Author’s Note: Really Long Chapter. SORRY!

3—A Girl Named Dot—3

Peaches actually showed up on the night Eddie had off. I was a little shocked he did, but I guessed that Oliver told him what day Eddie had off this week. Peaches barely looked at me the whole night, and he looked pretty uncomfortable sitting there. That didn’t stop me from analyzing the state he was in, which was not a nice one.

It wasn’t overtly obvious. Some who knew him less would claim he looked terrible in his ripped jeans, faded sweatshirt, and ratty sneakers. But I knew he wore that crap all the time. So I didn’t look at his clothes. I looked at his face.

The major clue into his distress were his eyes. They were a little red, though not puffy, meaning he wasn’t sitting around and crying. His lips were a bit thin, and it was clear he hadn’t shaved in a few days. His eyebrows kept a constant shadow over his eyes, eyes that looked darker than I remembered. He also kept his mouth shut, which while in itself wasn’t an amazing phenomenon, he was known to be more talkative in his circle of close friends. Now he barely said anything outside the occasional grunt of agreement. He muttered a soft “thank you” when I put his drink down in front of him, but that was it. He didn’t talk to me the whole night.

You didn’t break up with me, moron. Why won’t you speak to me?

He knew. He knew I was allied with Eddie before I was allied with him. I’d always take Eddie’s side. He wasn’t an idiot to assume otherwise.

When Peaches went to the bathroom, I quickly scooted over to Oliver.

“What did you pay him to come here with you?”

“I didn’t pay him anything. I said I was coming here tonight, and he said he was coming with.”

“So? Tell me. How is he doing? He’s living at your place, right?”

Oliver shrugged. “I don’t know. We don’t talk much. He watches TV with me, eats breakfast with me, works, and hangs out in his room. He did that before he dated Eddie too. What did you expect? Did you think he’d go slit his wrists and be emo about the whole thing? Peaches hates emo guys. Hence why he hates the majority of queers I know. You know queer bands.” Oliver laughed at their expense. “It’s all about who fucked them over and how they’ll never get over it. If it weren’t for Eddie and Peaches, I might even hate gay people.”

“Oliver.”

“That was a joke.”

“Anyway, I know what you want to hear, but the answer is no. Nothing is really different about him. He sleeps, eats, and works. I once tried to ask him what was up with Eddie, just to see what would happen. He changed the subject and refused to answer me. So, you know, whatever. Let the man mourn in peace.”

“Surely you’ve noticed something.”

“Okay, his playing is a little off, but so what? I can barely even tell, and then the man spends two hours afterward beating on himself about it. Oh, that reminds me. He is harder on himself than usual when it comes to his playing. He’s always really hard on himself though.”

“Oliver, the man just broke up with the love of his life. You have to notice something wrong with him.”

“You don’t know Peaches very well, do you?” Oliver shook his head. “I’ve known him a while now, and I know one thing about him that has never changed: he has problems and he deals with them. He doesn’t talk to me about them, or you. He keeps whatever fucked up feelings inside, and he seethes. Never once has he really come to me with a problem.”

“Probably because he knew you couldn’t do anything about it anyway.”

“Exactly. He doesn’t tell people about his own feelings because he figures they’re his feelings and no one can change them but him, so what’s the use talking to people about it? Plus he’s, like, terrified as coming off as emo. Did I tell you how much he hates emos?”
“But—” I stopped when I heard the clap of the bathroom door. Peaches made his way back over to Oliver and me, settling on the stool without a word.

When he noticed me staring at him, he asked, “What?”

“Nothing.”

Peaches glanced at Oliver, who was wiping the sweat off his bottle, then back at me, who was staring at the ceiling.

“You two were talking about me, weren’t you?”

“No,” we said at once.

Peaches looked pissed, and that scared me. I wasn’t scared of much, but I was scared of the unexpected. And being as I never dealt with an angry Peaches (except that one time Peaches nailed Zared in the face), I was a bit afraid.

“If you’re going to say something about me, why don’t you say it in front of me?” Peaches demanded.

“We weren’t talking about you,” I insisted. “We were talking about, er, Zared.”

“Stay out of my business,” Peaches snapped, jabbing a finger at me.

“It’s not just your business. It’s Eddie’s too, and since he’s my friend—”

“No. It’s not your business. At all. So stay the fuck out of it.”

“No!” I growled My Angry Black Girl Mode clicked into place. Shit. “You’re being a dumb ass.”

“Oh, who told you that? Let me guess. Eddie. I’m sure he gives his unbiased opinon, right?”

“Peaches, can you just—” Oliver attempted, trying to play the peacemaker for once.

“I don’t have a problem with you, Dot. You’ve done nothing to me. But I ask that you return the favor. I haven’t done anything to you, so don’t get up in arms against me when it’s not personal.”

“It is personal! I’ve had to take care of a distraught Eddie for a week and a half now, and it’s not like I can just sit around, indifferent!”
“You’re hearing his side of the story. Not mine.”

“Fine. Tell it to me.”

“There’s no point. You love Eddie. You don’t love me. My side of the story won’t matter to you anyway.”

“Look, I want to help you out, but I can’t do that if—”

“I don’t need your goddamn help!” Peaches barked, jumping off his stool. “Why does everyone keep trying to help me? As if I’m the one who needs the help, not Eddie. Oh, that’s right. Eddie’s perfect. How could I forget?”
“I’m sure Eddie screwed up too, but—”

“But nothing. You know what I get sick of hearing from people? You’re lucky to have him, Peaches. That’s all anyone ever says. They never tell Eddie that he’s lucky to have me. Because he isn’t. Eddie can have whoever he goddamn wants.”

“I think he’s lucky to have you. Or at least I used to.” I sent him a vicious glare.

“Ha, yeah right.”

“It doesn’t matter what other people think. It matters what Eddie thinks. When has Eddie ever come across as superior? Never. He thinks you’re his equal, even if you and everyone else doesn’t think so.”

“How long do you think that’ll last, huh? That goddamn modeling job, for instance. Eventually he’s going to really figure it out. He’s going to figure out that’s he’s different. He’s going to realize that he’s hot stuff, and he’s going to start acting like it. He’s going to start listening to what other people are telling him, that I’m not good enough for him. He’s going to believe it, and then I’ll be screwed.”

“Eddie has always been told he’s hot stuff, Peaches,” I said in a condescending tone. “Ever since he was six and grandmothers pinched his cheeks. Years later and he’s still painfully naïve about it. How do you explain that?”

“He’s never made money off those looks.”

“Doesn’t matter. People have always been telling him he’s adorable. He may even know it. But he doesn’t think he’s God’s gift to the world or whatever. He just accepts it and moves on. He really doesn’t care about it that much. You’re just paranoid—”

Peaches laughed humorlessly. “Funny, Eddie said the same thing. Silly little Peaches, being paranoid as usual. But he went on a date during our night so that some acquaintance of his would make you look pretty for a date. Seems pretty materialistic to me.”

“He was just trying to be nice.”

“To you and to his acquaintance. Not to me. His reasons were stupid and shallow.”

“Okay, well, he was dumb. Can’t you just forget and forgive? It was two hours, one night a few months ago. Not that big of a deal.”

“It marked the beginning of a trend to me.”

“What trend?”

“Can both of you just chill?” Oliver insisted, leaning in front of me and blocking my view of Peaches. “If I knew we were going to get into an argument, I wouldn’t have brought Peaches along. I know emotions are high right now, but this is accomplishing nothing.”

I shoved Oliver out of the way. “Do you have any idea how much pain you’ve put Eddie in with this whole break up thing?”

“Eddie was the one who broke it off.”

“And you haven’t done much to protest it.”

“He wants it. Who am I to say what he should do?”

“He only said it because you were giving him such a hard time. God, if you two would just talk to each other rationally . . .”

“What you mean is if I would talk to him rationally. Because once again, Eddie is perfect and flawless.”

“Okay. Fine! Yes, you’re being a big stupid idiot and Eddie isn’t. There? Is that what you wanted? From what I’ve seen, Eddie actually cares about you. But you don’t give a shit about him.”

“Of course I do. I care so much I’m getting out of his way so he can realize his true potential. Maybe he should date an equal.”

“Would you shut up?” I asked, nearly hysterical now. Why was Peaches like this? I didn’t even know him. Peaches had always been such a nice, easy-going now. He adored Eddie with every atom of his being. He worshipped the ground that tranny walked on. And now he seemed to have turned completely around and renounced all that. Now he seemed to loathe Eddie. Why? Why was he attacking his best friend like this? Eddie never said such mean things about Peaches.

“No. It’s true, and you know it. Maybe he should just get some beautiful, super-friendly, all forgiving guy like him and they can just live happily forever.”

“You goddamn fucker. He fucking wants you. You’re probably too dense to realize that, but he doesn’t want someone like him. He wants you, and if you’d let him in, he could help you.”

“I don’t need help! I’m fine the way I am!”

“Obviously not, because you’re fucking insane. You aren’t yourself, and I don’t know what’s going on in that dumb brain of yours, but if you were in your right mind, you’d know you’re throwing away something wonderful.”

“All he did was make me feel bad about myself. Everything he did seemed to smack me in the face. Everyone loved him after knowing him for fifteen minutes. Fucking everyone! But me . . . people avoided me until he came along. I can’t make friends. I can’t charm people to death. I can’t throw a smile and a laugh at some innocent bystander and have them kissing my feet. I was a burden to him, and I knew it. It’s not nice, having someone elses’s superiority rubbed in your face. He made me feel miserable, okay? He says I have no self-esteem. Well, he’s the reason why. Don’t you get it? Don’t you see what this is about. I—” He cut himself off and ran a hand over his hair. “Fuck it. I’m leaving. Oliver, I’ll take the bus. See you back at the apartment.”

I couldn’t think of a comeback, so Oliver and I just watched him go in silence.

“What’s going on out here?” Dad emerged from the kitchen. “Dot, are you arguing witht the customers again?”

I shook my head. Dad noticed Oliver and understood. Well, he didn’t, but he thought he did. I was always fighting with Oliver. That was why it felt so strange to be arguing with Peaches instead of his good friend.

“Damn it. He’s not going to come back after this.” Oliver slouched. “It was hard enough to get him here, Dot. Thanks a lot.”

“Are you insane?” I snapped. “You just accept he’s like this and go on your merry way?”

“Nothing I can do about it.”

“Yes there is! Talk to him about it!”

“No offense, Dot, but there’s a reason you have so few friends. You force them into a corner and you hammer your beliefs into their heads. Sometimes you just have to lay off and let people come to you. If Peaches wants to fess something, I know he’ll come to me. In the meantime, I’d like to keep him in the band by not pissing him off.”

He had a point, but I wasn’t letting him get away with it. “He’ll never come to you, and you know it. He’ll just sit around and get more and more furious and depressed until he blows up or something.”

Oliver shrugged. “Like I said. Nothing I can do about it.”

Sighing in aggravation, I stomped away.

*****

Life had a tendency of moving on even when you didn’t want it to. As much as I wanted to run around and pick up the piece of Eddie and Peaches’s shattered life, I knew I couldn’t. Not single-handedly. Not with Eddie refusing to discuss it anymore and Peaches MIA. I had to face the truth: there was a possibility that they really were going to stay broken up.

I never told Eddie about the fight I had with Peaches. I thought it would only distress him. So that was Oliver and my own little secret.

Some dude named Brian showed up at The Smoke one night and said he knew Eddie. I was skeptical, but when Eddie greeted him somewhat cheerfully, I guess it was true. I quizzed Eddie about it later, and he claimed they were just two friends who had met at a gay bar. Riiiiight. I made Eddie promise at least ten times that he was telling the truth when he said they hadn’t had sex. I still didn’t believe him. I could only remember how it had gone after Anwar left and hope to God that it wasn’t the same.

Brian was no real looker, but I wasn’t one to judge. Eddie seemed to like him enough, and I suppose he was charming in some ways. Even though they were “just friends”, he sure did call Eddie “beautiful” a lot. I wondered if he even knew Eddie’s name.

I kept an eye on both of them, but Eddie didn’t appear to be flirting more than she usually did with customers, so I eventually got less paranoid and went about my work.

It cheered me a little to know that Eddie was slowly returning to his usual self. He smiled more, and he even began to put girly accents on his wardrobe, such as heart-shaped earrings or pink Converses. While he didn’t do the Essie drag, he was a little less terrifying to look at than the über-manly Eddie.

Once I noticed Eddie was returning to normal, I began to confess my usual fears and insecurities to him. Lately Mitchell’s mother had expressed interest in taking me shopping. Eddie was the first one to hear my spazzing.

“Mitchell’s mom wants to take me shopping.”

“What?”

“Yeah, apparently there’s this dinner she’s having. She’s inviting all friends and family, and wants me to be there. But first she wants to buy me a dress.”

“Holy shit. So maybe she’ll take you to all those crappy shops on Rodeo Drive that sell, like, three dresses.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of. I wear nothing over fifty bucks. And I paid fifty bucks for a leather coat on eBay. I’m less worried about the shopping and more worried about the dinner. It’s some formal thing rich people like to have. I do not want to show off my class and charm to a bunch of loaded pricks who hate black people.”

“Will you give that up already? Neither Mitchell, nor his parents, nor his relatives, hate black people.”

I just bit my bottom lip and twisted my T-shirt between my fingers. My fingernails were bitten to the quick and painted a flaking neon green. “I’ll just have to embarrass Mitchell in front of everyone he loves and prove once and for all what a gauche, fashion-impaired freak I am.”

“Oo. Gauche. Use that word and they’ll be impressed.”

I only shot him a glare. We were used to the routine. He’d try every avenue to cheer me up and I’d ignore every single one. It was a pattern we had established years ago. By now he didn’t care that I shot down every suggestion and I wasn’t bothered by his constant optimism.

Oh, we were such great friends.

*****

Brenda Porter picked me up that morning in her Mercedes, after Mitchell left for work. I instantly felt bad for wearing my jeans and T-shirt when I saw her in her cashmere sweater and fancy suede boots. It was obvious she wasn’t trying to look young but managed to still dress fashionably. Her hair was loose and primped, though her face was mostly devoid of make-up. She greeted me with a friendly smile.

“Jump in, dear. Don’t be afraid.”

I slowly slid into the passenger seat. All the interior was beige leather, complete with wood accents, a big sunroof and a navigation system. I don’t know why I tortured myself by looking at all the details, but I couldn’t help it.

“Do you like to shop?” she asked as she pulled away from the curb.

Normally, no. However, it was always fun with Eddie. We’d find something totally ugly and ridiculous, slap it on, then waltz around like we were supermodels. Well, like I was a supermodel. Eddie already was one.

“It’s okay,” I said, settling between my two opinions.

“I love to shop. I’m a real New York City girl,” she chuckled. “Los Angeles is beautiful, but it can never measure up to New York.”

“Why’d you come here?”

“My husband’s business took us here. Mitchell loves it, so we stay here even after retirement.” She shrugged. “And it does help out with my tan.”

I nodded but found myself speechless. What could I possibly say to this beautiful petite mother who drove a Mercedes and spoke with a New York accent? We probably had nothing in common.

“I love to shop for other people even more,” she admited. “Fitting outfits to body types thrills me. I watch all those makeover shows. It’s silly, I know, but I love the transformations.”

Was that why I was shopping with her? She wanted to make me over? I appreciated the sentiment, but I didn’t really like being made over. If I was really as good looking as Eddie claimed, I wouldn’t need a make over. Only plain people needed make-up, hair, and clothes to make them look better. Gorgeous people would look good no matter how matted their hair was, no matter how naked their faces were, no matter what rags they dressed himself in.

“I loved Mitchell’s last girlfriend to death, but she was such a skinny thing. Five-foot-six and a hundred pounds.”

“Oh. Wow.”

“It was hard to find something that could really fill her out. But you, my dear. I think we’ll find a perfect outfit for you.”

I guess that was a sort-of compliment. I let her get away with it.

We went downtown to shop and ended up in shops where all the ridiculously rich could escape all the scary Mexicans. I swear I didn’t see a single Hispanic on the whole street, which was a huge feat in L.A.

I could tell from the minute we started that the salesladies didn’t think much of me. However, Brenda Porter had such a sophisticated, powerful air that they put up with me. It was obvious Brenda had made shopping her hobby. She knew exactly who to order around and just how to do it. Soon we had a whole stack of clothing by the dressing room. Brenda made me model each one. I felt kind of stupid striding around in the dresses, but it made Brenda happy, so it wasn’t as miserable experience as it could have been.

“Hmm,” Brenda murmured, tapping her lip as I modeled a clean-cut hunter green dress. There was nothing really eye-popping about it, but the tag on it said otherwise. “Well, this is nice.”

“The dress?”

“Yes, the dress is nice. But you have such lovely breasts.”

I stared at her, unable to comprehend such bold words. Okay, Eddie just told me my boobs were fine, but it what did he know about boobs? As a gay man, he wasn’t required to care about them.

“Ex—excuse me?”

Brenda offered me a friendly smile. “Mitchell dates such thin girls. You have to be the most formed one I’ve seen in the last five years.”

“Formed?”

“You have hips, dear. And breasts.”

“They really aren’t that big.” And they weren’t. They were pretty average. If she thought mine were big, she should have seen Natosha’s.

“Compared to mine they are.” Then she chuckled in that I’m-not-putting-myself-down way. “When I was young, all I wanted was to be a hundred pounds. Now that I’m a little older, I see these skinny models and shake my head. Models these days look like ten-year-old boys. Men deserve more than girls that look like ten-year-old boys, don’t you think?”

“I . . . guess.”

“I’m merely saying that you have a very feminine figure.”

Geez, no one had ever said that to me before. I really didn’t like my big ass, but I guess it was more feminine the way it was. I sure didn’t want a butt like Eddie’s, which was practically non-existent.

“Feminine,” I muttered. I never felt feminine. My attitude and manner were pretty rough. I never liked children, never read gossip columns, never did my hair and make-up with pride, never chatted with the girls at the nail parlor (though Eddie often did) like most of the “feminine” women seemed to do. In fact, I just yelled at people a lot.

“Thanks. I guess.”

Brenda smiled. “Well, let’s try on the rest of those dresses. I’m still waiting for the one that takes my breath away.”

*****

She ended up falling in love with this pinstripe number (vertical stripes, of course.) It was three hundred dollars, but she chucked over the credit card before I could even try to challenge her. When I did protest, she just blocked me out and waved me away. I guess millionaires could afford to blow three hundred dollars in a day.

“Now,” she said as we left the store. “Accessories.”

“That’s really not necessary.”

“Oh, you can’t wear a dress without accessories. Come. I know just the place.”

First came the shoes. Then a belt. Then a scarf. Then a headband. I had to stop her at the earrings, mainly because the jewelry was twice as much as everything else. She got crafty and claimed that the mother-of-pearl earrings were for her. Once she bought them, she told me I could borrow them as often and as long as I wanted. Deep down I knew she didn’t want them back.

She was sneaky, just like Mitchell. After the shopping, she insisted on buying me lunch. She talked about Mitchell’s knack for making money, even from a young age.

“He mowed lawns as young as ten. Then he did odd jobs up until he was fifteen, when his father made him take up a minimum wage job.”

“Why?” I couldn’t imagine suit-and-tie Mitchell working at the nearest K-Mart.

“He wanted Mitchell to really appreciate a post-school education. We had no doubts that college was a definite in Mitchell’s future, but we wanted to make sure he wanted it as badly as we did. So he worked at Burger King.”

I snorted and laughed. “You’ve gotta be kidding me!”

“Nope. And by the end of that summer, he was assistant manager. He has a way of working his way up. He’s such a good butt-kisser. I’m not supposed to say that, as his mother, but that’s what he does. Just like his dad.” She giggled. “When he went off to college, I told him to do something he liked, not something that would make him rich. But that’s the thing. He loves making money. That’s what he likes to do. And he’ll work himself into the ground doing it.” She shook her head. “His father’s son all the way.”

I thought of all the nights I’d come home and Mitchell would still be plucking away at his computer, even though he’d been up at seven-thirty that morning. On my days off, he often was off at the office, doing whatever stock-brokers do (I’m still not really sure.) So far it hadn’t really gotten on my nerves, but at some point I was going to cross the line between okay and irritated.

As if she could read my thoughts, Brenda reached across the table and patted my hand. “Be patient with him, sweetheart. His father’s the same way, but he’s still got pure intentions at heart. Mitchell’s still young and doesn’t realize how important human relationships can be.” She sighed. “It may be hard to take at times, but if you support him, he’ll come around.”

After lunch, she drove me back to Mitchell’s (once again, I still couldn’t see it as my place.)

“I can tell you probably aren’t used to dating men liked Mitchell,” Brenda observed.

“What makes you think that?” I asked, looking out the window as we stopped at a light. The Hollywood sign loomed out of the afternoon smog. I hated that damn thing. Could you say tacky?

“I took you shopping today and you treated it like a death march.”

“What? Of course not! I enjoyed it. It’s just—well, the prices are so—”

Brenda laughed. “You’re such a treasure. It seems that so many of Mitchell’s girlfriends were high-maintenance. I’m sure it is a relief to him to have someone so independent.”

“I think it bothers him,” I admitted. “I usually reject his generosity.”

“He’s so used to paying out the wazoo that you’re probably a mystery to him.” She gave me another white-toothed smile. “Tell me about your other boyfriends.”

Brenda was sure thorough in her interrogations. She was my boyfriend’s mother and she wanted to know about my other romantic ventures. Okay, whatever. There wasn’t much to tell.

This was so painful. For a moment, I wondered if this was what a mother was. Someone who sat you down and asked embarassing questions, including details. How great would that be? To have a mother as beautiful and nice and interested as Brenda Porter would be the greatest paradise. Even Meghan wasn’t this motherly. Did Mitchell realize how lucky he was? To have someone as sweet as his mother?

For a moment, I missed my own mother more than I had in the past ten years.

“Do tell.”

“I dated—I dated an artist.”

“Really?” She looked intensely interested. Then she blushed a bit before saying. “I ran away with an artist when I was eighteen.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yes.” For a moment her expression became remote and nostalgic. “It was romantic love, of course. Nothing tangible. But it was sweet while it lasted.” She glanced at me. “Do go on.”

“We sort of broke up when he moved to Honduras.”

“Honduras? Really? That’s quite a move. Was he good?”

“Oh, absolutely. He was amazing.” I thought of the portrait he’d painted of me, which now sat in a box underneath my bed. My heart hurt thinking about it. “Breathtaking artist, really.”

“Hmm. Do you have any of his work?”

“Yes. Why?”

“I love art. I guess it started with my own artist lover. Now I go to galleries and everything. I’d like to see it, if you don’t mind.”

I hesitated only a moment. I was more anxious to brag about Miguel’s talent than keep his relationship with me a secret. “Okay.”

Once at the house, I crawled under the bed and pulled out the box. I ripped open the tape that held the lid on and withdrew the canvas. And it was like looking in a mirror, except my reflection was intense and beautiful and mystical. Taking a deep breath and forcing back the memories of the days he’d spent painting this, I took it downstairs for Brenda to see.

When I showed it to her, she gasped.

“Oh my Lord,” she whispered, gingerly taking it and looking over it. “That’s you.”

“Yeah.”

She glanced up at me, then back down. “Oh,” she sighed. She closed her eyes a moment, then raised her gaze to me. “He must have loved you very much.”

“Huh?” I asked stupidly.

“I can see it all here,” she murmured, lightly running a finger over the strokes. “Most people show expression through our eyes, our faces. But artists, my dear, show their emotions through their work. What do you think separates great art from the mediocre? Art is all about expression. And this . . .” She bit her lip. “I’m very sorry.”

I didn’t know if she was bull shitting me to make me feel better, but why would she do that? Why would she build up some guy she never met unless it was true? I glanced at the painting; I didn’t see much expression in it, not any more than there had been in his other paintings. However, I did notice that my eyes in the painting were different. Not in shape or structure, but in their sparkle. And maybe my lips were a bit too shimmery. And my hair was a bit longer and straighter than it was in real life.

But it could totally be true. It would make sense. It was so annoying at the time when he painted the portrait; he wouldn’t just sit there and get it done. He kept abandoning his work to kiss me.

“You have absolutely no work ethic,” I told him. “No wonder you’re so poor. You can’t sit for five minutes and concentrate.”

“I’m sorry. I usually don’t paint something so beautiful.”

I pretended to ignore him. “I sit here better than you do, and I’m not even doing anything.”

Miguel looked back at the painting, tried dabbing at it for a few seconds, then threw the brush on the ground, leapt out of his stool and grabbed me from my chair. He kissed me hard for a few minutes until I pulled back.

“Why is it always so hard to yell at you?” I murmured.

“Yeah, well.” I swallowed the thickness in my throat.

Brenda patted my arm. “Too bad he left. I’d love to endorse this sort of work.”

At that point, I was too emotional to say anything. If Mitchell’s mom had showed up eight months earlier, Miguel wouldn’t have had to leave. Of course, if Miguel hadn’t left, I never would have met Mitchell’s mother.

That was the biggest catch-22 of them all.

*****

“Dot, are you ready yet?”

Mitchell poked his head into the bathroom. For the past ten minutes I’d been attempting and failing to tame my frizzy hair. I guess the good ole bun had to be used in this circumstance. Apparently I wasn’t Prescott and couldn’t turn my hair into a beautiful masterpiece.

“I guess,” I sighed in defeat. I turned to him. “How do I look?”

But Mitchell had already moved on, tying a tie as he went. I shook my head and stared in the mirror.

“You look great, Dot,” I told myself. Then I left the bathroom.

“Dot?”

“What?” I turned.

“What’s this?” Mitchell pointed at the canvas I had leaned up against the wall.

“Um, nothing much.”

“Did you buy a painting or something?” He reached over, grabbed the painting and flipped it around, all before I could voice a word of protest. Then his eyes bugged out, and his jaw dropped, and he simply stared.

“I didn’t buy it,” I told him softly.

“Dot, this is—this is you.”

“Yeah.”

Mitchell gulped and stared at it some more.

“Who did this?” he whispered.

I shrugged a shoulder and looked away.

“Dot.”

“Miguel. See?” I reached over and tapped the illegible scribble that was Miguel’s name.

“I didn’t know he was an artist. Holy shit.” He held the painting back for a moment, squinting. “Wow. This is amazing.”

“He was insane.”

Mitchell’s eyes drifted to me. “Why didn’t you tell me about this? You should definitely hang it up.”

“But my ex painted it.”

“So?” He looked back at the painting in bewilderment.

I should have known it wouldn’t upset Mitchell. He was the opposite of clingy and jealous. He didn’t care that I spent the majority of my time in the presence of gorgeous men, such as Oliver and Griffin (well, not as much as most men would). He was either very trusting or insanely naïve.

“If you want to hang it up, you can,” I said.

“It wouldn’t upset you or anything?”

“I’m more worried about it upsetting you.”

“I don’t care. Why wouldn’t I want a painting of my gorgeous girlfriend on the wall?”

“It is pretty old school.”

“I’ll buy a frame for it and we’ll put it up,” Mitchell suggested. “But we gotta get going.” He glanced down at his Rolex. “Like, right now.”

I retrieved my purse and followed him out to the Porsche.

4—A Boy Named Eddie—4

“Eddie, I’d like you to meet Peter. Or, as I call him, Loser.”

I looked down at the twelve-year-old boy looking up at me. He didn’t look much like Brian, that was for sure. Brian had dark chestnut hair, but Peter had sandy red hair that hung down in front of his face. He was a slender, mischevious-looking boy who I already knew didn’t trust me an ounce. I got along with younger children, like Anwar’s niece Alexi, but as far as the older ones went, they thought I was too weird. I had a feeling that Peter wasn’t the nicest twelve-year-old boy on the block.

“Peter, this is Eddie.”

“Hi,” I greeted. Damn it, why was I frightened of a twelve-year-old kid whose head was level with my biceps? I could beat this kid up and toss him out a window. Yet his gaze was so unnerving.

“Dad, can I please go upstairs now?”

Peter had just arrived in his mother’s car, but the mother had peeled away just as her son’s foot left the car. It was clear she really seemed to detest Brian, and I wondered why. One of the two had to be evil, beause they divorced almost ten years ago and were apparently still maintaining a rivalry. I didn’t like it. I had just broken up with someone that meant the world to me, but I surely wouldn’t treat him afterward like Marlene did Brian and vice versa.

“I just wanted you to know who he was before I let you go—”

“Yeah, well, I do now. Now can you let me?”

“Fine,” Brian sighed, releasing his shoulder. “Lunch is at twelve-thirty!”

“Whatever,” Peter shot back before dragging his bag up the stairs.

“Nice kid, right?” Brian snorted and rolled his eyes. “We get along better than he and his mother do, but he still acts like a fifteen-year-old girl on her period. Now. Snacks?” Brian proferred a bag of chips.

“I imagined you having a sweeter child.”

“Why? Because of my sugary personality?” Brian gave me a wide-eyed, puppy-dog smile. “I’m actually shocked the kid ain’t on drugs yet. Hell, I was drinking three bottles of beer a night by his age. My old man thought it built character and put hair on a man’s chest. Well, it did, but now I don’t want either.” He winced, then laughed. When he saw the look on my face, he clapped me on the back. “Aw, come on, sweet cheeks. Don’t let him get you down. He’s like that with everyone. He doesn’t warm up to strangers easily. Give him a few weeks. He’ll come around.”

“Does he know you’re gay?”

Brian shrugged as he shuffled through the kitchen shelves. It turned out that Brian was a rather good cook. It was one of the perks hanging out with him, even though I felt guilty when I did it. I didn’t know why I felt guilty. We never did anything. We were just friends. Though not the kind of friends Dot and I were. Sometimes Brian would slip up with his “we’re just pals” demeanor and watch me in a way I didn’t like. Well, I liked it, which was even more terrifying.

“He does, I assume. I’ve never told him, but his mother probably has. She’s always talking shit about me to him.”

“And he’s okay with it?”

“He better be. I’m his father. He respects me.”

I wasn’t so sure of that. I had a feeling Brian was the kind of father who gave his kid a twenty dollar bill and told him to go wild, just so that Brian didn’t have to babysit him. Or pretend to care about his son’s life past what he bought with his father’s money.

“You know,” Brian said, grabbing a roll out of the basket on the kitchen counter and biting into it. “I always joke that I don’t know why gays want to get married so much. Marriage is probably the most evil establishment ever created. Made my life hell.”

“I’m sure not all marriages are like yours.”

“Probably not. I’d probably be happier settling down and getting hitched with a guy. Still. People change, you know? Marlene was a sweet thing when I first met her. She was quiet and polite and she was always laughing. And then we were married, and she turned into this horrific monster who always bitched and whined and criticized every little thing I did. Soon the only thing I didn’t mind was the sex, and even that sucked ass. For obvious reasons.” He rolled his eyes.

“Did you ever cheat on her?”

“Oh, hell yeah. I didn’t accept that I was gay until I was about twenty-one, a year after Peter was born. I always knew; I just never acted on it. But Marlene and I went to this party at some distant relative’s house, and I met her second cousin, Larry.” He laughed. “What the kind of hell name is Larry for a gay man, right? Anyway, I got a little drunk and we had sex.” He paused and stared ahead for the moment, stuck in the memory. Then he shook his head. “I didn’t wonder anymore after that.”

“I ran away from home when I was seventeen because my dad couldn’t handle my sexuality.” I dug my sneaker into the linoleum. “But since then, I haven’t had a problem with people accepting me, at least the friends close to me.”

“Lucky you. I put up with shit from both Marlene’s and my family. Marlene never cared that I was gay; she cared that I cheated on her. But her family was all upset, claiming I shouldn’t be able to see my son ever again because of it. Of course, the excuse didn’t hold up in court, so I was granted visitation rights. Sometimes people really like to pry into other’s lives. Like these religious fanatics. They claim that sex is for procreation. Then they turn around and freak out over everything sexual. They’re obsessed with I do with my own body. That’s why I think they’re all nymphos. All of them. They’re frightened by their own libidos, so they hide behind religion in an attempt to pretend they aren’t.”

I nodded. Sounded like something Peaches would say.

“I know one thing. When my kid has sex, I don’t want to hear about it. All I want to know is that he’s being safe. And that’s it. I don’t care if it’s a boy or a girl, if it’s kinky or not, if its monogamous or not . . . Nope. Don’t want to know.”

I smiled. “I guess that’s one approach.”

“He’ll thank me one day.”

I had to snag a quick lunch, because I was due at Squire at one. I gave Brian a perfunctory goodbye and refused to let him give me a ride.

Over time, putting on a fake smile for the camera’s sake got easier, but I still felt a little stiff, and everyone seemed to notice. I’d even been told to go home once or twice because it wasn’t working out. After that, I was scared into trying harder. I didn’t want to lose this job. If I did, I’d go back to scraping pennies together just to pay for my rent.

I hadn’t told Prescott specifically what had happened, but he knew. I could tell by his self-satisfied smirk every time I stepped through that door. He had the decency to keep his mouth shut, but not enough to keep that smug smile off his face.

“So,” he told me as he filed one of my nails. My nails looked just fine, and I had a feeling he was only working with them as an excuse to have something to do, “My friend Ulric is having a birthday party and told me to invite whoever I wanted along.”

“Who’s Ulric?”

“A friend. I told you that. Anyway, we’re going to hit a few clubs and then crash at his house. Since he told me to invite whoever, naturally I thought of you. Interested?”

I shrugged.

“It’s Sunday night. You said you don’t work Sunday nights.”

I shrugged again.

Prescott rolled his eyes and sighed dramatically. “Dear God, man, don’t tell me you’re still emo and shit.”

I glared at him. “Don’t get on my case.”

Prescott took my face in one hand and forced me to look at him when I tried looking away. “You, boy, are the most pathetic example of a man I have ever met.”

I wrenched by face from his grip and stood. I’d go to the shoot without my face powdered. I didn’t think anyone would notice anyway. I turned and took a step toward the door, but Prescott grabbed a fistful of my shirt and yanked me back.

“Sit down. Now.”

He was shockingly strong for someone shorter and thinner than me, and when he tugged me, I lost my balance and plopped back into the chair I had just exited. Then Prescott did something he’d never done before: straddled my lap. But it wasn’t to do anything naughty, because he didn’t look too pleased with me as he clamped his hands down on my shoulders.

“You look at me, Eddie. I’m not going to put up with any of your mopey, woe-is-me crap.”

“You don’t understand.”

“Oh, poor little you. No one understands me! Why don’t you go home and slit your wrists if you’re so bent on being miserable?”

“I didn’t say no one understands me. You don’t understand me. At all. Don’t presume you know every gay man just because you happen to be one. I hate it when people do that. They think I’m just as obsessed with physical pleasure amd material matters as the rest of my species. Well, I’m not, okay? Leave me alone.”

“And you don’t understand me because you automatically assume I want you to have sex with strangers and get over him.”

I blinked at him in shock for a moment. “What?”

Prescott sighed and slumped. “Look, I’m not saying you have to go out, have sex with some rich bastard like I always do, and move on with your life. I’m not saying that. What I’m saying is that you need to go out and live a little, alright? Sitting around all teary-eyed isn’t getting you anywhere. Do you plan on getting back together with him?”

“Well, no—”

“Then there’s no point in you moping about it. I don’t expect you to be your usual Prozac-induced self, but I don’t think you should be lying around crying either.”

“I’m not crying! I’m not moping either. Look, I’m putting on the best front I can, alright? You don’t get it. When have you been in a meaningful relationship? You said yourself that you’re a materialistic gold digger.”

“Not when I was in high school, dipshit. I had this relationship in high school that convinced me meaningless gold digging was easier and less painful.”

I just stared at him in shock.

Prescott sighed and peeled himself off my thighs. He ran a hand through his spiky hair, which snapped right back to its usual flair when his hand left it.

“Wait. You mean you were in actual relationship in high school?”

“I guess you could call it that. Made my life hell, though.” He snorted and a humorless smile slipped across his mouth. “You see, I was fine with coming out to everyone. I didn’t give a shit; people always hated me for other reasons than my sexuality, so I’d learned to deal with it. But he was this beloved basketball star who had a reputation with the ladies and Mormon parents and . . . yeah. Sneaking around was fun for a while, but it eventually lost its charm. I wanted him to come out or leave me. He refused to come out. So here I am.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t say that. I’m not sorry for it. You shouldn’t be. I made the right choice in leaving him. Still hurt a lot though.” He shrugged. “But I moved on. Got on with my life. A few weeks ago I heard he got into drugs. Not shocked, really. He cared more about what everyone else thought of him than how he thought of himself. Well, a man like that goes crazy. He finds a way to destroy himself.”

“So you haven’t talked to him at all since you left.”

“No. I haven’t.”

I played with the cuffs of my shirt. “And you haven’t told me about this before because . . .?”

Prescott snorted. “Because then you’d feel sorry for me and think I’m this scared little love-sick boy inside, and I’m not. I’m totally over it. Completely. I take pleasure in this new life of mine.”

“And the moral of this lesson is . . .?”

“Shit happens. You move on. You deal with it. You’re the religious one. Don’t you think God or Jesus or whatever the hell you believe in intended this?”

“I think God keeps out of my affairs. I’ve broken enough of His rules as it is.”

“You mean with the whole gay thing?” Prescott snorted again. “Yeah, like God gives a shit where you stick your penis.”

“The thing is, God has nothing to do with this. He gave us free will, and we do with it what we like.”

“Apparently He didn’t, because He didn’t give you the free will to not believe in Him. Doesn’t He throw non-believers into Hell or something?”

I shrugged. “I don’t believe that. Others do. It’s a matter of how vindictive you are. And how literally you take the Bible. I like to believe God doesn’t hate people like the Dali Lama. But maybe that’s just me.”

Prescott shook his head. “Ugh. Theology. Let’s not discuss this. It’s off topic anyway.”

“What I’m trying to say, is that this isn’t a pre-destined event. This is my own fault. And Peaches’s.”

“I have completely forgotten where I was going with this. You got me sidetracted with that Jesus crap.”

“You brought it up.”

Prescott glared at me. “Anyway, like I was trying to say, the best you can do is move on.”

“What do you think I’ve been trying to do? It’s not like I can date someone for two years and then get over them just like that. I invested half of myself in him, and it’s hard to get that part back.”

Prescott turned to the counter and began to clean up his supplies. “The boy is clearly an idiot anyway.”

I sighed heavily. “Not this again . . .”

“As if another you is going to land in his lap any time soon. I’ve been in this gay business a long time, and you’re the only one I’ve met who’s anything like, well, you.”

“Gay business?”

“I mean, sure, he may find someone with the looks, if he’s desperate. But usually looks like yours comes with a blimp-sized ego and the ability to really build up the credit card debt.”

“He doesn’t want someone with my looks. He made that pretty clear.”

“So he wants some fat, hairy dude who doesn’t make him feel inferior?”

“Yeah, I assume.”

“That shouldn’t be too hard then. There are a lot of those kind around.”

I just bit my lip and made circles with a finger on the arm rest of the chair.

“And as for you, don’t worry. There are a million dirty hippies in this city. You can have your pick of what you like.”

I sent him an unamused look.

“Though finding one who’s sober may be a challenge.”

“Right now, I’m just going to be single, okay? I can’t handle another relationship right now.”

Prescott shrugged. “Very well then. Let me powder your nose again and then you’ll be ready for the runway.”

*****

I shouldn’t have gone. I really shouldn’t have. If I were smart, I wouldn’t have gone. Especially when Dot wasn’t with me. This meant I was alone, with no backup, at a club where my ex was playing.

I was crazy, right? This was a dumb idea. A stupid idea. But for some reason, after I got back from the shoot at Squire, I had to do this. I had no clue to why, other than the suspicion that perhaps I was a masochist.

I didn’t tell Dot where I was, because I was sure the first thing out of her mouth would be, “Wow. You’re stupid,” and I already knew that. Maybe I’d tell her afterward, or maybe not. It would depend on how this night went.

I just felt like I had to see him. I had to see if had changed or if he was the same. Did he share my saddened expression, or had he snapped back to what he’d been before we got together? It was so hard to tell with him. His dress never really reflected how he felt; sometimes he’d dress in all black when he was sad, but sometimes he’d dress in all black because he had nothing else to wear. And sometimes he had bags under his eyes because of lack of sleep, not because he had a restless night.

This performance was a little more low key than usual, but there was still a crowd, a constant crowd that had become Pugnacious’s loyal followers. While Pugnacious wasn’t making the big bucks or anything, they were making a name for themselves in this city. I was proud of their accomplishments. Much of their time was spent sleeping with girls and doing drugs of questionable legality, but there was a large segment that was spent actually working on their craft. I had to admit that even Oliver and Griffin were extremely talented. Sometimes I forgot that.

I dressed as subtly as I could, in an old cotton black T-shirt and a pair of gray, faded jeans that kept my sexuality a secret. I even shoved my curls underneath a beanie, one that I’d stolen from Oliver and never given back. I don’t know why I hadn’t given it back. The thing had several holes in it where my hair poked through, which was a fashion faux pas I normally wouldn’t make. But hey, the point was to keep a low profile. Peaches wouldn’t be looking for me wearing ratty clothing. I even wore my running sneakers, because my only other options were my penny loafers, my pink Converses, my various girly flip flops, and my plethora of tranny platform Mary Janes. Man, was I really such a hopeless fem?

I stood by the bar and nursed a beer until the band appeared onstage. Zared and Oliver swapped roles as the spokesman. Tonight it was Oliver, dressed in his usual black jeans and black T-shirt, looking much like a rock god beneath the shag of his dark hair. I rolled my eyes when a few girls squealed up front and he blew them a kiss. What a whore.

I circled the bar so that I could see further back stage. Thanks to my height, I could see over most of the heads in front of me. And there he was, seated at his bright red drums near the back, a Pugnacious sticker slapped onto his largest drum. His face was lowered, nearly impossible to see beneath the bulk of the dreadlocks that fell like a curtain across it. I watched, biting my lip and picking at my nails, until the band struck up a tune and Peaches launched into a beat.

I often joked that when he played, his foot moved the rest of him. Peaches didn’t so much as tap out a beat as he did pound out a beat. His left leg jiggled, which sent his head bobbing and his arms flying. He might have been slightly subdued at the beginning, but by the middle of the song he was thrashing around, hair airborne, his body pulsing with the music. When he was like this, nothing but the music existed. He once told me that it was heaven when he played because there were no worries, no sadness, no dark thoughts to keep him occupied. There was only the crash of guitars and drums to feed on.

I was glad he had his music. I was jealous. He had something to nurse him, something to guide him through his pain. I had some things to distract me; running and cooking were my two theraputic hobbies. Still, I was never into into it as much as Peaches was into his drumming. The world didn’t fade away when I jogged. The pain didn’t ebb when I cooked. It just kind of dulled.

When I usually watched the band, my eyes would move from player to player. But tonight, I could only watch him, half in awe and half in longing. This was the one place and time I could watch him without him knowing it. There was no way he could see me past the throbbing crowd beneath the stage, and even if the room was empty, he still wouldn’t see me. He had a one-track mind during these gigs, and he didn’t even look up from his playing. When we’d been together, he told me that he didn’t have to see me; just knowing I was out there listening made him feel better. But now he didn’t. Oliver told Dot about this gig, and she in turn told me. Peaches couldn’t have known I was here.

Someone broke my concentration when she ran into me. She was slightly tipsy, wearing a T-shirt that she must have taken scissors to in an effort to look sexy, and she wore shorts that were starting a slow crawl up her ass. She latched and arm through mine before she collided with the bar.

“Come on out and dance with me, sexy!” she cried.

I gaped at her in horror. You had to be kidding me. A girl was flirting with me? Me? This hadn’t happened in forever. Was I really passing this easily? Geez. This was horrible. I probably should have worn eyeliner or something . . .

“Um, I don’t think—” I attempted to say as I resisted her pulling.

“Come on.” She gave me a more forecful tug, which unlocked my knees and sent me stumbling, practically careening into her. She giggled and wrapped her arms around my waist.

“Whoa.” I tried slithering out of her grasp, but she was holding on with an iron grip, snuggling up against my chest. Ick. Ew, I could feel her breasts on my stomach. This wasn’t good.

“You feel nice,” she said, then giggled.

“Can you get off me? Please?”

“Shy, huh?” She laughed and hugged me harder. I didn’t want to hurt her, but I couldn’t take this much longer. I grasped her arms with my hands and was about to push her away when I felt someone bump into me from behind.

“Hey, Sammy!” called a girl behind me to what I assumed was a friend. “Hey, dude!”

Oh, just perfect. This was what happened when I dressed straight. Now I felt the brush of something against my back, and if that was her boobs, I was going to hurl. I think it was, because she did it again and they felt . . . squishy.

In a burst of desperation, I threw Sammy off of me and pulled away from the other girl.

“Wait! Where are you going!” one cried.

I made it to the bathroom and leaned against the sink, taking deep gasps of air. Holy fuck. I was transported back to that party in high school, when Kaitlyn stripped off her entire top to show me her breasts. Though I could only remember feeling awkward then. Now I felt nauseous.

I was just pathetic. I know what Dot would say: “Essie, you are the gayest man to ever walk the planet.”

I probably was. Right now I couldn’t understand straight men. They found that attractive? I loved Dot and I loved her gender, but I couldn’t handle the dipshit girls Oliver hung out with. He only did so for the breasts that squicked me out. A straight man enjoyed dancing like that? Hell, I didn’t even enjoy dancing like that with my own sex. I was into more subtle come-ons than that. At least I was when I was sober.

One thing I knew. I was never going to dress manly again. It came with too many dangers.

Luckily this distracted me from the real dilemma. In my bout of disgust, I’d failed to notice that the band had ended its last song and was now exiting the stage. Lovely.

I went to the bar for another drink and sat in a dark corner until the next band came on. I found them mediocre at best. I sighed and slipped off my stool. Time to pee out what I’d spent over eight bucks for and head home.

I was washing my hands when he came into the bathroom.

I didn’t even notice until I heard him clear his throat. I looked up, then blinked in rapid succession.

Peaches stood just inside the bathroom door, staring at me. I stared back. The bathroom was empty except for us, which was an amazing feat in itself. It was as if God had planned this. He was probably laughing His ass off, that was for sure.

“Hi,” I whispered.

“Hey.” He bit his lip and shoved his hands into his back pockets. He looked away, then glanced at me surreptitiously. He looked a little wary of my manly attire.

“You—you guys played well tonight,” I said softly, wondering if it was possible to get any more awkward than this.

“Thanks.”

Long silence.

“A lot better than this band,” I continued, drying my hands on the seat of my jeans.

“Thanks,” he repeated.

Holy shit, this was terrible. Peaches had been rather taciturn when I first met him, but it had been years since it had been so hard to strike up a conversation. This was practically torture.

“Why are you here?” he asked after a very, very long six seconds.

“To listen to Pugnacious. Why else?”

“Oh.”

I bit my tongue before I could compliment their performance again.

“Who told you where we’d be playing?”

“Dot. Oliver told her.”

He nodded and looked away.

Eddie, you can do better than this, I thought to myself. Wasn’t I credited as being the best conversationalist in a two-mile radius? That was what Dot said: “Essie, you could have a conversation with a Buddhist monk under a silent oath.”

Then why was this so hard?

Was it because of the pain spreading out of my chest? God, he looked beautiful. Not in the traditional sense, of course. He hadn’t shaved in a week, it seemed, and his clothes were their usual concoction of stains, rips, and tears. Not to mention he was wearing his old green Converses, which by now looked past death. Most people would fault his Roman-esque nose and his nondescript eyes, with their boring color and their nearly non-existent eyelashes. Oh, and the hair, which in the heat of the lights and the tossing of Peaches’s head, had gained in volume and frizz. But he was gorgeous to me. The most gorgeous man alive, perhaps. It took a great deal of strength to keep from crossing the room, throwing my arms around him, and kissing him as roughly as I could.

My hands began to tremble slightly. I shoved them in my pockets, mirroring Peaches’s stance.

“You look . . . different,” Peaches muttered at last.

“Yeah. I had a few girls—” I stopped mid-sentence. I was going to tell him about the girls who had kidnapped me, but then I remember how touchy Peaches was. He wouldn’t want to know about how even more people were hitting on me, even if they were stupid drunken girls. He wouldn’t want to hear it. Probably because stupid drunken girls never forced him to dance with him against his will.

“Whose beanie is that?” he asked.

“I borrowed this from Oliver a long time ago and never gave it back. Don’t know why though.” I chuckled slightly. “It’s kind of hideous.”

“I like it.” He stepped forward and reached up. My breath swept out of me me. I was waiting for him to touch me, but he only flicked a finger at a curl that poked through a hole in the knit cap. “Your hair is escaping.”

When he retracted his arm, I exhaled in what could have been described as a single sad chuckle and reached up to touch the curl he had. “Yeah. It does that.”

We both looked away. Peaches glanced back first, and his eyes quickly jumped from my feet to my face. Was it an admiring once-over? A nostalgic once-over? A pained once-over? It was so hard to tell with him. His face was a blank slate.

“I’m glad you came,” he murmured gently. “Um, I’d hate for the band to lose a fan because of me.”

I only nodded because I could think of nothing to say.

He reached up and scratched the back of his neck. “So . . . yeah.”

“You living with Oliver?” I asked.

“For now. I’m looking into an apartment downtown. One of Hector’s friends is searching for a roommate, and I figured I could check it out. I’m getting a little sick of Oliver and Griffin parading girls through their apartment.”

“Yeah, I can imagine that sucking.” By the way, the weather sure is hot, right? How much more could I fail at this conversation?

“Not to mention it’s a dump.”

“Most guys’ apartments are like that.” Not mine though, right, Peaches? Because I’m the stereotypically gay one who cleans once a week. Did you like that? Or was that another thing you hated about me?

“And the food sucks.” He chuckled awkwardly, then cleared his throat.

I almost laughed. Serves you right.

“And I guess their grooming habits are rubbing off on me.” He rubbed his shaggy jaw. “Luckily I don’t bathe in Axe like them.”

“It hides the smell of only bathing once a week.”

Peaches laughed a little. “No, they do bathe every day. Sometimes twice a day. It’s part of being a pimp.”

“I sure hope they don’t have sex in your bed.”

“They . . .?” Peaches snorted, the lines of tension vanishing from his face. “I’m sorry, but when you said ‘they’ I just thought—”

“Ew, Peaches! Shut up, that’s gross! Ew!”

Peaches started laughing loudly now. I slapped him on the shoulder, and he laughed harder.

“Make a good porno,” he said between chuckles. “Gives a new meaning to twin beds.”
“Peaches, your’e grossing me out! Ewwww.”

“Man, Griffin and Oliver would kill me if they heard this.”

“As they should. That’s disgusting.”

“Anyway, no, I don’t think they have sex with women in my bed. They better not. I mean, they’re pretty respectful of my space, but when the moment strikes, I wouldn’t put it past them . . .”

“I’d put a padlock on my door, just to make sure.”

“And maybe an electrically-charged mattress.”

“And an attack dog that’s trained to go for the balls.”

He laughed. I laughed. He was about to suggest something else, but then he stopped. We both realized at once that we were leaning toward each other. As if my subconscious wanted to make things worse, my eyes dropped to his mouth. All of a sudden I wanted to touch it. I wanted to run my fingers along his lips, lips that looked as soft as marshmallows and as smooth as velvet. I desperately wanted his mouth on mine, his lips against my skin, his tongue running along the roof of my mouth, his teeth pressed into my lip—

The door smacked open and a guy covered in tattoos entered. He had shaggy, curly black hair, and his eyes were coated in eyeliner. He was thin and shorter than both of us, but he showed a confidence in the way he walked. I recognized him a little. I must have met him once and forgotten his name.

“Hey, Peaches. And you are . . .?”

“Eddie,” I replied, clearing my throat and stepping away from Peaches.

“Really? You looked way different last time.” He extended his hand. “I’m Justin.”

His overly forward manner caused recognition to click into place. I remembered him. He was in what Oliver liked to call a “queer band”. He was the most innocuous of the bunch, with a slight feminine lilt to his voice and more delicate features than the rest of his band mates. Without a gaydar, I could have pegged him as a queer. With a gaydar, I could spot him a mile away.

“I just came by to listen to these boys.” Justin patted Peaches’s shoulder. “They’re awesome, don’t you think?”

“Yeah.” I felt my eyebrow knit. Justin semed like the type to cuddle up to everyone, but he stood close to Peaches, almost too close . . .

“And Peaches . . . you get so into it, you know? He’s a maniac. Truly awesome to watch.”

“Do you play drums?” I asked, trying not to panic. He’s a friend. He’s a friend of Peaches. Just because he’s gay doesn’t mean they can’t be friends. I’m friends with Brian and Prescott. There’s nothing between me and them . . .

“No, guitar. But I can drum. It’s on a whole different plane than everything, else, you know? Because it’s all improv most of the time. You just go from note to note and hope you don’t fuck up. That’s the beauty of it. It’s kind of ironic, really. The better you are at guitar, the more people notice. The better you are at drums, the more people don’t notice. That’s the trick. To not be noticed. To make the beat so flawless that it just becomes one with the music. Right, Peaches?”

Peaches nodded.

“Do you play?” Justin asked innocently. There was something about him that didn’t sit right with me, and I wasn’t sure what. He seemed so nice. . .

“Oh, no. I’m musically retarded.” Oliver had coined that phrase, and I used it all the time to describe me. “I mean, I can tell that Pugnacious is talented. But when it comes to creating music . . . no, I suck.”

“Ah. An outsider looking in. Must be nice to have a fresh view of music. A naïve view. Not that it’s a bad thing. Sometimes I wish I could see my music from the outside. It would be nice not to think of chords and measures and notes and beats and just see it as what it is.” Justin shrugged.

“You know Peaches how?” I asked. I sort of know, but I wanted to make sure.

“We were introduced by Oliver awhile ago. Just a week ago I met back up with the boys again, and, well, I guess I gained a new appreciation for the music. I’m kind of their fanboy now.” Justin laughed and tossed me a perky smile.

It hit me then. Why Justin freaked me out.

He scrunched up his nose when he smiled.

Holy shit. My eyes traveled to his curly hair, albeit black curly hair. His voice. His movement. His mannerisms.

They were more subdued versions of my own mannerisms.

I was looking into a warped mirror right now.

Yes, he was covered in chaotic tattoos. Yes, he looked like the emo/Goth kid who I never identified with. Yes, he was five-seven and lanky, wearing studded jewelry I shunned. Yes, his eyes were brown and his skin slightly acne-scarred. And yes, his ears were covered in multifarious piercings, his mouth too wide for his jaw, his eyes coated in too much make-up. But it was like he’d stolen my act and then toned it down a few pegs. Okay, a lot of pegs. But still.

I realized something else too.

I was jealous.

Which was almost funny, because not only was this the first time, but we weren’t even together anymore. I wanted to laugh, then cry. I was pathetic. So pathetic that I surpassed Dot in all her pathetic moments. I should have been given an award: The Saddest, Most Pathetic Moment of Your Life award.

I wanted to scream at Peaches. Are you happy now? I feel like you felt, all those times when men were interested in me. All those times I flirted back. I know what it’s like now. Can we just forget it? Can we just make up and get back together?

Why I was jealous now, of this totally harmless gay boy, was a mystery. Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe I was afraid now because we weren’t together. I knew that when Peaches and I were together that he’d never cheat on me. Peaches was always telling me“I could never replace you.” So I figured he was telling the truth. I didn’t worry about him. I never felt like he was dissatisfied with his sex life, or that he was ever interested in someone other than me. He never looked at the asses of other men. Hell, he wouldn’t even comment on the looks of men in movies. So who was I to think he’d cheat on me? But now he wasn’t required to stay loyal to me. He could be with anyone he liked. I didn’t like the idea of him with anyone else. I hated the idea. I hated it so much I scared myself.

“We should probably get back to the groupies,” Justin said, turning to Peaches and laying a hand on Peaches’s bicep. My eyes were drawn to that hand. I wanted it to catch on fire. If my thoughts could translate into action, it would be on fire. In fact, Justin would be a pile of ashes within seconds. “They’ll be wanting to tell you how awesome you are.” Justin turned innocently to me. “If you guys are done talking, I mean. I’d hate to interrupt something.”

I took another step back. “No. Go ahead and steal him. We’re—we’re done.”

Oops. Probably should have worded it differently than that.

“Peaches?” Justin asked, but Peaches was staring at me. For the first time, he let go of his indifferent façade. I saw the intense pain beneath it. His jaw tightened, his eyes narrowed, his lips thinned. I wished he wouldn’t look at me like that. He hadn’t called, hadn’t begged, hadn’t pleaded, hadn’t shown any desire to get back together with me. I thought he’d been over me, thought he’d simply moved on with his life with ease I couldn’t grasp. But now I saw a different story, and I wished he wouldn’t give out such mixed signals. He told me he hated me, told me he’d lost faith, listed my flaws in a bout of fury, and now he gazed at me like a puppy cast off with a kick to the ribs. What did he want? Why didn’t he tell me the truth? Once again, he was lying. He was lying for pride. If he put his pride above me, then this would never work.

I looked away first.

“Peaches?” Justin repeated, tweaking his ear.

“Huh?” Peaches snapped out of his trance and looked at Justin. A blush crawled up his cheeks. “Oh. Yeah. Okay. I should probably head back.” He shook off Justin’s hand and stepped forward to clamp a hand on my deltoid. “It was nice seeing you, Ess—Eddie.”

His hand lingered longer than it should have, and the touch set my skin on fire, even though the touch was delivered through the material of my shirt. I imagined that hand slipping beneath my arm, across the slight bumps of my ribs, sliding gently along my waist, down my torso until it reached my hip, where it would grasp me softly and pull me forward. Then I’d close my eyes and simply let myself be overcome.

But he removed his hand and turned to Justin. “Okay. Let’s go.”

Justin gave me a smile before leaving a few strides ahead of Peaches. When Peaches opened the bathroom door, he looked briefly over his shoulder at me.

“Bye,” I whispered. I don’t think he heard me. He let go of the door and swept out of sight.

I leaned against the sink counter, gripping it with white knuckles. Then I rocketed myself out of the bathroom and didn’t stop until I was at the busstop. I sat down on the bench next to an overweight black woman and covered my face with my hands.

I wasn’t aware I was being scrutinized before the woman asked, “You feeling well, boy?”

I looked up at her. I knew this wasn’t New York, where you could be on fire and still be ignored, but I was still a little shocked a total stranger cared at all.

“I’m fine. I think.”

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a Snickers bar. “Here. Eat this. It’ll make it better.”

My mother once taught me not to take food from strangers, but being as I’d let a homeless man sleep in my apartment a few years ago, I figured taking candy wasn’t a problem. I thanked her and took the Snickers bar. She nodded in satisfaction when I opened the wrapper and nibbled at it.

It tasted good, but it didn’t make me feel any better.

Author’s Note: Enter—Justin. :D

So I hoped this chapter offered more insight into Peaches’s behavior. If not, in time it will all unravel.

Oh, Dot, get over Miguel already. You’re being silly.

And manly Eddie + drunk horny girls= bad idea. He is so gay. Can’t even handle lovely lady lumps. XD

To be fair though, I totally empathize with him. I’d freak out too. 0_o

Reply to review left by :

;_; Oh my God, Essie, well, Eddie now I guess. Poor baby! I would be hugging him forever. It's ok to cry sweetie, gotta get it out somehow.

Oh Peaches, please to be seeing the light soon :(.

Oh, Eddie, even I’m crying, and I’m not even the one who lost Peaches. T_T

Peaches will see it eventually, but it’ll take some persuasion to get him to that point. XD