I'm Your Man (34 page)

“Never. But I don't have to be a fortune-teller to know that you're not going to marry me,” he said, and put his hand over his heart in mock despair.

“I'd like to think we'll always be friends,” I said, and although I kept my tone light, he could tell I was serious.

He reached for my hand and pressed his palm to mine, saying, “It's not safe to be blood brothers anymore. But I vow my loyalty and friendship.”

“Me, too,” I said, and kissed him. “Don't get up. I can let myself out. I want to take the vision of you in bed when I go.”

“And the scent,” he said, laughing as my face reddened at the realization that I'd been sniffing him again.

Although I knew that Sheila and Josh were due back sometime during the day, I didn't expect to hear from them. I hoped they'd prolong their honeymoon for as long as they could, shutting out the world. Especially the world of Lola Listeria. Saturday was always Gavin's day away, so I wasn't surprised to find an empty apartment. I ate, fed Dexter, then grabbed my gym bag and went to bodyWorks, taking a long, hot shower after my workout. I felt better than I had in days. It was obvious that I'd become a man who slept best when he was in another man's arms.

After working awhile at home, I changed channels on the TV until I found a golf tournament, one of my favorite things to sleep to. Dexter curled up on my chest and we napped together. When I woke up, the apartment was dark, and I was starving. As was Dexter, who communicated that information to me with urgent kneading of my bare chest.

“Stop that, you freak,” I said, pushing him to the floor. After I filled his bowl, I stared without interest at the contents of my refrigerator. It was too hot to cook or even be interested in cooking. So I washed my face, dressed, and headed for the Renaissance Diner. Since this had always been a meeting place for Daniel, Sheila, and me, I was indulging a secret hope that I might run into him.

I was greeted warmly and led to our usual table, but I was quite alone. Fortunately, I'd brought a book with me, a new novel called
My Best Man.
It seemed like an appropriate title considering recent events in my life. I found it so engaging that I barely noticed when my food arrived, eating absently and muttering my thanks whenever my water glass was refilled. But at last I became aware that my waiter wasn't leaving my table, and I tore my eyes from the book to look up.

Her hair was pulled back and covered by a Yankees cap. She wasn't wearing makeup and was dressed as low-key as possible. But even without her golden tan and brilliant blue eyes, Sheila would have drawn the stares of my fellow diners because of the expression of controlled fury on her face.

“She is an evil bitch.” She enunciated each word from between her teeth, then dropped a copy of Lola's column on top of my novel.

“I've seen it,” I said, regretting my words when Sheila narrowed her eyes at me.

“Don't banter with me, Blaine. I've been wandering from restaurant to restaurant in search of either of you, like some kind of stalker.”

“I'm so glad you found me first,” I said, jumping up so I could pull out a chair for her. It was obvious that she would require some handling.

“How dare she print those pictures of the two of you—”

“At least we look handsome,” I said cheerily. Another mistake.

“Oh, right, I look like Mr. Rochester's deranged first wife in Jane Eyre's wedding dress,” she spat. “Even Mr. T looks more beautiful than I do. Where's Daniel?”

“I don't know,” I said. “I haven't seen him since the wedding.” When she gaped at me, speechless, I went on. “I have some things I need to tell you. But maybe not in a public—”

“Start talking,” she said.

“No scenes,” I ordered, looking around nervously. I half expected Lola and a photographer to be sitting three tables over, waiting for Sheila to do something outrageous.

“I never make scenes,” Sheila said in an injured tone.

After the waiter set down her water and decaf, I began my narrative with Gretchen's proposition of four months before and finished with my return home after the wedding, including my feeling that I was living in limbo until I heard from Daniel. I'd never known Sheila to be quiet for so long, except when she was sleeping. She didn't even visibly react to the news about the baby.

“Say something,” I begged.

“I feel awful,” she said.

“Why?”

“You and Gretchen had this huge news, and you wouldn't tell anyone because of my wedding. And I spent my honeymoon thinking that you and Daniel were as happy as Josh and me, but all this was happening, and I didn't even know! You must be crushed.”

“I'm worried about Daniel. I'm disappointed that things didn't work out for us. But I have so many other things to focus on that—”

She kicked me under the table and said, “How could you not tell me that you're going to be a father? I
hate
it that you can keep secrets. Is Gretchen okay? Is she having natural childbirth? Is she going to have a midwife? Has she considered one of those underwater birthing things? What kind of workout is she doing? I've heard yoga is great. How much weight has she gained?”

I held up my hands to stop her, remembering Gretchen's warning about the “experts,” and threw the mother of my child to the wolves by saying, “You really need to ask her. I'm sure it's been hard on her not to talk about all this woman stuff with you.”

“That's going to change immediately,” Sheila promised. “From now on, I'll be there for her every single minute.” When I smiled, she frowned. “I'm not done with you, Blaine. To my way of thinking, it's like you and Daniel have broken up a second time. Only this time, I'm not going to cower around, afraid to give you my opinion. The two of you need to get your shit together. I intend to tell Daniel the same thing.”

“Good luck with that,” I said. “Where's your husband?”

“Oh, my god,” she said and whipped out her cell phone. “Hi, honey. I found one of them at the Renaissance Diner . . . No, just meet me at home. I've got a lot to tell you . . . I love you, too.” After she snapped her phone shut, she said, “We divided restaurants. I think he succumbed to hunger at Vinyl Diner.”

“Poor Josh. Eating all alone on his first night home.”

“Believe me, after I saw Lola's column, ‘poor Josh' was happy to get rid of me,” Sheila said. “There has to be a way to get back at that evil woman.”

“Adam and I can't figure out how she pulled it off,” I said. “Unless she's gotten better at disguises since the Lillith Allure gala—”

“Lola was not at my wedding reception,” Sheila assured me. “As soon as I saw that picture of me, I recognized whose handiwork it was. It was my freshman yearbook all over again.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked. “You think Patti or one of your friends—”

“It was a shot of me coming down the stairs after second period,” Sheila said dreamily. “I had on the greatest outfit, and it was a good hair day. But I was talking to a friend, and I didn't know my picture was being taken. My mouth was hanging open. I looked like I had two chins. And my eyes had a vacant look, just like in this one.” She tapped Lola's article and glared at me. “You don't remember that picture of me? It was in your senior yearbook.”

“No,” I said.

“Sydney was on the yearbook staff,” Sheila hissed. “I told you months ago that she'd find a way to mess up my wedding and make your life miserable. And she did.”

I started laughing and said, “Sheila, you're being paranoid. Don't you think somebody would have noticed Sydney if she'd been there? Like me, for example?”

“Not if she was careful. Most people who know her would have assumed she was invited. I did invite her parents; they sent their regrets. She could have used their invitation to get past security. When you and Daniel were dancing, did you see anyone taking pictures?”

“No,” I admitted.

“It was that hag, Sydney,” Sheila said. “I know it was. What are you going to do about it?”

“What do you mean? You want me to ask Sydney—”

“I already
know
it was Sydney,” Sheila said impatiently. “What are you going to tell your family?”

“Nothing,” I said. “I'm done with them. Besides, Lola didn't print my name. I doubt anyone in Eau Claire has seen the picture. According to Adam, the local paper's focus has been on you, with one little mention of Daniel. The fact that they're not making a bigger deal of his being at your wedding makes me think they don't intend to do anything with this story. You know how Midwesterners value people's privacy.”

“Daniel hasn't made any statements?”

“Not that I'm aware of.”

“If Daniel's not mad at Gretchen, why is he giving you the silent treatment?” Sheila asked.

“You'd have to ask him.”

“Trust me, I intend to.” She grabbed her purse and said, “I have to go. Will you promise me something?”

“What?”

“No more secrets.”

“I promise to try to keep you at least one step ahead of Lola Listeria,” I said.

She gave me a look then hurried from the restaurant. I exhaled. I had the idea that the baby news hadn't been a complete surprise to her. Although Josh hadn't known Gretchen was pregnant, at some point he must have prepared Sheila for that eventuality. That didn't bother me any more than when Adam had told Jeremy. It was a couple thing to share information. Too bad Daniel and I had never learned how to do it.

 

Monday morning, I was eating breakfast, reading the paper, and listening to CNN, which was on in the living room, when the phone rang.

“I hate to bother you,” Gavin said, covering the telephone receiver with his hand, “but—”

“Take a message,” I said, still chewing a bit of ham and eggs. I swallowed, then added, “Please.”

“Normally, I would,” Gavin assured me, “but it's Daniel.” He held the phone toward me, and after I wiped my mouth with a napkin, I took it. Gavin scooped up Dexter from the floor on the way to his room, saying, “C'mon. Let's give Blaine some privacy.”

I counted to five in my head, then said, “Hi.”

“I think your manservant hates me,” Daniel said.

“That's an opening.”

“Original?” he asked.

“Not really,” I said, smiling, even though he couldn't see me. “Third time today. You can't be serious, though.”

“It's not what he said,” Daniel explained. “It's the way he said it.”

“What did he say?”

“He said, ‘Good morning, Dunhill residence.' ”

“That beast!”

Daniel continued, still pretending to be angry, “When I introduced myself and asked to speak with you, he said, ‘One moment. I'll get him.' ”

“I'll fire him, posthaste,” I said. I pushed my breakfast around my plate with my fork. “Although he's an excellent cook. Couldn't I wait until after dinner tonight? Besides, he's one of your biggest fans.”

“Oh. In that case,” Daniel said, suddenly chipper, “keep him. At this point, I need all the gay fans I can get.”

“Which, I assume, brings us to the dreaded photos?”

Daniel sighed and said, “Yeah. I figured you should know what's been going on.”

“I've been wondering how you are,” I confessed. “I hope your career isn't taking a hit because of what happened.”

There was a long pause, then he asked, “Could I come over? I know you must have to go to work soon, but I think we should talk.”

I was torn between longing and exasperation. I wanted to see him because I hoped we could start working things out. But since he knew it was a workday for me, it was obvious that he didn't want a long visit, so I wasn't sure what the point was.

“I guess I can be late for work,” I said. “I have a production meeting this afternoon, so I only have a couple of hours. You'd need to get here soon.”

“I'll be over as soon as I can figure out how to get past the reporters outside my building.”

Before I could question him, he hung up. Though he lived on the next street up from me, I hadn't walked by his building in quite some time. I went to the window in the living room and looked down at his garden, but of course couldn't see the street in front of his building. Remembering the phalanx of reporters in Eau Claire during Sheila's wedding, I shuddered. At least then there was a driveway for distance and a security team keeping them at bay. I couldn't imagine what it would be like to have them camped on my doorstep, and wondered how Daniel could leave without leading them to my door, like some pied piper of paparazzi.

“Blaine, I'm leaving,” Gavin said as he came into the room and interrupted my thoughts. “I'm dropping off your suits at the cleaners, then I have a massage client in an hour. I'll be out of your hair while Daniel is here. Leave your dishes in the sink, and I'll wash them later. This time, rinse them off, okay? You don't know how annoying it is to scrape—stop glaring at me like that. I was kidding.”

“Not that. Daniel. How much did you hear?”

Gavin shrugged, then said, “Everything. This is a nice place and all, but it's too small for privacy.”

“Why haven't I moved yet?” I asked Dexter, who'd leaped onto the table and was eyeballing my breakfast. I picked him up and waved goodbye with his paw at Gavin, who resembled a pack mule as he left with his massage table and my dry cleaning.

The phone was still in my hand, so I speed-dialed Violet.