and forth before I can finish
the word. “Okay, then. But
where will I go? I have no job,
no money. How will I live?”
Still facing away from me,
he reaches for his wallet.
Extracts two twenties. Tosses
them to the floor. Best I can do.
You’ll figure something out.
Time
It will take time for him to
accept this. Right? I am still
his son. No way he can quit
being my father. Quit loving
me. Not because of this. Right?
Loren’s letter is still in my
hand. I fold it carefully,
slide it into my back pocket,
along with the forty dollars
I retrieve from the linoleum.
My room is still my room.
Isn’t it? This has always been
my haven. My sanctuary. How
do I leave it, especially knowing
it may no longer be mine to
return to? Because I am who
I am? I don’t understand.
Nothing is different. Not one
damn thing, except there’s
no reason to hide anymore.
I am not an abomination.
In fact, I could easily argue
that God wanted me this
way. Dad will come around.
All it will take is time. Right?
Meanwhile, I’ve Been Banished
Damn you, Loren. This is
all your fault, and you’re
not even around to give
me a place to stay. I put
in a call to Carl. He’s not
home, but I leave a brief
message, asking if I can
spend a day or two at his
place. Hopefully he’ll say
okay. Not sure what else to do.
On my way out of town,
I stop by the cemetery.
Might be a while before
I can get back for a visit.
“Hey, Mom. How’re things
Up There, anyway?” I kneel
beside her grave, yank
the weeds that have grown
around her headstone. “Guess
you know what’s going on
here. I’d appreciate it if you
could maybe send a message
Dad’s way. A little intercession?
You’re not mad at me, are you?
I mean because of …” A fresh
storm of tears erupts.
“You still love me, right?”
A little breeze picks up
suddenly, lifts my hair like
fingers. I’ll take that as a sign.
I sit in the cool grass, as close
to Mom as I can get, at least
for now. I take Loren’s letter
from my pocket, begin to read,
dunking myself in loneliness.
Dearest Seth, he begins. No
wonder Dad kept reading.
Sorry I haven’t written
sooner. You probably think
I’ve forgotten you. Never!
Your touch, your taste,
your scent, are etched
in my brain forever. …
Why did he write these
things to me now? Every
sentence brings the pain
of missing him so alive.
I read until the letter ends:
Our time together will always
remain a treasured memory.
Ba-bump!
Not that I didn’t already
suspect his leaving meant
he was dumping me for
good. But to have it put
so succinctly, long distance,
is a two-fisted gut punch.
And to have a Dear John
letter be the one to bring
me so completely down
is more like chopping me
in two, midsection. Why
write at all? Just to make
damn sure I knew that he
was never coming back?
A low throb begins in my
temples, and my eyes glaze
red with anger. That son
of a bitch! If he were here,
I’d rearrange his face.
Not that I’m one hundred
percent sure how you go
about doing such a thing.
It’s a whole new, horrible
thought for me. Hell, maybe
I’m a real man after all.
I Contemplate the Meaning
Of “real man” all the way
to Louisville. I cruise
slowly—I have nothing
to hurry for—and by
the time I reach the city
limits, I’ve decided if
being a real man means
smashing someone
in the face or turning
your back on a person
because of their sexuality,
I’ll just stay a girl. Guess
my dad is a real man
because he’s decided
I’m not. Oh damn well.
I arrive at Carl’s door,
determined not to break
down. But the minute
I see his face, hear his
mellow-voiced welcome,
it all comes pouring from
my mouth. What is it about
Carl and confessions? He
fixes strong drinks, listens
patiently. Finally he touches
my cheek gently. I’m sorry.
I never dared come out
to my parents. They both
went to their graves without
knowing. I’ve regretted that.
He thinks for a minute.
Finally he says, I have so
enjoyed your company.
You have been a balm for
this lonely old man. You may
stay for now, and I’d ask
you to stay longer, but
only yesterday I received
news that my company
has landed a big contract
in Las Vegas. I have to move
to Nevada as soon as I can
put it together on this end.
I’ll be there at least a year,
maybe many more, with luck.
Vegas. Hot. Dry. Fifteen hundred
miles away, give or take. Forty
bucks won’t cover a ticket. But
maybe I can convince Carl
I’m worth buying a ticket for.
A Poem by Whitney Lang
Worth
How much would you pay
to stay alive? I mean,
if you could somehow
get the money?
What
is your life worth?
Ten thousand? A mil?
How do you measure
something like that?
Is
your life more dear
than a homeless person’s?
Or a mercenary’s—who
kills innocents for money?
My life
might seem valuable
to a kidnapper or a life
insurance agent.
But what, really, is it
worth?
Whitney
Screw Lucas
Who needs the a-hole anyway?
I hope he and Skylar are totally
miserable together. And, no
doubt, they totally are. But
even if they’re totally in love,
I am too, and with someone
so much better than Lucas
could ever pretend to be.
On a scale of one to ten, Lucas
might rate an eight point five.
Bryn is an eleven—classically
handsome, so smart it’s almost
r /> scary. Yes, he’s a few years
older, but nothing wrong
with maturity. He knows what
he wants, where he’s going.
And unlike Lucas, who is a
world-class bullshitter, Bryn, I know
in my heart, would never lie
to me. I trust him with my life.
That Night After Lucas’s Party
Just as he promised, it took
twenty minutes (okay, maybe
twenty-five) for Bryn to collect
me, buzzed and brokenhearted.
While I waited, several people,
some of whom I’ve known
for years, walked on by me
without a word, despite
the steady rivulets of tears
ruining my makeup, streaking
my face. Too much drama,
I guess. And yet, here came
this complete stranger, in his
midnight blue BMW. He pulled
over, double-parked, came around
to open the passenger door for me.
Come on, sweetheart. Everything
will be okay. He settled me
into the seat, buckled me in,
as if I were a little child. Where to?
I shrugged. “I don’t care,
as long as it’s away from here.”
Away from there. Away from
him. Away from friends,
not really friends at all,
if it meant you or some guy.
I stared out the window,
watching the procession
of streetlights, begging myself
not to get sick. “Thank you
for coming to get me. I didn’t
know who else to call.”
Really? Already driving slowly,
he took his foot completely off
the gas pedal. What about your
parents? Or, uh, your boyfriend?
I snorted. “My dad is hardly
ever home. And all my mom
cares about is my sister. And
as for my boyfriend …”
I wasn’t sure how much to say.
But whatever. “That party was
at my ex-boyfriend’s house.”
There. Complete confession.
Well, not quite complete. Bryn
called me on the rest. Ex, huh?
Then why were you at his party?
Want to tell me what happened?
“Can we go somewhere and talk?
I know I shouldn’t ask. I’m sure you
have better things to do.” I could hardly
believe it when he said, Not really.
We Drove Down to the Beach
By the time we parked, got out,
and walked a little way, barefoot
in the cool, damp sand near the water’s
edge, I had mostly sobered up.
I sat, combing the sand with my
toes, as I told him pretty much
everything about my pitiful life.
When I talked about Kyra and Mom,
he kept nodding. Turns out he,
his brother, and father have a similar
relationship. Like Dad, Shane is
a high-priced criminal attorney.
And me? Well, I’m just a lowly
photographer. Never mind
that I’ve shot most of the top
modeling talent in this country.
Which explained the company name
on his business card: Perfect Poses.
“So what are you doing in Santa
Cruz? Why not L.A. or New York?”
He exhaled deeply. My dad lives
in Los Angeles. But my mom
hated the city. She lived here …
until she died a few weeks ago.
“Oh wow. I’m so sorry. I hope
I didn’t …” I couldn’t finish.
I had sure stuck my big ol’
foot in my even bigger mouth.
No. It’s okay. I came here
to help settle the estate. She left
her house to me. So I really don’t
know many people here yet.
Which explained why he wasn’t
busy that night. In need of a subject
change, I moved on to Lucas. “Not
everyone here is worth knowing. …”
I told the whole virgin thing. When
I finished, he responded with a hand,
placed gently on my knee. What an
idiot. Does he not recognize
what a gift you gave him, what
an amazing opportunity you are?
You’ve lost not a thing, lovely
lady. You’ve lost not one thing.
Okay, His Syntax
Can be a bit elevated. Overeducated,
maybe, like having a PhD in poetry,
which should come from the heart,
not from some cardboard rulebook.
But hey, nobody’s perfect. And Bryn
comes just about as close as a guy
can come. Since that night, we’ve
seen each other almost every day.
It hasn’t been that long—only
a couple of weeks. But day by
day, I tumble deeper and deeper
in love with him. Yeah, it was fast.
Can falling in love be too fast?
I don’t think so, and neither
does Bryn. Best of all, he isn’t
afraid to tell me he loves me.
The First Time He Told Me
Was the same time as our first
kiss. It was only a few days
after we started seeing each other.
He said he wanted to wait,
thinking I wasn’t quite ready for
someone new. I wanted you
to be sure. Rebound things can
be incredible letdowns. So stop
me if you don’t want to hear
this, okay? I don’t know how you
feel about love at first sight,
but that day in the mall, I knew
right away that you were unique,
a girl who stood out in the crowd.
And when I saw you sitting there
on the curb, crying over someone
who didn’t deserve your broken
heart, I wanted to make everything
right again for you. I’ve never
fallen for anyone so fast!
We were at our favorite beach
hideaway, listening to the symphony
of the waves as the sun set,
tangerine, on the horizon.
Bryn pulled me into his lap,
leaned his forehead against mine,
kissed me softly. This is so odd
for me, Whitney. I’ve photographed
many beautiful girls. Had flings
with a few. But I never felt for any
of them what I already feel for you,
and we barely know each other.
You are more than a pretty face.
You are beautiful inside, and that
beauty radiates, shines like a star.
I know it’s wrong—I am a few
years older than you—but you have
filled an empty place inside me.
He turned to look me in the eye.
I love you, Whitney. I really do.
Then he kissed me, and though
I found hunger there, I also found
the love that he professed. And now
I experience that love every day.
We Haven’t Made Love Yet
He says he wants me to be very,
very sure I want to, because
he treasures me for more than just
my body. I’m pretty sure I’m ready,
but that isn’t quite “very, very sure.”
Still, maybe today will be the day.
Yes or no, first h
e’s going to take
some pics of me. I want to show you
just how beautiful you are, he said.
Then he took me shopping for what
he wants me to wear—a long, flowing
skirt and gauzy off-the-shoulder blouse.
Both white. A celebration of virginity,
was his explanation. We’ll send
a couple to your old boyfriend.
He meant that last part too.
It’s an incredible day—seventy
degrees, nonintrusive breeze.
Just enough to rile your hair,
carry scents of summer blossoms.
I feel pretty, all decked out in white,
with just enough makeup to enhance
my features, not make them obvious,
as per Bryn’s request. Virginal.
We’ll Do the Shoot
Where else? At the beach.
But down the coast, away
from town. As we S-curve
along serpentine Highway 101,
I can’t help but think about
Lucas and our first time together.
Driving this same stretch of road.
Getting high. “You don’t happen
to have any pot, do you?” Bryn
has never offered to get high
with me. Come to think of it,
we’ve never even discussed it.
He doesn’t slow down. Afraid not.
I haven’t smoked marijuana in years.
I do have some Valium, if you’re
a little nervous. In there. He points
at the center console. Valium?
Why not? “I’m not exactly
nervous. But a good buzz never
hurt anyone, right?” I pop one,
wait for it to kick in, watching
the ocean’s heave. By the time
we reach Bryn’s chosen location,
I’m feeling pretty darn fine.
We walk down the deserted
beach until he finds a nice stretch
of undisturbed sand. This will do.
He unpacks his gear, then checks
me out, all up and down. Take
off the bra and panties, okay?
We want a glimpse—a hint—
of what’s under all that white.
I do as instructed, allow Bryn
to position me exactly the way
he wants. He sits me, skirt tucked
provocatively between my bent
legs, and when he goes to move
my arms, his hand brushes against
the fabric covering my breasts.
My nipples go hard immediately.
Lovely, he says, assessing.
Exactly what I’m after. Then
he kisses me sweetly. Exactly
what I’m after. He makes me
feel like a real model—beautiful,
every man’s desire. When he’s