mean, but his eyes are pleading.
“I love you, Kyle. Not Matt.
I could never be with him
again.” His grip does not
loosen, so I quickly add,
“But my knees are killing me.”
Everything about him relaxes,
and he laughs. Why didn’t you
say so? As I slide to one side,
he suddenly gets the picture. Gain
an amazing girl. Lose a best friend.
THAT MAKES HIM WANT
A cigarette. He reaches into
the glove box for a pack
of Marlboros. Want one?
I shake my head. “Don’t
smoke. It’s seriously
bad for my asthma.”
He looks at the cigarette
he’s about to light up.
Asthma? Does he think
it’s a test? “Yeah. But go
ahead if you need to.
Not like it’s anything new.”
He thinks about it for
a second or two. Put your
shirt on. Let’s take a walk.
It’s a brisk fifty degrees
outside—by Bakersfield
standards, a cool fall day.
Kyle lights his cancer
stick, takes my hand,
and steers me along
the riverbank. Summer-
fried grass chatters
beneath our feet, and
the water mutters along.
Smoke bothering you?
Kyle asks, blowing it
downwind, away from me.
“Not at all.” He finishes
his cigarette, stubs it out,
pulls me down into a soft
tuft, sits close, and leans
his face into my hair. Sighs.
Tobacco breath escapes
his mouth, yet somehow
it doesn’t make me gag,
and when he lays me back
to see the sky, I find myself
very near heaven. Kiss me.
It’s more order than request,
but I don’t care. All I want
to do is lose myself in him.
I’M SO LOST
I barely notice when my shirt
comes off again, or how the cool
breeze plays strange melodies
up and down superheated skin.
The sharp tang of Kyle’s desire
rises into the chuffing wind,
and when my lips journey
his body, they come away
with a thin lick of salt. We are
moving quickly toward what
I didn’t come here for, but I am
powerless to stop him from
unzipping my jeans and peeling
them off me before sliding out of
his own. Am I ready for this after
all? The only things in the way
of “all the way” are red cotton
boxers and a pair of barely there
panties. Ninety-eight percent
of me is ready to say okay.
I close my eyes against the azure
glare. Kyle moves over me,
expertly tries to convince the last
two percent. Riffs of pleasure
trill through my veins. Excite
me. Frighten me. Delight me.
Off go the boxers. On goes
the latex. But just as he pulls
at the panties, I remember
that other girl, in that other
town, how she watched, terrified,
as the man who was supposed
to protect her chose instead
to harm her. My muscles go
rigid. I never told anyone. Now
someone will know. “Wait.”
He pauses, confused at jumbled
signals—my body screaming
yes, while my mouth says no.
It’s okay. I won’t hurt you.
My eyes sting. “I want to. I do.
But …” My face heats to flush.
I don’t want him to know. Don’t
want anyone to know. Tears spill.
Kyle brushes them gently away.
What’s wrong? The answer
he waits for is painful. But for
us to work, I have to tell him.
AN INTENSE
Shiver
quakes me, initiates teeth
chatter. Kyle hands me my shirt
like an offering. Waits,
silent,
as I launch the lurid account.
I can’t look at him while I recite
it. Instead I focus on a skinny
sapling
wearing a single crimson leaf.
I am the fledgling tree, weighted
not by wind, but by memory. I
bend
but refuse to break. I finish
with a plea. “I’ve never told
this story to anyone
before.
Can we just keep it between
you and me?” The question
floats, a fallen red leaf in
the breeze.
KYLE HAS LISTENED
Without comment. Finally he says,
Who would I tell? He cocks his head,
looks at me in an assessing way.
That’s why you never did it with Matt?
“Not with Matt or anyone else. But
how do you know we never did?”
He grins. Because Matt isn’t the type
to get laid and not brag about it.
I, on the other hand, am very good
at keeping secrets. He moves closer,
puts his arm around my shoulder.
I’m sorry that happened to you.
But it doesn’t change how I feel.
I love you. And if you really love
me, you have to trust me. In one
swift motion, he shifts his body
and I am again reclining in autumn
gold grass. I learned a long time ago
not to place my trust in anyone.
You always get screwed in the end.
But when Kyle lowers himself over me,
the kiss that finds my lips is brimming
with promise. He lifts my wrists above
my head, pins them purposefully to the ground
with one strong hand, as if I might complain
about his other hand, voyaging over
my body, lingering in all the right places.
It already knows me. Such intimate
awareness deserves trust, and so I open
myself to it. And to Kyle. He takes complete
control. Instinct or experience? No matter.
My body surrenders. Reacts. Invites.
He is not gentle. But I am not afraid.
And as we rise and rise in symphony,
each note completely new to me, I think
I might never be frightened again.
AWASH
In love’s pastel afterglow,
we drive slowly back toward
town. Back toward Matt. Still
wondering what I’ll tell him, but
worrying less about his reaction.
As we turn down the dirt track
toward home, Kyle pulls over.
He gives me a long kiss, then
says, I’ll pick you up tomorrow,
okay? We’ll deal with Matt together.
He puts the truck in gear, and
as we near the trailer, I notice
Dad sitting outside, smoking.
When he sees who I’m riding
with, his body straightens.
Kyle stiffens a bit himself. I can
almost smell the testosterone
exchange. Is that, like, your father?
“Well, yeah.” Who else would
it be? “Come say hello.”
We get out of the truck, but
r />
Dad doesn’t budge, just sits
staring. Kyle offers his hand.
Hey, Mr. Kenwood. I’m Kyle.
Good to meet you. Quite polite.
At least Dad shakes his hand.
Uh … yeah … same here.
Dad’s majorly checking Kyle out,
and it’s making him uncomfortable.
Better go. See you tomorrow.
We watch him leave, and once
the dust dissolves, Dad asks, Who
was that? Your boyfriend?
“Not exactly,” I lie. “And why
were you staring at him like that?”
Dad shrugs. He kind of reminded
me of someone I used to know.
When I ask who, his answer
feels somehow a little evasive.
Just an old friend of mine. Trey.
VARIETY
HOLLYWOOD—Citing the usual “irreconcilable differences,” producer Chase Wagner split with Amanda Haynes, his wife of almost twenty years. Haynes, however, said those differences have everything to do with Wagner’s frequent dalliances.
“A marriage simply can’t survive the pain that comes from this sort of deceit,” Haynes said. “I thought I could make him love me. Guess I was wrong.”
Wagner has lately been spotted with Sara Leander, star of his upcoming Nevada Heat. But former fling Merri Childs maintained the relationship is likely doomed.
“Chase never quite got over his first love,” Childs said. “He only mentioned her once, but when he did, oh the sadness in his eyes! She was his high school sweetheart in Reno. No wonder he never wanted to film on location there.”
Wagner and Haynes will share custody of their three minor children. Their oldest son, Kristopher, is a sophomore at USC, where he follows in his father’s film-major footsteps.
Hunter
CONFUCIUS SAY
The more things change,
the more they stay the same.
Okay, it probably
wasn’t Confucius
who said it, but
whoever it was had
it all wrong. In my
humble opinion,
the saying should go:
The more things change, the more
you wish they would stay the same.
I like things on track.
A railroad track, in
fact. Humming right
along, buzzing with
a regular rhythm. Slip
in a little adventure,
sure. But don’t flip
a switch and send me
down a different rail.
The more things change,
the less I like my direction.
CHANGES
Donald and David have
taken up residence in my bedroom
at home. Despite Dad’s objections,
there wasn’t a better choice.
They just started Pleasant Valley
Elementary, the same school I went
to at their age. The transition has
been difficult. Okay, that’s putting
it mildly. Vegas to Reno is like Palm
Springs to Placerville. Low desert
heat to foothill chill. And that’s just
the beginning. After mostly running
roughshod over Kristina, adapting
to Mom and Dad’s rules is sort of like
a homeless guy going through boot camp.
I am, in turn, sorry for them and pissed
as hell that they have no idea how
to take care of my stuff—the stuff
I had to leave behind when I moved
in with Nikki. I knew I could talk
her into it. I’m a born politician.
THE NIGHT SHE THOUGHT
She kicked me out, I sat in the dark on
her porch, waiting for her to come
home. It was a long, cold wait. But
I wasn’t about to let us flame out
because of a little fight.
Especially not
one about my
previous mom.
So I zipped up
my jacket and
waited her out. When she
finally showed, I stowed
all trace of ego, begged
her to take me back.
My apology
was sincere.
But then, when
I threw in the
part about my
little brothers
needing my
room, and the
reasons why,
Nikki couldn’t
say no. Even so, ORGIVENESS hasn’t come easy.
THE FIRST FEW NIGHTS
She made me sleep on the couch.
Refused to touch me. Barely
spoke in complete sentences.
I wormed my way back into
her good graces like any guy
with half a brain might—flowers.
Supermarket flowers, true,
but I half filled the house
with them. She came home
from work to find sunflowers
in the kitchen. Lilies, tulips,
carnations, and phlox on end
tables and windowsills. African
violets in the bathroom. Roses
(what else?) in the bedroom.
The place smelled like a florist
shop (or funeral, depending
on where your head is at).
She was completely stunned,
and helpless against my kiss.
When she kissed me back,
I delivered the coup de grâce,
making love to her on a bed
blanketed thickly with petals.
OUR TRUCE
Has been an uneasy one, exacerbated
by, of all things, Thanksgiving
tomorrow. Never let a woman
watch the cooking channel.
Especially not as the holiday
season approaches. After one
Saturday marathon, Nikki got
it in her head that she was going
to make a turducken. Not only
that, but she wanted to host the day
for her dad (who, I’m pretty sure,
would much rather spend it boinking
his boss), her mom (whose method
of drowning out that soap opera
is a pricey bottle of scotch), and me.
Now even if I wanted to deal with all
of the above, which I soooo don’t,
my mom expects my presence at
her dinner table. It’s like being married,
only worse because I’m not married,
but have to act like I am anyway.
THE COMPROMISE?
Woo-hoo. Oh, yeah. Get this.
Mom invited Nikki to roast
her turducken at our house.
Mom’s doing side dishes, pies,
and a prime rib (just in case!).
Best of all, with the probable
exception of Nikki’s dad’s girlfriend,
the entire extended family plans
to come. No wonder I feel married.
Which explains why, fifteen hours
until total insanity, I’m well on
my way to a major buzz, here at
my buddy Jason’s. We’re talking
Jäger, Heineken, and some fat
blunts. It’s one hell of a party.
Nikki’s at work, so I’m basically
on my own, surrounded by stoners
smoking weed. And, in a big bowl
on the coffee table, are assorted meds,
confiscated from who-knows-where.
It’s a regular designer potpourri of sleep
inducers, mood enhancers, pain reducers,
and, for all I know, laxatives. Everyone
is welcome to play the pharm game. Only
one rule applies: You have to take three.
I TRIED TO RESIST
Really I did. For one thing,
I’m supposed to pull a morning
air shift tomorrow. Another change:
I’ve been promoted. Still
working weekends, and assorted
holidays, when the so-called
stars would rather sleep in.
But no more late nights. I’ve
moved to the six to eleven a.m. slot.
Yeah, it’s a little more money.
But it also means I have to be
up at five a.m. to get to the station
on time, wide-awake and
prepared to help listeners
“Start your day, the X way.”
I entertain myself for a while,
watching other people’s various
stages of inebriation and half
listening to the argument
in my head—the smart side
of my brain saying, “Leave
the damn bowl alone,” while
the dimwit half asks, “What harm
could three little pills do?”
To pharm or not to pharm? Ah,
what the hell? I close my eyes,
reach into the capsule stew,
grab three anonymous pills.
But before I can pop them into
my mouth, my cell buzzes.
Nikki texts: Can u pick me up?
Car won’t start. Dead batt.
So much for pharming. At least
for tonight. I reach into my
pocket, fish around for
something paper, find a receipt to
wrap the still unidentified pills
in. Who knows when I might
need them? I text back: On my way,
chug my beer. Why waste
good brew? “Gotta go,” I say.
As if anyone really cares.
THE ALARM BLARES
Five a.m. Five? Oh, crap. I knew
working mornings was going to
suck. It’s still dark outside, for
cripe’s sake. Dark, and the bed
is warm. Warm with Nikki.
Might as well wake her up too.
She comes out of her dreams,
into my arms, and I already know
waking her will be the very best
part of this day. “I love you,”
I tell her, once and again, as
a hint of pale morning appears.
Nikki stays in bed as I go to
shower, turn the water hot to fight
the house’s chill. I’m shivering
into a towel when she calls,
Hey. What about my car?
As she waits for an answer,
anger blossoms. Not her fault,