Page 116 of Catching Kyle
“That’s very brave of you to say,” she says.
I look up at her like she called me a slur. “Are you serious?”
She nods. “Kyle, I could tell something was off. And this makes sense considering you were the Sexiest Man Alive and yet still didn’t have a girlfriend.”
I exhale through my nose, some of the darkness in my mind dissipating with my breath. “I know.”
“I won’t tell,” she says. “But you gotta figure out what you’re going to do.”
Hope floods my chest, and I squeeze her hand. “You have no idea what this means to me.”
“Believe me,” she says. “I know what it’s like to be separated from someone you love.” Her voice is heavy, making me think there’s a lot about her that she’s choosing to keep private. So I’ll respect that. But she is on my side.
“Thank you,” I say, wiping my eyes.
We both sit there, her against the cabinets, me against the tub, in silence.
“So what now?” she asks. “You’ll have to come clean eventually.”
I think of the article that Robyn had to write about Amani cheating on me. I think of all the missed calls and messages from Michael, and how the day those stopped was like another heartbreak. Because then I knew he had given up.
“I’ll keep this secret as long as you do,” she says. “But it can’t go past the end of the season.”
Plans start to bake in my head, and I feel my body wake from the slothful stupor it’s been in for the past month.
“I’ll come clean soon,” I say. “But first, I need to make some apologies.”
Chapter 38
Michael Cunningham
Idrivetoworkon one of those sad, ugly days where the sun hides behind thick, gray clouds. It’s been raining on and off but always raining when I need to step outside. The weather in Portland today reflects exactly how I feel: depressed, hopeless, and out of options.
I was epically ghosted by an NFO player with whom I was having the steamiest, most blush-inducing sex of my lifetime. And I’ve been selling porn for nearly five years. That’s saying something.
I also lost my best friend. She was arguably the reason my whole relationship with Kyle imploded in the first place. I can see, though, that expecting her to be a fake-girlfriend for so long, when she was gay herself, was not a fair ask, even if she agreed to it. But neither of us have made the effort to apologize to the other. And with how stubborn we both are, I don’t know if we ever will. Skye and Josue, my other writing group friends, have refused to get involved, which has turned into them not speaking to either of us. Or me, at least. I haven’t spoken to them in weeks, so I don’t know if they’ve been talking to Amani. I spent my Christmas eve filming porn with some rando I’d never met before. It was hot, but it was empty as it’s always been. I’ve talked with Susan, my sponsor, once and told her what’s happened, but I haven’t talked to her since. I’m just not ready to dig into it.
An incoming call appears on my dashboard, and my heart skips a beat. But then I remember that literary agents don’t cold-call you anymore. They email you first. Not recognizing the number, I decline the call.
I’ve been querying my first fantasy romance to literary agents for months. Three of them requested to see my full manuscript, but two of them declined me in the past month. The third one has been out for a few months now, and I’m starting to think she’s just going to ghost me. But it doesn’t matter, anyways. Ever since shit went down with Kyle, I haven’t been able to focus on my new novel at all. Maybe this is the sign for me to just give it all up. That was my original goal anyway, right? To give up if I didn’t get representation? Maybe it’s time to finally throw in the towel.
When I get to work at Rucker’s bookstore, I go through my typical tasks: checking inventory, answering customer questions, and handling anything left undone from the night before. But I feel so hollow. I was so grateful when I was offered a job here, thinking that the only job I could stomach besides being a full-time author was working in a bookstore. But now the whole experience feels like ash on my tastebuds. I don’t know how I’m going to have the energy or enthusiasm to lead queer book club tonight.
By the time lunch hits, I’m so exhausted that I’m tempted to go home sick. But I need the money. After so many months of producing no videos per Kyle’s request—fuck him, by the way—I’ve had to go about building back up my audience to make what I used to. That takes time, and I’m not quite there yet.
My phone buzzes, and I check the caller. It’s that same number. I decline it, then go about my lunch. But then my phone rings again.
I assess the number. The area code is familiar.
And then my stomach sinks. That’s the area code of northern Mississippi where Kyle’s hometown is located. I know this because Kyle’s mom gave me her number before I left Glamour Springs. After unsuccessfully trying to reach him, I blocked Kyle everywhere. He must have gotten a new number to contact me.
And you know what? I’m feeling shitty today. And I’m gonna let him have it.
“You have some fucking nerve calling me,” I say. “What the fuck do you want?”
Silence. “Michael?”
My heart skips a beat. That is not Kyle on the other line.
