by Lisa Daily
“I love you,” he says, his eyes spilling over with tears, his face red and blotchy.
“Don’t try to screw with me by telling me how much you love me. This is about you being an asshole. Your whole stupid ego depends on your airtime. You were willing to hide who you are, ruin my life, lie to everybody we know, all just to keep your face on TV and your little ego intact. If you had told me when we were fifteen or twenty or twenty-four, I would have still loved you, we could have lived out this fantasy you seem to have about us being best friends. But now…”
“You are my best friend,” he whimpers.
“You have to be freaking kidding me,” I say. “Why would I be friends with someone who is a total liar, someone who placed his career ahead of my entire life?”
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he says. “It was never my intention…”
I fight back my tears, determined to say what I need to say. “You have taken everything from me. I thought I was going to have children, I thought I was going to have a life, to have a home; now I’m just the pathetic woman married to that gay guy on ESPN. Put on a dress, dance around a campfire for all I care, but don’t you dare think that the reason I hate you is because you’re gay. I hate you because you’re a liar, a chickenshit liar who ruined my life.”
“You have no idea how hard it is to be a gay man,” he whines.
“Neither do you, you fucking coward.”
8
He keeps trying to get me to talk to him for the rest of the drive, but I just ignore him and stare out the window while I figure out what I’m going to do once we get there. One white lie keeps Michael at the job he loves, and makes the whole torrid affair slightly less scandalous for the born-again basketball player. I hate myself for being so weak, but I actually feel a little sorry for Bobby Cavale; at the age when we’re all just trying to figure out who we are, and he gets to do it in front of the entire U.S. sports media.
It’s almost four o’clock by the time we arrive in Bristol. The parking lot is packed, and I’m just about to get out of the car when Michael reaches for my arm.
“Wait, please,” he says. “It was wrong, selfish, of me to ask you to do this. Especially after everything you’ve been through today. I’m sorry. I’ll handle this by myself.” He hands me the keys to the rental car. “I’m not sure how long this meeting will last. There are some decent places to eat up the street. I’ll call you when I’m done, and then we can head back to New York.”
“Are you serious?” I ask. Great, he drags my butt all the way to ESPN and now he wants me to wait in the car or something.
“I am. I’ve hurt you and lied to you, and you don’t deserve this. You are my best friend, and more than anything, I want to be yours again. So I’ll do this on my own.”
We sit in the car for several minutes while I try to figure out how to respond.
I remember what Darcy said. About getting stuck in this moment, unable to move forward.
And then I think about the thirty grand in alimony. Every year. Maybe forever.
“You don’t have to go in there alone,” I say benevolently. “I’ll go with you.” I’ll probably regret it, but I sure didn’t trek all the way to Bristol to sit at some T.G.I. Friday’s drowning my sorrows in onion rings, mainlining Barbados rum punch while Michael gets fired. Cosmically speaking, can’t I save myself by saving Michael? And if I can’t save myself, at least can’t I save myself the thirty grand?
We exit the car and cross the parking lot to the entrance of the ESPN campus. I trail behind Michael wondering how the hell I got here.
As we enter the building, I pull him close and whisper in his ear, “You are so f-ing lucky I’m doing this for you.”
“I know,” he says solemnly.
Michael texts his bosses as soon as we arrive, and they’re waiting for us in a large conference room. There are sandwiches and baskets of cookies, bottles of water and soda, on a table just inside the door of the conference room—enough food to keep us holed up in here for a week. Who knew Armageddon would be catered?
There are four men already in the room, and one woman, and the man at the head of the table introduces himself as Tank Turner, which seems like a good name for G.I. Joe’s Republican cousin. I select a bottle of sparkling water, and wonder nervously if death row inmates actually eat the T-bone steaks and fried okra and shrimp cocktails and MoonPies and banana pudding they request for their last meals, or if they’re just too stressed to enjoy them. The executives look nice enough, and I try not to obsess about the fact that they will soon be asking me about my sex life, and worse, Michael’s. Pleasantries are exchanged awkwardly. “Did you have a nice flight?” Uh, no. It’s not a vacation, it’s the worst day of my life and I’m spending it at ESPN. It’s like making small talk at a funeral: you’re trying to make things less awkward, and the family of the deceased just wishes they could be alone at home under the covers with a fork and an entire Bundt cake.
I’ve been eyeing the oatmeal raisin cookies in the bowl for the past three minutes, so I stand up to make a dash to the cookie bowl at the same, exact second Tank Turner, the tall, gray-haired man at the head of the table, sits down and says, “Let’s begin.” So now everyone else sits down too, while I’m standing up with my arms outstretched toward the cookie bowl. Well, that’s awkward. My face colors, and I sit down quickly, pretending to adjust my seat, and clumsily knock over the bottle of water I’d just opened. A fast-moving, kamikaze puddle makes an aggressive waterfall into my lap, spreads like a hostile army all over the table, and starts dripping down the table’s sides, as Michael and the executives leap from their seats to avoid water in their laps. Too late: the guy on my left ends up with a two-inch wet spot right over his crotch, which makes him look like he wasn’t able to make it to the men’s room on time. That will go over big at a sports network.
It would just be awkward to go get the cookie now, right? Still, they look pretty good. Grabbing a wad of napkins off the table, I fervently dab at the spill, trying to mop it up before it reaches the lap of the man sitting to my right, as the rest of the group scrambles to get papers and electronic devices out of the way of the flash flood of Pellegrino. When the spill is finally contained, Tank Turner gets back to business. I squirm around in my seat, trying to get comfortable for the inquisition, with a wet spot on my skirt the size and shape of a lobster. A gigantic, mutant lobster.
“Michael, Alex, thank you for coming to speak with us today.” Michael nods like he had an option and is there to talk about his hookup out of the goodness of his heart. I don’t say anything. What’s the point? “I’m sorry to be so personal, er, um…” Tank Turner clears his throat. “But, we need to clarify some of the, er … details.” Michael sits still as a stone, not blinking, not breathing. Oh dear God. This is going to take forever, if I don’t step in and take charge.
“You’d like to know if Michael and I were separated at the time of Michael’s relationship with Bobby?” I ask bluntly.
“Er, yes.” Mr. Turner nods. A look of mortified panic crosses Michael’s face.
“Yes. We were separated, we’re filing for divorce. I knew Michael was gay at the time, and the relationship with Bobby Cavale had my blessing. Anything else?” I ask. The quickest way to cut off this inquisition surely is to just tell them what they want to hear. If I didn’t take control of this mess, we were going to be here all damned day listening to Mr. Tank Turner “um” and “er” his way through Michael’s sex life. I don’t have the patience or the stomach for that. I hate to lie, but it seems almost worse to tell the truth.
Darcy instructed both Michael and me to call his smutty little fling a relationship, instead of a booty call or a cheating bastard screw party, which is my personal favorite—she said it would make it harder for ESPN to fire him. If anybody knows how to ride out a scandal. it’s Darcy. She also said that me telling ESPN that Michael and I were separated at the time would be the quickest way to kill the story, which would be slightly less scandalo
us without the shadow of infidelity, at least on Michael’s end.
“Er, no, no more questions from me,” says Tank Turner as he glances around the room. “Anybody else have a question for Alex?” They all shake their heads silently. “All right, then.” He smiles at me. “Thank you so much for your, er, candor today. We do need to speak with Michael privately if you wouldn’t mind waiting in the lobby. Please take a plate of food with you, I wouldn’t want you to get hungry while you’re waiting.”
“Thank you,” the rest of the executives at the table echo. They all sound the same. They all look the same, even the woman. So I stand up, strategically placing my leather tote in front of the wet spot on my skirt, and grab a plate as I head toward the door. Suddenly I’m starving, and I pile the plate with two sandwiches, two oatmeal cookies (okay, three, but one of them is broken), and a bag of chips. I grab a napkin and a new bottle of water off the side table, and offer an awkward salute and something that looks a little like a parade wave as I leave the room. Well, that was awful. Balancing my teetering plate in one hand and my tote in the other, I make my way down the hallway and back to the main lobby. I wonder briefly if I should turn in my security pass, but I decide I should probably keep it in case I need to go back inside for some reason. Pulling out my laptop, I try to get some work done or at least avoid looking at the large television set blasting ESPN that is mounted on the wall. Powering up my computer, I open a charity benefit file and get to work on a set list for the orchestra. Tempo and musical selections are very important in creating an environment for charitable-giving events.
Four hours later, I’m still hanging out in the lobby. The lobster-shaped spill on my skirt has finally dried, and I’ve scarfed down the entire plate of food I brought from the conference room. It’s probably uncouth to go back for seconds, right? My client’s orchestra selection list is perfected, timed strategically with the big asks throughout the evening. I e-mail the rest of my clients to check in, or update them on details of their projects, and then reach out to some potential new clients. I hate pitching new business. But I make myself do it for twenty minutes every day.
Finally, and despite my better judgment, I spend the last thirty minutes watching clips and reading posts about Michael’s affair on FOX Sports and a slew of sports blogs. The commentators ridicule Michael and Bobby, and make observations that are often outright homophobic. They would not be getting away with this over at the Huffington Post, but somehow, in the sports world, nobody seems to get that upset when you refer to a twenty-one-year-old as a fag. Many of the fan and viewer comments are brutal and offensive, and for the first time it hits me that Michael’s trepidation about being out is genuine. Our group of friends, and the educated, progressive enclave we live in, are warmly accepting of, and include, gay people—but the rest of the world is not the same.
My instincts to protect him flare. Yes, I’m angry with him, and I have every reason to be. (Which I will be reminding him of until he dies of old age.) But no one deserves to be attacked this way, to be on the receiving end of the nastiness and cruelty that are being flung at Michael and at Bobby Cavale. Who are these awful people and why do they even care? The comments range from obnoxious gay sex jokes to quotations of scripture and assertions that Michael and Bobby will burn in hell. I can’t even imagine what it must feel like to be the target of so much hatred.
What is taking so long? Could it really take four hours to fire or keep Michael?
Finally, Michael emerges in the lobby. He looks worn out and in need of a long, hot bath.
“Sorry that took so long,” he says, not giving anything away. “I had to meet with the network’s publicist.”
“It’s okay,” I respond. “What’s the verdict?”
“Outside,” he whispers. Damn, that sounds ominous. I gather up my belongings, which are by now strewn across two chairs and the coffee table in the lobby.
“Good night, Danny,” Michael says loudly to the security guard. The guard nods in return.
Michael and I push through the doors and out into the brisk evening air. Jeez, I should have brought a heavier coat. If I actually had one. Not much need for blizzard-wear in Florida.
“What happened?” I ask. “Are you fired?”
Michael looks tense on the way to the rental car, but does not utter a word until we’re inside the car.
And then, he bursts into tears.
“Oh my God. They fired you?” I ask, reaching out to hug him over the armrests of the rental car, and then patting him awkwardly on his shoulder. “Tell me everything.”
9
“I’m keeping my job,” he says quietly through the sobs. He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand and starts rooting around in the car for something to blow his nose on. The rental car is spotless, so his choices are pretty much limited to either the floor mats or the rental agreement. Reaching into my tote, I hand him the last of a small package of tissues. Yes, I’m an always be prepared nerd. I never leave home without emergency supplies. Like tampons, and 3D glasses.
“What happened?” I ask. “What did they say?”
“It was just so humiliating,” he says. “They asked me every detail of what happened with Cavale, and whether we met while I was working, how old he was at the time, like I was some kind of pervert, if there were more videos, if there were more players I’d slept with, and a lot of very personal questions.”
“You didn’t have to answer those questions. They didn’t have any right to ask you that,” I say indignantly, aware I had asked him the exact, same questions. I know, I know. It’s weird I feel so angry I want to throw bricks at Michael’s head—but I’m also fiercely protective of him and don’t want anyone else to hurt him. Clearly, I’m going to need therapy, and lots of it. Maybe shock therapy, the kind that erases your memories. Do they still do that?
“I did if I wanted to keep my job,” he answers. “They’re suspending me from airtime for two weeks at the end of the season, and I had to sign something that says I would adhere to the ESPN ethics clause. The whole time in there I couldn’t stop thinking about how hard this must be on you, and how you must have felt this morning when the story broke.” He pauses for a moment to catch his breath. “I’m so sorry for how I’ve betrayed you. What you did in there for me was beyond friendship, and far more than I deserve.”
“I agree,” I say. “You owe me.”
“I do,” he says solemnly, and then breaks down.
“I’m sorry, so sorry,” he sobs. “I never wanted to hurt you. I’m truly sorry, I was wrong.”
“It’s all going to be okay,” I say in my most soothing voice. I just wish I believed it.
“Wait,” I say. “You’re off the air for two weeks after basketball season ends? And you have to adhere to the ethics clause that you’re already subject to in your employment contract?”
“Yes,” he says.
“That’s not a punishment at all,” I say. “You’re not ever on the air after basketball season ends. Did they add anything new to the ethics clause?”
He shakes his head. “No.”
“So aside from the admittedly mortifying inquisition, there’s really no serious consequence.”
“I guess so,” he says. “The suspension was for what they called ‘fraternization,’ mostly because we gave Bobby a lot of airtime.”
“But that’s your producer’s call, not yours. Besides, Bobby’s a top draft pick.”
“I know,” he says.
“This is good news, right?”
“It is,” he says. “But it feels like bad news. I’m lucky I still have my job.”
“Well, now at least you won’t have to have that pesky, ‘hey, by the way, I’m gay’ conversation with your bosses,” I say. “Or your wife.”
“Christ, I’m an ass,” he says.
“Yep,” I agree.
“Tell me what to do to make this right,” he says. “I’ll do anything. I owe you.”
“Sure,” I say, only half joking. “You
owe me big. You owe me a soul mate.”
“Done,” he says, grinning. “What’s your type?”
“Straight,” I say, deadpan. We both start cracking up.
He shoots me a prime-time smile, fires up the rental car, and we head back to New York City, where he’s booked a hotel suite near Times Square. Touristy, but fun anyway. The last flight from New York to Sarasota leaves at 8:05 P.M., so we already knew there was no way to get back from Bristol in time to make it. Weirdly, I want to protect Michael from TV and the Internet—so after we settle in to the hotel, we go out for a nice dinner at Delmonico’s, where we drink too much wine and share a fantastic crème brûlée. We’re tipsy when we go for a nightcap at the King Cole Bar at the St. Regis, and by the time we hit another bar at a funky little dive, we’re laughing hysterically about which one of us is the bigger idiot—Michael for thinking he could be happily married to a woman, or me, for not having a clue.
By the time we take a cab back to our hotel it’s almost two in the morning. In our room, Michael takes the fold-out sofa in the seating area, giving me the king-size bed in the master suite. It’s beyond weird not to be sleeping in the same bed, but I guess it would be even weirder if we were. I have nothing whatsoever to sleep in, because when I packed my bag under extreme duress this morning, I apparently felt the need to bring three skirts, five shoes, a knot of costume jewelry, and a sun hat. No underwear. No shirts. No toothbrush. No nightgown. Just wanting to be out of my clothes, I make Michael give me his one clean shirt to sleep in.
That night, I lay in bed watching the chorus line of lights from Times Square beaming through the window, thinking about everything that had happened, and wondering if I’ll ever find someone who will love me as much as Michael does. Someone straight. Just as I’m about to fall asleep, I hear Michael snoring softly from the sofa bed. It’s the first thing that’s felt normal all day.
