Page 47 of Blue Umbrella Sky
And Billy told him the truth—how he’d fallen for Milt, their uneasy dance of attraction and friendship, the hot guy in Milt’s arms this morning.
“And you think pouring some vodka and tomato juice down your gullet will solve your problem? Make that jealousy disappear just like that?” Jon snapped his fingers.
“For the time being.” Billy’s answer, he thought, was honest.
“Uh-huh.” Jon drew in on his cigarette, blew out smoke, and Billy wondered if he was actually trying to drive him crazy. If he was, he was succeeding. Jon said, “Maybe it will. For a bit. Vodka can blot out a lot. But hey, gotta ask you, brother—you think those problems will still be there after you get one, two, three, or more bloodies in you?”
Billy watched a couple of guys in a vintage teal Corvette convertible cruise by, sunglasses in place, top down even though it was too cold for it. He knew the answer, knew he didn’t even need to say it.
Instead he said, “No matter what,” another AA slogan. “Don’t drink—no matter what.”
“Right.”
“Right.” Billy laughed, started adding more distance between himself and the restaurant. “Why do you have to spoil all my fun, Jon?”
“Because I can.” Jon’s chuckle was deep, throaty, and it ended in a cough.
Billy knew better than to suggest he quit smoking. AA was rife with smokers; it seemed to be the one addiction most of them couldn’t give up. If Billy thought for a minute he could still smoke and not drink, he’d do it. Lungs and singing voice be damned.
“And because you know I want you to,” Billy confessed.
“That too. So, other than this current crisis, how you doin’?”
WHEN BILLYgot home, he felt relieved. Relieved he didn’t drink. Didn’t smoke. Didn’t throw away years of sobriety with one swallow. Man, what a brain-dead move that would have been. He actually got down on his knees in a shaft of sunlight next to his bed to thank his higher power, who he believed showed up in the form of Jon, for saving him once again. One thing he knew, even if he didn’t quite understand who or what his higher power was—it was always there for him; he only needed to accept its help.
That knowledge was a saving grace of Billy’s life.
Yet he still didn’t feel better about Milt. He stood and glanced out his window and was ticked that the guy was still there, sitting on the patio, drinking a goddamn beer. He was big. Good-looking too, the kind of beefy man that once upon a time had graced movies and magazines Billy had seen from Colt Studio. In a second of low self-esteem, Billy thought there was no competing with the hunk across the way, sitting there with his shirt off.
Who said there was a competition? And even if there was, why did it matter who won? You’re making this into something it’s not. Surrender. Serenity. Let go and let God. Blah, blah, blah.
Billy glanced down at his phone. Milt had texted and called dozens of times. Billy felt a twinge of guilt. He also felt a twinge of shame and embarrassment. He was being silly. He was thinking little of himself.
If Milt was so wrapped up in this hunky guy at his place, would he have been texting and calling Billy over and over again? Was that really the behavior of an infatuated man?Maybe the infatuation is foryou, dumbass. Just look at your damn phone to see the proof.
But he couldn’t talk to Milt. Whether the man sitting in his yard right now was a relative, a friend, a one-night stand who didn’t know when to leave, or a new boyfriend didn’t matter. Billy wasn’t ready—emotionally—to have it out with Milt. Not yet. He wasn’t prepared for the truth, no matter what it turned out to be.
So he shut off his phone and threw it on the kitchen counter next to the toaster.
He grabbed a little can of V8 from his minifridge, and then sat down at his breakfast nook to stare out the window. This side of the trailer faced west toward San Jacinto. Billy gazed up at its gray/brown peaks, capped with pine trees and other desert vegetation, and simply let their immortal Zen-like strength seep into him. The mountains had a kind of power, Billy believed, that couldn’t be put into words. But sometimes he could feel that power, when he loosened up his monkey mind and his ego to let it seep in.
Now was one of those times, and Billy kind of drifted as he imagined the top of the mountain. He’d gone up via the Palm Springs aerial tramway many times, hiked around its shady forest and reveled in its coolness and stunning panoramas.
When at last he descended from his mental journey, he finished off the V8 and got himself a pen and a pad of paper he kept in one of the kitchen drawers. He used these only for grocery store lists, but today he thought he’d do something out of the ordinary—write a letter. Who wrote letters these days? Practically no one. But Billy felt the occasion called for something more solid than the ephemera of an email.
Dear Milt,
I care about you. I care a lot. You came into my life in the summer, and I watched as you struggled to move in, to get settled. I watched as you brought Ruby home and saw your joy in your new companion. That joy floated over and filled me up too, even if I was a little jealous of her and all the attention you showered on her. I wanted some too! LOL.
I watched and waited, hoping for a chance to meet. I made eye contact. I said hello dozens of times. Remember? I tried to chat with you about the weather, about the temperature of the pool, the big pothole near the entrance, where you were from.
But you were having none of it.
I couldn’t get even a little close until the day of that summer storm. The flood! Oh God, it was terrible, wasn’t it?
Except it wasn’t. I look at that rare windy deluge as a blessing because it was my entree into your life. One thing I learned, big lesson, in AA was that we have to give in order to receive. Reaching out to you that day, I know I made a friend.
And maybe that’s all I made, despite my wishes to the contrary. I’m just going to lay my truth out here on the line, Milt. I’ve always been, I think, a bit of an empath. It’s my gift and my curse. But it lets me know, right away, before I have any logical reason for knowing, who’s right for me and who’s not. That feeling is pretty much infallible.
