Page 122 of Catching Kyle
She scoots her chair closer. “You talk a lot about integrity, how it’s important to you.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m trying to have my own integrity. Not live up to my father’s.”
“Well,” Neeti says. “Integrity can mean a lot of things, but I think a clever definition of it is when your words, actions, and beliefs are completely aligned.Right now, all three are in different places for you. So, Kyle, what do you believe about your sexuality?”
I straighten. “I believe I’m a gay man,” I say. I pause. “And I know that I have feelings for Michael Cunningham and him only.”
“Okay,” she says, nodding. “Now, you express to me that you love him and will do anything to get him back.”
“Anything minus going against my morals,” I say. “But yes, anything.”
“Okay, those are your words,” she says. “Now your actions. How can youshowMichael that you want him back?”
I lean back into the couch and rub my sweaty palms on my jeans.
“And for you, it must be something that is more powerful than all your moments of self-sabotage—a grander gesture than you running away without telling him.”
I sit there for a moment, perplexed. The Championship Game is in two weeks, and I’ve got a shit ton to do before then. Appearances, meetings with reporters. I was barely able to squeeze this session in. If I wanted to prove myself to Michael, I’d have to wait until at least a few days after the Championship Game. Unless…
I nearly jump off the couch with an idea.
“Sounds like you had an insight,” she says. “Care to share?”
I suck on my lip, nodding. “It’s crazy,” I say. “But I think it will be perfect.”
Chapter 40
Michael Cunningham
Onmydayoff,I decide to sleep in. I watch the sun rise through the window, and the colors remind me of the Thanksgiving sunset back in Glamour Springs, making my stomach all twisty.
I turn over and face the wall. Amani told me that Kyle wants to see me, but I don’t want to see him. I can’t. What would be the point? ‘Oh, Michael, I love you, and I’ll never let you down’, and then have him ghost me five minutes after? The man is a freshly out frenetic mess of jumbled nerves who will jump at any opportunity to be ‘normal’, regardless of the cost. I’m not opening up to somebody who hasn’t worked through who he is. I’ve talked to Susan about this too, and she thinks my logic is sound. I’ve come too far in my recovery to let some man take advantage of my good will just so he can temporarily get what he wants and then throw me away when he gets too scared of what we have. I’m not doing it anymore. I’m not.
After I lay there for a little longer, my anxiety preventing me from falling back asleep, I decide to roll over and scroll on my phone. I normally hate doing this in the mornings, but fuck it—it’s my day off. I check my email, and I see a message at the top that came in just ten minutes ago. It’s from a familiar name, but I can’t pinpoint how I recognize it. But when I open the email, the memory comes flooding back.
It’s the last literary agent who had my full manuscript, the same one I thought ghosted me just like Kyle did.
And she wants to set up a call.
“No fucking way,” I say, sitting up in my bed. I reach up and pull my hair up from my scalp to see if I’m dreaming. Thankfully, I’m not. Immediately open up an email to reply. I give her my number and tell her she can call anytime today, and I provide some later times this week as well. I hit send and then sit there, my body lit with excitement. Almost immediately, I receive a reply.
“Great! I’ll call around 2PM your time today. Looking forward to it!”
I’m so thrilled that I have to resist screaming and waking my neighbors up. There’s usually only one reason why an agent wants to call, and I doubt I’m the exception. I’m about to be an agented author.
I immediately jump out of bed and head for the shower. I want to feel as prepared as possible for this call later. In the shower, I’m singing—fucking singing. I can’t remember the last time I was this thrilled. This has been years in the making. God, I’ve wanted an agent ever since I took that class on the business of publishing in college. And it’s finally happening.
After I get out of the shower, I call Amani, and she’s squealing so loud through the phone I’m afraid my neighbors will hear.
“You call me immediately after,” she says. “I want to know how it goes.”
“Will do,” I say, sitting down at my desk after I’m all dressed. I hang up and message Skye and Josue, with whom I am again on speaking terms, and I share the news. They offer their congratulations, and the heat of pride warms my chest.
Staring at my computer, I let out one more shout of joy, and then I turn it on. If I’m going to be talking with an agent today, I know she’ll ask what else I’m working on. And I can’t remember the last time I touched my previous work in progress. I remember it was similar, about two magicians on their way to slay a dragon, but that’s about all I have. I’ll need to brush up on it, possibly do some edits and more writing, to make sure I know what I’m talking about. So that’s what I do. By the time it’s lunch time, I’ve reread the whole thing and added about five pages, confident that my next book isn’t total garbage.
I take a break for lunch. When I get back to my desk, I get that post-food drowsiness, and I have to fight to maintain my focus. My train of thought duringthis period also gets darker too. For whatever reason, at the brightest moments of the day, I get the most depressed. I chuckle to myself, remembering all the times I’ve been rained on. It’s like the weather and I are mortal enemies.
I reread over what I’ve written today, and then my chest sinks. How could I think this was good? Oh no. This is bad. The dialogue between my characters is cliched and surface level. My worldbuilding is much too obvious and distracting. Oh, and my overall plot? Stupid. Who would want to read about two gay magicians going to slay a dragon? Dumb. Dumb. Dumb.
