The Lies That Bind(25)
JULY 11
Grant, I just read your email. I’m worried about you. If you’re still up, please call me….
JULY 12
Grant? Are you and your brother okay?
JULY 14
Grant!! Please call me. Or at least write. I’m really worried about you. Do you still want me to come??
JULY 15
Cecily, I’m sorry to leave you hanging like that. It’s been a rough few days. I don’t think the meds are working for Byron; he took a sudden turn for the worse. I still want you to come, very badly, but I’m not going to be very much fun so I totally understand if you want to cancel. And you have to let me pay for any cancellation fees, etc. I’m sorry again, and hope this doesn’t screw up your birthday. Grant JULY 16
I don’t care about my birthday. I only care about you and your brother right now. I’m so very sorry the trial isn’t working, but am praying that things turn around….I’m still going to come, but understand if I can’t see you. We land Thursday morning, and I’ll touch base after we check in. We’re staying at the Gore Hotel in Kensington. C
JULY 17
Happy birthday! I’m so glad you’re coming and didn’t cancel—and of course I’m going to see you. Travel safe. Love, G
JULY 17
Dear Cecily,
I know we aren’t supposed to talk until September, but I just wanted to wish you a very happy birthday. I hope it’s your best yet. Love, Matthew JULY 17
Matthew,
Thank you for the birthday wishes. It means a lot. Love, Cecily
Other than the fact that I have officially begun the final year of my twenties; Grant is slowly losing his twin brother to a degenerative disease; and my boss is being passive-aggressive because I’m taking a few days of vacation that I’m perfectly entitled to but really can’t afford on my crap salary, I can’t imagine why I’m so emotional on my birthday.
Needless to say, I’m thrilled to see Scottie when he arrives at my apartment the evening before our flight, a box of my favorite cookies from our hometown bakery in hand. He immediately launches into a rendition of “Happy Birthday,” complete with a dance and a cartwheel. I laugh and tell him I love him. Without wasting any time, we pour two big glasses of wine, curl up with a blanket on the sofa, and start talking.
We cover Matthew’s email; Grant and his brother; and a whole host of issues relating to Scottie’s life, including his fear of commitment, which I think stems from his fear of officially coming out to his parents.
“Do you really think they don’t know?” I ask him.
Scottie shrugs and says, “If they know, they pretend not to. I mean, Mom still tries to set me up with girls….I think she secretly prays that you and I end up together. In fact, I know she does.”
“I think my dad does, too,” I say, laughing. “Who knows? Maybe we will. Platonically.”
“Not a bad idea,” he says, smiling.
“But seriously,” I say. “Why not just tell them? What’s the worst that could happen?”
“Well, they could disown me,” he says. “And cut me out of a huge inheritance.”
I laugh. “What inheritance?”
“Um…hello? The John Deere tractor? I mean, there’s no way my dad would give his gay son that tractor.”
“There’s no way his gay son wants that tractor,” I say, laughing.
“It’s symbolic. He wants me to want the tractor,” he says, then gets oddly serious. “Look. There’s no point in breaking their hearts when I’m not even dating. When I find the right person—if I ever find the right person—I’ll tell them.”
I nod, thinking about this, then say, “Okay. But do you think you’re subconsciously avoiding the right person for this very reason?”
“How the hell am I supposed to know what my subconscious is doing? It’s subconscious!” he says with a laugh, then conveniently changes the subject back to Grant and me.
As we talk, we keep checking the time, saying we really need to get ready for the reservation I made for us at a neighborhood Italian restaurant. But we can’t motivate ourselves to get out of lounge mode, and about five minutes before we’re supposed to be there, I make the executive decision to blow it off and order in. Of course, Scottie can’t just be normal and do the no-show thing—or simply cancel the reservation. Instead he calls and weaves an elaborate lie about how he has kidney stones and needs to head to the ER. Cracking up, I add it to a long list of quirks I love about my best friend.
“Please move here,” I say when he hangs up. “We’d have so much fun.”
“We’d have fun in Wisconsin, too,” he says. “And the rent is way less.”
“We’d have more fun here,” I say.
“Let’s be honest,” Scottie says. “We have fun anywhere we are.”
* * *
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Late the following afternoon, I file my last story due before I leave. It’s about socialite Lizzie Grubman returning to her PR firm following her July 7 car crash, in which she backed her Mercedes SUV into a crowd at a nightclub in Southampton, injuring sixteen people. In other words, another depressing story.