Isolation Play (Dev and Lee) (34 page)

But the truth is, we don’t live in a bubble. Tuesday morning I have to go back into the office. Tomorrow he has to go to practice. Sunday he’ll be on TV in front of millions of people. Thanksgiving will be here before we know it, and then Christmas. Family holidays. Holidays he wants me to be part of, that I want badly to
be
part of.

It’s silly that something that we both want can’t work out. His father, though, I can’t figure out a way around other than time. And will Dev be willing to wait for as long as it’ll take? It might be five years, or ten, or twenty. It might be until his father dies. That’s a long time to be miserable at every holiday.

It does no good to tell myself that Thanksgiving is a month away. I can feel the approach of the holidays, and the years following them, one after the other, so inexorable that the possibility of change feels as remote as the moon. I might as well ask Dev to turn his stripes vertical. I close my eyes and listen to his breathing, and press back against him until I feel his breath on my cheek. With his arm across my chest, I feel safe enough to let those other thoughts go, for now.

We grab breakfast at the Coffee Bean again, since I’m already dressed in drag to go see Kinnel, which Dev has not quite given up on trying to talk me out of. “I still wish you’d just leave it alone,” he mutters as we’re waiting for our drinks, though we both keep smiling at the heavily-pierced lemur, who’s making the drinks again.

“
I’ll be fine,” I murmur back. Truthfully, I’m looking forward to seeing him again. “Can I give him a quote like ‘I can’t wait to see my sexy boyfriend again’?”

He snorts. “How about ‘My ex-boyfriend says I can’t talk to you any more’?”

The lemur signals that our drinks are ready. We walk over. “If you want to hear what Corcoran’s thinking—”

“
I don’t think he really does know him.”

“
You have to be patient. These things take time,” I say as we pick up our drinks.

“
Good to have a gal around to give you relationship advice, eh?” The lemur points to our drinks. “Skim vanilla latte, double-shot latte.”

Dev takes his double-shot. “Sometimes I give her relationship advice,” he says.

The lemur laughs. “Awesome,” he says.

“
And then,” I add, “I do the opposite.”

The barista just shakes his head. “Appreciate the gay best friend, even if he is a football player. He’s a cool dude.”

“
Thanks,” Dev says, with a glare at me. But the flick of his tail is playful, not really angry.

So I assure the lemur that I do appreciate my big gay tiger, in a low enough voice that I don’t draw the attention of anyone else in the coffee shop. It’s worth it just to see Dev get all growly and flustered, leading me to ask him, in the car, “Are you not my big gay tiger?”

He snorts. “Where am I dropping you?”

“
Richmont Hotel. They’ve got wireless in the lobby, so I can log in to work. He’s meeting me for lunch, and I’ll get a cab to the airport in the afternoon.”

He’s quiet for a few blocks, and then says, “Next Monday, if we get the day off...”

“
You’ll beat Gateway.”

“
If we get the day off,” he continues, “let’s do something, just you and me.”

I smile and rest a paw on his thigh. “That sounds really nice.”

At the hotel, he even leans over and kisses me. No tongue, just a nice muzzle bump, but it makes me feel warm. Getting out, waving good-bye, I feel the usual pang of knowing it’ll be a week before I see him again. This time, I also feel a touch of amusement. I think he’s jealous of Kinnel.

Silly tiger. I set up in the hotel lobby, in a corner out of sight of the registration desk. The Richmont is a posh enough place that I probably don’t need to worry about anyone asking what I’m doing, as nicely as I’m dressed. It’s not so posh that the staff all keep mental track of the guests, either, so I think I’ll be okay as long as I look like I belong there.

Filing the reports on the weekend games makes me think of Vince King, at Cobblestone. So when my work reports are all in and the player profiles updated, I check Dev’s e-mail again. Nothing from him. There’re another few e-mails from gay athletes in high school and college, but no football players. Their notes aren’t any less touching, but they’re less desperate. Lacrosse and swimming don’t exactly have the same kind of hyper-masculine culture that football does that forces gay kids to keep their identity secret.

Then again, I just spent an afternoon with a bunch of pro players, introduced as Dev’s boyfriend, and they even signed my cast. I’ve put a light glove over it, so I don’t have to explain the signatures to the reporter, but I can still feel their warmth. A hand-picked selection of players, I remind myself, who were all fine with our relationship. Not necessarily indicative of the league as a whole.

But the league as a whole has not really had a strong reaction. Several of the gay webzines and foundations have trumpeted this as a huge deal, but on the whole, the sports world has already moved on from it. Most of the sports sites are showing a front-page story about an otter who plays for Peco, caught with a gun after a shooting at a nightclub not three hours after the end of their game yesterday.

Sadly, that event generates less ink than Dev’s coming-out did. There’s a sidebar about Dev, or at least tangentially about him: “When Will The Next Gay Football Player Come Out?” It’s a puff piece, nothing more than the question expanded to a thousand words.

If I knew any other gay football players, I might be able to answer it. My best guess is that they’re all still waiting to see what happens in the long run, or at least the medium run. Will Dev be a target, knocked out of a game, like Alex thinks he will? Will it really be not a big deal? Will he lose endorsements or gain them?

I think he’s going to get more. I almost want him to give me Ogleby’s number so I can help. Almost.

I don’t get all the way through the e-mail queue before Kinnel shows up, five minutes early. I close the laptop and stow it in my carry-on, standing to meet him.

He’s dressed up for the occasion, in a nice pink shirt, pressed, open to show off his chest ruff. His almost-white slacks would look like they came from a leisure suit if they were one shade whiter, but as it is, they look pretty nice. And he’s bathed recently, too. Very different from when I saw him at the press conference. Wouldn’t kick him out of church on Sunday, as my mother used to say.

“
Miss White.” He smiles and holds out a paw. “You’re looking lovely.”

I’ve worn an old rose dress, but of course, he hasn’t seen it before. It accessorizes well with a silver necklace I have. “You’re looking nice yourself,” I say. “We sort of match.”

He smiles toothily and jerks his thumb out the door. “The restaurant here’s kind of pricey for an unemployed blogger, but there’s a great sandwich joint across the street. It’s, ah, it might not be a great place for a lady, but if you’re willin’...”

I smile, and gesture for him to go on. “It’s fine.”

He takes me to “Between The Sheets,” a place that brags “we’ll put anything you want between two slices,” and “wrap any bread around your meat,” shockingly racy for Chevali. I’d expect it in Port City, maybe, down in Cottage Hill, or in the gay block of Hilltown, but two blocks from the Richmont in conservative downtown Chevali?

Kinnel orders his favorite, the Hot Summer Night—turkey on toast—and recommends either that or the “Chicks of the Sea” (tuna salad) to me. I take the tuna and we sit down in a corner booth with our sandwiches. He offers to pick up the check, but I decline, as much because I don’t want to be obliged to him as because I know he can’t really afford it.

“
So what brings you to Chevali?” he starts with. He’s being conversational, but I can hear the reporter’s edge beneath it. Something’s different about him, too. He’s holding his ears up higher, and his smile is brighter.

“
I travel a lot for work,” I say. “Don’t always get my schedule very far in advance. I happened to be sent down here this week, and no, I’m not going to discuss my job.”

He flashes me a wide grin and takes another bite, talking with his mouth full. “Fair enough. I appreciate you making time for me.”

“
No problem.” I tap my fingers on the table, wishing I’d ordered something that was easier to eat in a ladylike manner. Digging in with fork and knife would be too over the top, so I pick the sandwich up as delicately as I can with my one good paw. “How did the quote I gave you work?”

“
Sold an article,” he says through another bite. “One. They want to know if I can get any more quotes.”

I wait ’til I’ve finished swallowing the first bite of tuna, which is not bad, and then I say, “I can see about trying.”

“
I do want to tell your story, too” he says.

“
I appreciate that. But I still don’t think I’m very interesting.”

His smile stretches back. “I beg to differ,” he says. “I really hope you’ll let me write it up.”

“
Maybe someday.” The tuna becomes harder to manage the longer I hold it, as the drippy mayonnaise soaks into the bread. I take another bite.

He tears another bite out of his own sandwich. “How’d you hurt your paw?”

“
Biking.” That lie is automatic now.

He accepts it as easily as the others. “What did you study in college?”

I raise my eyebrows. “Me?”

“
How can I convince you yer story’s worthwhile ’less I know more about ya? I bet it was something like journalism or English,” he goes on. He holds his sandwich up in one paw, waiting.

“
Um.” I take a slow bite, giving myself time to decide not to add to my many lies to Kinnel. I swallow. “English.”

“
Knew it.” He takes another huge bite, talking with his mouth full. “I was journalism. Can always tell the type.”

“
Surely you don’t think that’s interesting enough to publish?”

“
It’s but a piece of the puzzle.” He starts to ask another question, but I cut him off.

“
What did Cimarine study?”

That takes some of his brightness. He flicks his ears, leaving them lower. “Business.”

“
Interesting.” I take a bite. I don’t really know how, but I want him to think I think it is. “How’s a business gal come to marry a sports beat writer?”

“
How’s a vixen majoring in English come to date a gay jock for three years?” he parries.

I remember that warm spring evening in April. “To tell you the truth, Mister Kinnel—”

“
Hal.”

“—
I don’t really understand it myself.”

“
See,” he says, “there’s gotta be something special about you. Something he noticed and you’re not telling me.”

“
We were able to talk together, about just about anything,” I say. “We just click. That’s not so unusual.”

“
And yet,” he waves his sandwich at me, “he couldn’t talk to you about being gay.”

Damn. “That was different. It would have affected our relationship.” He raises an eyebrow, whiskers flaring out from his narrow muzzle. “Yes, I know. He’s considerate. He wanted to spare me until he was sure.”

“
Sure enough to have had a boyfriend for a year and a half?”

I have to take another bite of my sandwich to stall. It gives me time to come up with the answer. “A lot of young people have trouble assuming a gay identity. It can be just ‘something they do’ for years before they acknowledge who they are.”

“
Mm.” He rubs his muzzle, finishing his sandwich. “And what triggers that change?”

“
It could be a lot of things—”

“
What do you think it was for Miski?”

My tuna salad is dripping along my glove. I lick at it to clean it up. “Love.”

“
For the boyfriend.”

I nod. “Love is a funny thing, as you know.”

“
Well,” he says, “it comes and goes easier for some than others. You still love him, don’t you?”

“
Yes.” It’s a relief to not have to lie. “And you still love Cimarine.”

“
It comes and goes.” He taps his fingers together. “Does he still love you?”

“
In his own way.” Which happens to be my favorite way.

“
Maybe he’s just bi.”

He’s got kind of a jokey tone for a supposedly serious subject. My whiskers twitch. “He’s made his decision, Mister Kinnel.”

His eyebrows lower at the formal name, but he doesn’t say anything about it this time. He watches me finish my sandwich and lick the drips from my fingers. “Do you get the dreams?”

“
The what?”

His ears are down. “Dreams. That you’re still together. You wake up and for a moment, you still think...” His sigh feels familiar to me. I try to think of who it reminds me of while I’m composing my answer.

“
No.” I have to be truthful. “But I never remember my dreams.”

“
Think about the things you did wrong? Think about what you might have done differently?”

I nod. “Though I couldn’t really have done much different. Could you?”

He rubs the side of his muzzle. “I dunno. Not without
being
someone different.”

“
So you shouldn’t dwell on it.” His turn to despondency puzzles me. He was so cheerful when we met. Could the mere mention of Cimarine make him depressed again? The last thing he said goes back through my head, the emphasis on “being,” the existential angst of it, and I realize who he reminds me of in this moment: Brian, my former best friend, the actor who wasn’t above a little drama play like this to draw guilty reactions out of me.