The Girl in the Comfortable Quiet (20 page)

“I can’t even imagine finding out that way,” she
continues, her voice heavily, overly sympathetic and distraught.

My gaze lifts to hers. I told her everything in
gruesome detail. I don’t know why. It just happened, an urgent need to unload
it all on someone, and she just happened to be the one here.

She refills our wineglasses. “What are you going
to do?”

Fuck, not that question.
Why do
people always think that you can figure out your life so quickly? Why is the
first question after conveying a life-altering event
“what are you going to
do?”

“I don’t want to think about it. I just want to
get through everything I have to do this week, and then I’ll worry about Neil.”

“You should cancel everything. Take some time to
work through all that’s happened. You shouldn’t push and try to be all right.”

I shake my head. “I can’t.”

Her eyes cloud over. “Honestly, I don’t know how
you’re still on your feet.”

The compliment takes me by surprise, but does
nothing to bolster my flailing composure or quiet the rapidly churning thoughts
in my head.

On my feet. Somehow through the gut-wrenching minutes
of telling her everything and her shocked silence, I am still on my feet. But
together I am not.

I haven’t been since I admitted to myself the
divorce
thing. My husband is gay. I’m getting a divorce. This is not where I expected
to be. Not today. Not any day.

I can’t stop shaking. God, I wish my body would
be still. But nothing in my life could have prepared me for this. Maybe there
are some shocks so severe that they reverberate through you, and you can’t do
anything except wait until they quiet on their own.

I stare down into my wine. This is definitely one
of those shocks.

Rene sinks to sit on her knees across the coffee
table. She just stares and I can see this has leveled her as much as me. She
doesn’t know what to say. It is as if this crisis is so enormous she’s afraid
to speak. A Rene first.

My eyes fix on her, stricken and wounded. “I
can’t believe this. How could it be true? Shouldn’t I have known? How could I
not know? I’m married to the man.”

Rene flushes, something flashes in her eyes and then
she looks away.

Oh my God.

“You knew!” I accuse harshly. “You knew and you didn’t
tell me. How could you do that, Rene? How could you do that to me?”

“No, no, no. I didn’t know, Chrissie. I swear. I
had suspicions and you were so certain about Neil. I ended up thinking I was wrong.
Crazy. I thought I was wrong so I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to
hurt you.”

“Why didn’t you tell me? What kind of friend are
you?”

She eases forward in a posture simultaneously aggressive
and defensive. “I did try to tell you, Chrissie. When we lived together in
Berkeley. I told you I didn’t like Neil. I told you there was something about
him I didn’t like. You just didn’t hear me.”

Flashing snippets of old memories soar through my
head. Oh God, she did tell me. I just didn’t understand. I refused to see what
Rene could see, but deep down, I think I always knew.

I jump to my feet and run to the bathroom,
slamming the door behind me. Everything is running loose and frantic in me and
I can’t bear to look at Rene, not for another moment. I haven’t gotten a single
thing in my life right. Every decision I’ve made
hasn’t
been right or
left turns. It’s been right or
wrong
turns, and the wrong path is the
one I invariably take.

I let Alan go, over and over again, and he’s the
only man I’ve ever truly loved. That is the truth. Why do I hide from it?

I married Neil and I shouldn’t have. That is the
truth and I hid from that as well. That nagging voice deep inside me told me not
to do it, I ignored it, and I refused to listen. My life is in shambles, I have
no one to blame but me, and I don’t know how to fix any of it.

CHAPTER TWENTY

The
second the cameras stop rolling, I unclip my microphone. I rush from the stage
without doing all the post-show pleasantries interviewers expect from their
guests.

Four public appearances in a single week. Done.
Finished. And hell is going to freeze over before I will ever do this for Neil again.

I focus on keeping my breathing calm as I hurry
down the hallway ignoring the people telling me “good show” or simply trying to
talk to me. I’ve been just this side of rational since the fucking pictures of
me and Neil started flashing on the big screen and monitors.

I hate the montages, the
this is your oh-so-perfect
married
life
crap, the image created by the repulsive spin machine,
Ernie Levine. My stomach turns since it’s now abundantly clear why everyone managing
Neil’s career always pressured me to do those damn couple interviews and photo
exposés, and wanted to play up the
rock star outsider, happily married
family man
image.

“It sells records, Chrissie,” Neil would say
whenever I balked at doing it. Bullshit, Neil, it hides from your fans you’re
gay.

Did they all know? Christ, who else other than
Rene knew Neil was gay? His family must have known. The band? I could
understand Josh Moss not being honest with me, but Nate Kassel? Wouldn’t Nate
have told me?

Oh God, I’m doing it again. Obsessing on the road
of
who knew.
No, Chrissie, you don’t want that answer. Does it even
matter now?

I go into a dressing room, thankfully empty, and
slam shut the door. I press my brow against the wood. I didn’t fall to pieces
while the cameras rolled, I didn’t make any glaring mistakes, and what’s
happening in my life is still a private thing.

There’s a knock on the door.

I jerk back. “Yes?”

“Chrissie, it’s me. Let me in.”

Rene says that in a frantic whisper. I open the
door just enough for her to slip through and bolt it behind her.

“You were amazing, Chrissie,” she says
enthusiastically, her eyes wide and approving. “Not even a hint there’s
anything wrong between you and Neil. I don’t know how you do it, carry on a
flawless performance of marital bliss standing in a shit storm.”

Managing a slight smile, I run my fingers through
my hair, surprised by her latest compliment and simultaneously annoyed with
her. Maybe it’s just the strangeness of it all, Rene approving of everything I
do. I remind myself that she didn’t mean to say something that would irk me—
a
flawless performance of marital bliss
—she is trying really hard to be
supportive, and that I am overly sensitive these days, reacting to small,
meaningless nothings. An emotional powder keg.

I don’t want to get irritated with her, not over
a handful of clumsy words. Rene has been a really good friend this week. Loyal.
Supportive. Clearing her schedule and sticking by my side throughout each
appearance I’ve had to make. She’s really come through, been there for me in a
way I didn’t expect. Maybe we’ve both grown up a bit from those selfish,
foolish girls we were in high school.

I feel drained and drop onto a chair at the
makeup station.

“What’s amazing is what you can make yourself do
when you have a child.” I feel the tears gathering inside me at the thought of
Kaley. “Fuck, I’m not going to be able to keep this private forever. What am I
going to do? I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to explain it to Kaley once
she’s old enough to understand.”

Rene sits on a stool beside me, turns it to face
me, then starts to make little right, left, right, left swivels.

She pauses a moment, as if giving it thought.
“You have a long time before you have to think of that. And when the time
comes, ignore Kaley’s questions and let Neil explain.” She crinkles her nose.
“That’s what my parents did.”

A hard, choking laugh pushes out of me. “Oh, and
you worked out so well.”

Rene smiles. “I didn’t say it was a good plan.”

She laughs and I give her a small smile, shaking
my head before I rummage through my purse for my mobile phone. I flip it open
and scroll through the voice mail messages. My usual daily dose. A dozen or so
from Neil. I can’t avoid him forever, but I’m not there yet. I can’t listen to
the messages and I am nowhere near ready to talk to him.

I push them from view with my thumb. A message
from Jack—his daily status report on Kaley, no doubt. One from Linda. One from
Alan.

The only voice mail I’m mildly tempted to listen
to is Alan’s, but that’s not a good idea, not with the way I’m feeling.

I’ve entered what Rene has termed
the ninth
circle of hell
of infidelity, when you think the infidelity means there is
something wrong with you since you are not the winner in your partner’s heart.
Where you make the infidelity all about you. Stupid and a potential death
spiral for your self-esteem.

Definitely stupid—
Rene is right about that one
since my husband wanting a man over me is clear evidence it’s not about me
—but
the woman deep inside me is feeling miserably defeated.

I shouldn’t feel like a failure as a woman, but I
do. I feel broken and worthless and undesirable.

I shake my head, growing impatient with myself.
Lame,
Chrissie, lame. This isn’t about you. It’s about Neil
. I will never be what
Neil needs. And he has never been everything I need. We’ve been only almost
perfect but not quite enough since the beginning.
That’s the truth of your marriage,
Chrissie.
I can’t even remember the last time I was touched in a way that
made my femaleness pulse through my veins.

Unbidden, Alan comes to mind. The smell of him,
the taste of him, the feel of him. The cells in my body unexpectedly come
awake. There is no point in pretending any longer. The last time I felt my body
come alive in the way it should was with Alan.

My hunger for him has never gone away, not
completely. It’s been there between Neil and me from the start, just as Andy
has been between us as well.

Alan has never left my heart, not for a single
moment of any day since I met him. I love him. I want him. I don’t have to lie to
myself any longer.

I snap shut my phone and stand. “Let’s get out of
here.”

“Sure. What do you want to do?”

“Don’t know yet.”

We’re quiet as we exit the building and cross the
lot to my car. I hit the unlock button and open the driver’s side door.

I stare at Rene across the roof. “I’m hungry. Are
you hungry?”

Rene’s brows shoot up, surprised. “Sure, I could
eat.” Her mouth curls in a pleased smile. “I bet you’re starved. You didn’t
even touch your breakfast, and there was no reason not to eat it.” She makes a
face at me. “I’m a much better cook than you.”

I roll my eyes, but there is a certain comfort
being with someone, while in crisis, who knows you well.

We climb in and pull from the lot.

Once on the road, Rene checks her watch. “It’s
only noon and you don’t have to be at The Forum tonight until what? Three? 4
p.m. for sound check? We can eat. Go back to the house. Sleep. And be ready to
go by showtime.”

Her efficient, take-charge manner does nothing to
diminish the rush of emotionally messy that follows her words. Jesus Christ,
I’m on stage with Alan tonight and not at all steady enough for him.

What will it be like to be with him this time?
Will it be different now that I know I don’t have to stop myself because of
Neil? Not once in the past four years when I am near Alan have I been able to
shut off my internal
Alan affect
. And tonight, I don’t have to fight it.

Shit.

I change lanes, merging onto another freeway.

“Chrissie, where are we going?”

Startled, I look at her. Rene is frowning and
then I realize I’m heading toward Malibu.

I shrug. “I thought it would be nice if we ate at
the beach today.”

~~~

I
sit at the table, moving my food around the plate, and smiling and nodding as
Rene babbles on. I picked a restaurant only a handful of minutes away from
Alan’s beach house.

I frown. Why did I do that, bring myself within
close proximity to Alan? I wonder if he’s in LA yet. I wonder if he’s at the
house. Fuck, Chrissie, stop being an idiot. He’s probably at a party or getting
drunk with the band or getting laid.

Memories flash through my mind. The glide of
Alan’s fingers on my flesh. Those mesmerizing, penetrating black eyes. The way
his gaze shimmers when he’s
happy Alan
. The way it burns when he wants
me. His gentleness. His anger. His kindness. Even his meanness.

I stab my enchilada with a fork and force down a
bite. God, how is it possible that I am consumed again by the thought of Alan
so quickly? There must be something seriously wrong with me that I could lose
my husband and become obsessed with a past love in the same week.

I look up from my food.

“What are you thinking about, Chrissie? You have
the strangest expression on your face.”

“Nothing.” I look at her plate. “Are you done? Do
you want to get out of here?”

She does a dainty dab of her mouth with her napkin
and laughs. “I’ve been finished for twenty minutes and watching you sit there,
pretending to listen to me and staring off into space.”

I flush. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be rude.
I’ve just got a lot of decisions to make.”

She nods and pats my hand. “I know. Completely
understandable. Don’t apologize. Not to me.”

“Thanks.”

Unexpectedly, she leans across the table, takes
my cheeks in her hands and does a fast, hard friendship kiss on my lips.
Suddenly she is deadly serious, staring at me, holding my face.

“Whatever you feel like doing is the right
response, Chrissie,” she announces out of nowhere, in the medical sort of tone
she’s been cultivating since we were in eighth grade. “We all heal in different
ways. There are no right or wrong decisions or correct process in this. It’s OK
to do what you need to do for you.”

Oh crap, where did that advice come from? A
carefully coded message that I think is intended as permission to fuck Alan
tonight. How the hell does she know that’s what I’ve been thinking about?

Without waiting for my response, she eases back
in her chair and motions for the waitress to bring the check. I watch as she
pays. The last five minutes remind me of why we’ve stayed friends all these
years. We drift apart and then magically transform into best friends again. She
knows and understands me in a way no one else ever will.

At the car I make another snap decision. “Do you
mind if we make a stop before we go back to your place?”

Rene’s eyes widen. “No. We can do whatever you
want to do.”

I fumble through my bag, looking for my keys. I
can feel her watching me and I don’t know what she sees on my face, but she
suddenly points at me and says, “You stay sweet.”

Fuck. There are tears burning in my eyes again. I
point back. “You stay cute.”

I pull from the parking lot and head north on
highway 1. I feel shaky and loose inside and submerged in a strange feeling of
déjà vu.

The last time Rene gave me permission to be bad
and sealed it with the pact of our
stay
sweet and cute
ritual was
before we left for spring break in New York in 1989. I felt exactly like this
when we left Hendry’s Beach and I drove to Peppers instead of home to Hope
Ranch.

The night I met Neil.

And the night I met Alan.