean them. You know how it is. I’m actually not that kinky of an individual. Handcuffs are as far as I go, ever.”

Brian laughed. “Okay, that’s nice to know.” He sobered. “Look, I don’t know if you remember, but . . .”

“What?”

“When I got you to my house, I told you for the twenty-fifth time that I wasn’t going to fuck you, and you just kind of—um—fell apart.”

“Oh.” Damn it.

“I’ve never seen someone switch so quickly between flirty and fun to downright miserable.”

“I was crying?”

“You were more than crying. You were bawling.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. I’m sorry. I’m sorry you’re so sad.”

I opened the car door and slipped a leg out. “I’m fine.”

“I’m sorry that someone makes you feel that way.”

I nodded and didn’t answer.

“Eddie.” Brian put a hand on my shoulder. “Why don’t I give you my phone number? In case you want to talk or, I don’t know, just hang out. You seem pretty lonely right now.”
“I have a friend already.”

“No one said you couldn’t have two friends.”

“Look, this can’t be some sort of prerequisite to a date—”

“No. It’s not. Listening to your blubbering last night, it’s going to be a while before you’re ready to start dating again. I’m just offering friendship.”

I stared into his green eyes for a long time, then sighed and took out my phone. I went to the phonebook and then handed him the device.

I was about to take it back, but then he pressed “send” and his phone began to ring. He picked up and looked down at the number.

“I didn’t say you could have my number,” I said.

He smirked. “Just making sure you call.”

I sighed, a bit aggravated, and extricated myself from the car.

“Talk to you soon!” Brian called, then drove away and around a corner, out of sight.

I went back inside, not surprised that I felt no better than I had yesterday.

Author’s Note: Yay, Part 3!

Anyway, awkward place to start, but oh well. Can’t help it. Hope you enjoyed it! I love reviews! ^_^