I'm Glad My Mom Died(66)

Oooohhhhh. Oh oh oooohhhhh.

So this isn’t a Netflix (cue confetti) show. This is a CityTV (cue… something else) show.

A part of me wishes I hadn’t asked, that I could still be sitting here naively thinking I’m on a Netflix show. And the other part of me wishes I’d asked sooner so that I could’ve gotten out of this not-Netflix show.

I hang up the phone and sit here in my trailer, looking at my reflection in the mirror. I’m so ashamed of myself. Of my career. I’m aware there are worse things than starring on television shows you’re not proud of yet the awareness doesn’t change a thing. This is the truth for me. I am ashamed.

I want to do good work. I want to do work I’m proud of. This matters to me on a deep, inherent level. I want to make a difference, or at least feel like I’m making a difference through my work. Without that feeling, that connection, the work feels pointless and vapid. I feel pointless and vapid.

I know that if I make myself throw up right now, my cheeks will swell and my eyes will get watery and that’s gonna be noticeable on-camera. But I can’t help it. I need to. The shame that I feel is intolerable. I need my coping mechanism. I need the depleted feeling I get after a good purge. I jump up from the couch, but just then, there’s a knock at my door. It’s our production assistant ready to take me to set. Shit, there’s no time for a purge. I descend the trailer steps and follow after the PA as we walk toward our first shot of the day, which takes place outside in the middle of a snowstorm.

There, through the flurry of snowflakes and harsh winds, I see him: auburn hair, soulful green eyes, and charmingly bad posture, wearing chinos and a puffer and a beanie with a pompom at the top of it. He’s leaning against a Star Wagon trailer, with one foot resting on the tire while he smokes a cigarette—so edgy. He’s speaking on his iPhone in a combination of broken Italian and English.

“Aayyyy. Aaayyy. All right. Ti amo. Ciao, Ma.”

He calls his mother on breaks? This boy is too good to be true. He hangs up his phone and tucks it into his coat pocket. He pulls out a fresh cigarette and lights it.

“Steven! We’re setting up,” the production assistant calls out to my new love. So Steven is an assistant director on our shoot. My heart skips a beat. This means I’ll get to see him every weekday for the next three months.

“?’Kay,” Steven says plainly, then he heads to set.

I’m already fantasizing about how I’m going to wind up with Steven. The self-help books said to be flexible when goal setting, to be willing to adjust and tweak accordingly, and my God am I willing to adjust and tweak. I am ready to abandon my goal of focusing on myself. I don’t want to work on my shame and humiliation and grief and bulimia and alcohol issues.

Maybe it’s not so bad that I’m on this CityTV show. Maybe it deserves some confetti after all.





68.


AFTER TWO AND A HALF painstakingly long weeks of “coincidental” crafty run-ins, Steven invites me on a date.

We grab drinks at a bar called Sassafraz, right up the street from the hotel I’m staying at. Steven orders a rye and ginger. I order a gin and tonic.

There’s a sweetness to Steven that’s so far from typical nice-guy sweetness, which is—let’s face it—dull. His sweetness is somehow cool. Maybe it’s his voice that makes it that way. Oh my God, his voice. It’s my favorite thing about him—quiet and gravelly, probably from his two packs a day, but that’s fine, we can deal with the lung cancer later.

Steven has an edge to him that’s somehow balanced out perfectly by how unassuming he is. I’ve never seen someone so edgy seem so humble, and vice versa. He’s a walking anomaly. I am taken with him.

For our second date, we go to Jack Astor’s—a chain restaurant in Canada; think TGI Fridays—and split some nachos and soup. I throw them both up in the bathroom, refresh with a Listerine strip, and head back into the dining area, with Steven waving me over. I can’t believe that just weeks ago I was ready to work on ridding myself of bulimia. It feels like such a part of me, such a staple habit. I’m relieved to still have it to lean on.

We have a couple of drinks, then go back to my place for a couple more while we watch stand-up specials on my laptop. There’s an ease and a comfort to our dynamic. We talk about what we want out of life and what we don’t. What’s weird about being in our early twenties. Past relationships. Past hurts. Hopes. Dreams. The good stuff! We talk until one in the morning, make out on my couch for an hour, then keep talking ’til four.

Our third date, we go out dancing (Steven’s idea). I get wasted enough to completely lose my inhibition. Steven and I dance together. What should feel impossibly lame feels impossibly magical and it’s all because of Steven. I’ve never felt this way about a guy before. Even my feelings for Joe—who, up to this point, I would have considered my first love—seem so immature, so childish compared to whatever this is. This is real. This is pure. This is deep. I feel completely understood and seen by Steven, and he seems to feel the same way.

Our fourth date, we watch The Voice at Steven’s place. His taste in television shows is… questionable, but I’m happy to watch Christina Aguilera lob canned compliments at the show’s contestants if it means spending time with Steven. We finish a bottle of tequila between the two of us and, as we get to the last few drops, start making out on his couch. He takes off my shirt, then his pants. He puts on a condom. He’s responsible, too?!