Porn Star(43)

“No, Mom. I’m not working right now.”

“Good, because I need to talk to you,” she says briskly. “Dad and I are selling our house.”

I frown. “Why?”

“Dad got a job offer near Portland and he’s decided to take it. We never meant for California to be our forever-home, you know. We thought maybe we’d head back to Boston, but then this Portland offer came in, and we’ve always loved Oregon.”

I’m still frowning. “But…”

“But what, honey?”

“But I kind of like you guys being here and stuff. What about when I want to come visit my old XBox? Or my high school computer?”

She laughs. “Well, of course we will give you a chance to go through all your old stuff. Which reminds me, Phil from down the street said his grandson is about the right age for that old game set you had, the one with the plastic guitar and drums and stuff.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Rock Band, Mom. It’s called Rock Band.”

“Anyway, I gave it all to Phil. It’s got to be almost ten years old now—isn’t that like ten thousand years in technology time?”

“Yes, but still! I don’t like this. The giving stuff away and the moving stuff. What am I supposed to do for Thanksgiving? I can’t make a turkey by myself!”

“You’re supposed to book a plane ticket to Portland, or accept that you are almost thirty and that your dad and I have lives outside of being available for your turkey needs.”

“I guess.”

“Are you really upset about us moving?”

I think for a moment, standing up and drifting over to the huge window that looks out from my living room onto my sparkling blue pool. “No, I’m not. But I’ll miss you guys,” I say honestly.

I know. It’s gross and un-masculine. But I like my parents, and I have dinner with them at least once a month, and I guess I’ve also never really thought about my childhood being so ephemeral—that the biggest fixed geographical point in my life could shift so suddenly.

Plus, this means my mom is really right. I am an adult, and f*ck, I hate being reminded of that. It makes me start thinking of questions I can’t really answer, like what am I going to do with the rest of my life? Will I ever really pursue film as a dream? And don’t I someday want to have adult sons of my own whining on the phone about Rock Band?

“We will miss you, too,” Mom assures me. “I’ll call you later next week to set up a time for you to come by and go through your stuff, okay?”

I decide to put my parents moving into a mental box, just like I’ve done with Devi. I’ll figure out how I really feel about it later. “Okay, Mom. Love you.”

“Love you, sweetie. Goodbye.”

She hangs up, and as she does, I hear a strange clicking noise, clicking like little dog claws on the hardwood. It’s a sound that used to be as familiar as the washer running or traffic outside. Out of habit, I squat down and pat my leg, not even thinking about what I’m doing until Prior is actually butting up against my hand and giving me tiny, effeminate yaps to let me know how happy he is to see me.

As I pat his furry gray and blond head, my mind gradually catches up.

Prior.

My old dog.

The dog She-Voldemort took.

Here in my house.

I look up towards the entrance to the living room, already knowing whom I’ll see there. And I hate to admit it, but she looks as gorgeous as ever, pale skin accentuated by a red crop top and a yellow tulle skirt, dark hair in a tight ballet bun on the top of her head. As always, she looks a hundred percent New York, a hundred percent fashionable, and a hundred percent unattainable. There used to be a time when I felt like the luckiest guy in the world.

“Hi, Raven,” I say, scooping the Yorkie up in my arms and standing.

“Hi, Logan.”

They’re literally the first words we’ve said to each other since she left.

She steps forward into the light, and I see her face clearly. Delicate, almost European features. Bright red lips. Eyes limned with the blackest kohl.

“So did you just let yourself in or what?”

“I still have a key,” she says primly. “And I thought it was time that we finally talk. After all, you didn’t come find me after you saw me being f*cked at Vida’s.”

Entitlement, manipulation and a dose of guilt, all in three sentences.

Yep, it’s definitely her, all right.

“What is there to talk about, Raven?” I ask, willing myself to put down the dog and escort her to the door. Except I can’t put the dog down because I’ve f*cking missed the shit out of this dog, and I’d bet everything I own that Raven knows that, and brought him for the sole purpose of throwing me off-balance.

She takes a step forward. “Don’t act with me, Logan. We both know that you were never a good actor.”

Jesus. Going for the balls already.

“I’ve never pretended to be a good actor,” I say as pleasantly as I can while still gritting my teeth.

“Oh, that’s right. You wanted to be Logan O’Toole, erotic auteur, am I right?”

“What did you want to talk about again?” I repeat, my eyes sliding away from her to the door, wondering how I could make her move towards it. “Because if you came here just to make me feel shitty, I think I’d rather you left.”