Page 14 of Winging It with You

After our lobby lecture from Jo, Theo and I rode the painfully slow elevator in not the most comfortable of silences. I’d used the key card to open our room’s door, revealing a space with walls a deep navy that blended seamlessly into the dark velvet blackout curtains on either side of the long window. The sophisticated, monochromatic look is everything you’d expect from a swanky Los Angeles hotel.

But it was the very plush, verysingularbed centered in the room—the very one we’re currently attempting to sleep in—that sent my heart sprinting up my throat.

We’d taken turns freshening up in the cramped bathroom, sidestepping around each other like two stubbornly repelling magnets. I may or may not have snooped through Theo’s open toiletry bag he left on the counter, surprised to see both how meticulously organized it was and that he seemingly always traveled with enough lube, condoms, PrEP, and poppers to supply an entire gay kickball team for a long weekend in Puerto Vallarta.

“Are you awake?” Theo asks quietly, his question interrupting a snowballing thought about the apparent abundance in Theo’s sex life.

“Mm-hmm.” How could I not be? Even though today has felt like the longest day of my life, there’s no way in hell my anxiety about this mess is going to let me sleep.

“Jo’s a little…”

“Intense?” I say, finishing his sentence. That’s an understatement.

Theo snorts in the dark. “Very. I thought she was going to rip my head off the second we made eye contact.”

That’s definitely something I could envision. “I’m surethisis not something she is happy about dealing with.”

He’s quiet again, and for a moment, I think maybe he’s fallen asleep. “Do you want to talk about it?” he then asks as he turns on his side to face me.

“Talk about what?” I ask, feigning naivety. I’m grateful for the darkness of our room, because Theo’s question almost sends the pent-up emotions I’d been warding off all day teetering over the edge of whatever self-control I’ve managed to hold on to.

And the last thing I need is another man labeling me as emotional.

“Your ex. The competition. This whole fake-dating thing,” he says quietly, every ounce of his words flooded with a sudden sincerity that feels more like a punch straight to the gut. “Any of it.”

Today has been a blur. My nerves feel fried, and there’s an incessant throb deep behind my eyes that’s slowly been driving me mad. But since I put both time and distance between me and that terminal, my body and mind have been on autopilot.

And sadly, I think it took getting dumped this morning to realize that the last couple years of my life have been on autopilot. Some carved-out version of myself just going with whatever flow Clint dictated, because somewhere along the way, I gave him permission to slowly chip away at everything that made me…me.

Flashes of my life with Clint snap into focus while I ponder Theo’s question.

Clint’s comments about my anxiety disguised as some sort of partnerly teasing.

His lack of interest in—and oftentimes belittlement of—my professional accomplishments.

Looking back, the double standard of the life we’d builttogether seems endless, and while I can’t pinpoint when exactly I settled for it all, becoming this shrunken shell of a human being, my biggest takeaway from today is that no matter how I tried—no matter how perfect I was—I was never,evergoing to be good enough for Clint Hanson.

“It’s just…” I start. But where do I begin? How can I possibly explain to Theo that right now, I’m more upset with myself than I am at my ex? That my self-worth feels absolutely depleted and if I really allow myself to spiral over the events of today…or the last seven years, really…I fear I’ll slip into some sort of impenetrable self-loathing depression and never leave this bed? “You know what? Forget it. We should get some rest,” I say instead, once again grateful for the darkness as tears streak my cheeks. “We have a busy day tomorrow.”

He doesn’t press the issue when I turn my back on him—away from his warmth, his unnerving kindness. He just lets me be. Gratitude swells inside my chest as I stare at the wall, praying he succumbs to his own exhaustion sooner rather than later. Praying for my silent sobs to end in the pitch blackness of this strange room.

6

Theo

The Ambrose Hotel—Room 201

Santa Monica, California

“Hey, boys, mind if we steal you for a sec?” Arthur catches us just as we step out of the elevator the following morning. “It’ll only take a moment,” he adds, quickly turning and weaving through the hotel lobby.

Asher gives me an annoyed side-eye. Judging by his grumpy demeanor all morning, I gather he didn’t sleep well last night.

Once we step out of the brushed-bronze revolving door, Arthur leads us around the expansive building to a blocked-off section of the grounds where Jo, who’s simultaneously on a phone call and aggressively typing one-handed into her tablet, is standing waiting for us.

“Gotta run,” she says, quickly hanging up. Her hair is pulled back into a short ponytail under a simple baseball cap and once again, she’s dressed head to toe in black, a Jo Bishop staple, I’m learning. “There are my favorite faux-bros! Feeling rested? Ready to get this competition started?”

When I glance at Asher, he’s fidgeting with the strap of his backpack.

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