Hetero flexibility

By Mary Beth Daniels

Copyright © 2012 by Mary Beth Daniels. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, taping, and recording without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

v.1

Also available in paperback.

ISBN 13: 978-1470187729

How does one thank the girl lovin’ girlfriends who changed my life?

Through you I learned my first lesbian jokes.

Danced at my first gay bar (RIP Rainbow!)

Found friends after my divorce and subsequent dating trials.

Photographed several extraordinary weddings.

And met the love of my life. (You girls know the best boys!)

I hope one day Texas will honor the vows you made to each other.

Chapter 1: Wedded Bliss

I’d been staring at beautiful people all day and felt like punching one of them in the eye.

My neck and shoulders ached as I lifted the Canon 5D back to my face. The bride and groom checked to see that I was paying attention, then sliced a wedding cake the size of Mt. Rushmore. Miniature versions of the couple’s happy faces sat on top like shrunken heads, leering out at us in flesh-toned frosting. I shivered, creeped out anew when the bride accidentally severed the veil from the fondant version of herself.

I trained the crosshairs on her shocked expression and took the shot. I’d make a version for my private stash, this one Photoshopped with blood dripping from the sugar skull.

The bride attempted to reattach the veil, but it fell into the chocolate fountain. “Oopsie!” she said, peering out to see if I’d caught the moment on camera.

I gave her a thumbs-up. The groom lifted a fork full of cake to her lips. His eyes kept dropping to her tight bodice. The silicone Double Ds had probably run up his credit card.

The couple froze, staring at the door behind me. The guests began to hush, tapping each other and gesturing toward the entrance. Only the refrain of “Unforgettable” remained at full blast.

My neck hairs prickled. Might be something worthy of the Wedding Photography Hall of Fame. An enraged ex. A drunk relative. Maybe even a fistfight. Sweet. One of my photographer friends got to snap the teenage son of a groom mooning the guests, and I was utterly jealous. I turned to see what had captured the attention of the entire room.

A deputy in a brown uniform entered the hall, pausing right in the middle of the disco-speckled dance floor to look around. No one seemed to want to approach him as he clutched a clipboard and a manila envelope, searching the crowd through squinted eyes as dots of light slid over his face.

He spotted us and strode briskly toward the cake table. As he got closer, I made out a toothpick clamped between his teeth. Short-cropped gray hair. Red cheeks and loose jowls. He was completely out of place in the black-tie crowd. I wondered who was getting busted, checking the exit to see if anyone was trying to slink out the back.

But he stopped precisely three feet from ME.

“Zest Renald?”

How did he know my name?

The deputy cleared his throat. “You Zest Renald?”

“Who sent you?” No one knew I was here but my husband Cade.

He stood a little straighter. “By the power vested in me as an official servant of the Justice of the Peace Court 348, you are hereby served these documents for Cause Number 783, petition for divorce, by Cade L. Renald.”

My legs turned to cigarette ash. “Is this—a joke?”

He held out the clipboard. “Sign here.”

“No one serves divorce papers at—” I glanced around. “A wedding.”

“If you would sign here, please.”

This could not be happening. Cade had been fine that morning when I left. He didn’t have it in him to keep a secret like this. “You’ve got the wrong girl!”

He checked his clipboard again. “Zest Renald, wife to Cade Renald, at the Harbor House, 5 p.m. to 10 p.m. Photographer with frizzy brown hair.”

My free hand flew to my head, smashing down the crazy curls. Bastard. “I refuse to sign anything until I’ve talked to my husband.” And killed him. They could come for me then.

His fat lips clamped down on the toothpick, then relaxed. “Refusal to accept the documents does not negate the legality of them being served.”

“Unforgettable” whined to its aching conclusion, and the DJ let the music go silent as we stood there, the disco ball still splashing white light across the crowd. The guests stood silently, like party ghosts.

The man held out the clipboard again. He had a badge, a gun, the right look for a sheriff-type. So it was true. Cade had served me divorce papers without any sort of warning. In front of clients. At a wedding. Sorrow welled up, but I stuffed it down with rage. Just wait until I got my hands on that boy.

I snatched the pen from the deputy. After I scrawled my name, he passed me the envelope and turned on his heel.

The label blurred in the spotty light. I couldn’t even read it. Then slowly, maddeningly, I recognized the name in the corner. Winston Murray, Family Law. Winston Murray! He had been Cade’s best man. We’d lost touch while he was in law school.

Now I was furious. I’d always hated that snake. Different girl every five minutes. Bimbos, all of them, hair bigger than Dallas and fawning over him, always making catty remarks about my appearance when the men weren’t around. Yeah, I wasn’t a looker. Tell me something new.

Cade hadn’t cared five years ago when he’d married me. Sure, we were the last ones standing after all our college friends paired off, but we didn’t have to do it. We could have stayed single.

I capped the lens of my camera and stormed to the corner where I’d stowed my bag. No way was that womanizing drinking buddy going to pull this off with my husband. They obviously thought he could slink away while I was at a wedding since otherwise I worked from home. I’d show him. I shouldered the duffle and headed for the entrance.

The bride shrieked. “You can’t leave! I haven’t thrown the bouquet! Daddy, stop her!”

The wide-necked father blocked the exit. Like hell he’d stand in the way of a woman scorned. I burst forward in a hard sprint. He held out his hands, but I feinted left, then shot right, cutting behind an empty table.

He neatly sidestepped into my path and almost snagged me, catching the strap of my bag with his broad hand. But I jerked it away, jumped over the ring bearer, who sat on the floor stuffing dinner mints down his gullet, and flew out the door.

Next stop: track down my lying scheming son-of-a-bitch, soon to be ex-husband.

Chapter 2: The Dolt Bolts

The front door banged against the wall as I smashed through the foyer. I’d called Cade three times on the way to the house, but he had his phone off.

Where was he? Not in the living room. Not in the kitchen. I hurtled up the stairs.

I tripped on the last step, caught myself, and flung my body inside the master bedroom.

Empty.

I bent over to catch my breath as I surveyed the room. His usual pile of clothes over the weight bench—gone. Ditto his alarm clock, his stack of gaming books by the lamp, and the robe he always hung on the bedpost.

I checked the closet. A good chunk of his wardrobe was missing. In the bathroom, no guy stuff, just my Frizz Ease and what little makeup I owned. My reflection in the mirror would have scared a small child, the wild mass of hair more puffed out than usual after my mad dash. I looked every bit the part of a harried housewife who’d been done wrong, worn out and jilted at twenty-seven.

I sat on the edge of the bed, anger dissolving into confusion. How long had he been planning this? We weren’t any great lovers, but we were friends. How could he not just tell me?

I sorted through our last conversation. As I’d descended the stairs with my equipment, he balanced precariously on his Wii Fit, pretending to snowboard down the cartoon landscape on the wide-screen TV. “Record score,” he said, running his fingers through his sparse hair as he peered at the monitor.

I was late, and mumbled, “Congratulations,” as I stuck my feet into my shoes on the landing.

He frowned, switched off the game, and shoved the plastic platform under the television stand. “I forgot that you’re too good for video games.”

We had this same discussion almost every day. He loved his X-box, the Playstation, Rock Band. I hated them. “But otherwise we’re a match made in heaven,” I said, another long-standing joke.

He flopped on the sofa. “Weren’t we always?”

Now that I thought about it, his tone had seemed off. Not quite the usual playful tease. We both knew we were not a match of any sort, just two ugly ducklings who didn’t really want to end up alone. But we did all right as friends, co-habitants, occasional sex partners.

Or had.

I sat on the bed, leaning my head against the end post. A note sat propped against the lamp on my side table. I wasn’t sure which was worse, reading it, or never knowing what it said.

Zest, sorry I didn’t warn you about the divorce. My life is complicated. I figure you’ll need me to stay in the house since the payments are high, and we’re too upside-down to sell. Take a few days to find yourself a place. I know you’re mad, and I’ll stay away until you’ve moved.

The world went gray. This was real. My husband was divorcing me. I had to find another place to live. I’d need money for a deposit. And a lawyer. I’d just blown off that wedding. Did I even have access to any money? I didn’t do the bills. God.

I paced the bedroom, running my hands over the oak furniture, still on his credit card, then halted, realizing my studio was in the garage. I’d need the house.

The mattress sagged beneath my weight. But the payments. No alimony in Texas. We’d sunk all our money into the house at the absolute worst time, just before the mortgage crash.

I stumbled back downstairs where the manila envelope lay on a table by the door. I braced myself for the black-and-white finality of the words on paper.

But I couldn’t do it. I didn’t want to think about him and me, our relationship, or the loss of it. I wouldn’t let it matter.

A few inches away, the television remote beckoned like the Holy Grail. I picked it up instead. When the going gets tough, the wimps watch Ellen.

***

I was drunk on talk shows. I’d blown through sixteen episodes on Tivo, spending the night in my rumpled clothes and photographer’s work vest, too lazy to empty the lumpy pockets stuffed with batteries and flash cards. I’d have to pull myself together eventually. Three biddies who had known my mother were scheduled to come by for a shoot in a few hours. Their drama radar would register seismic activity on the scale of Pompeii. I had the poker face of a toddler.

I picked up my phone. No calls. I’d text messaged my friend Fern to tell her I was single and destitute. She’d fired off a quick, “I’ll call in reinforcements,” but nothing else. Busy straddling the latest boy, no doubt. When it came to men, she’d done more banging than a drum corps in the Macy Parade.

I flung my spoon onto the coffee table, knocking over the fourth container of Skinny Cow ice cream. I didn’t care if it dripped melted goo everywhere. Not my house. Not my mess.

Barack Obama danced on screen, mimicking Ellen’s trademark moves before a crowd following his campaign trail. Ellen compared the clip to one of his wife and declared that Michelle owned the superior groove.

Not funny. Who cares. The distraction was wearing off. I started fast-forwarding through the recording. The only politician I followed was Sarah Palin, because she was just so hilarious. Republicans were hilarious. And they were going to lose the presidency next week.

My phone buzzed. Unfamiliar number. I picked it up and answered with what meager enthusiasm I could muster, “Photography with Zest.”

The woman sounded a little breathless. “We need a wedding photographer, kind of fast. Fern told us you were great and had time available right now.”

Holy cow, Fern had done it. “Great! Sure! Yes!” I fumbled through my vest pockets for a notepad. “Do you have a date?”

“The wedding is this Saturday. Can you do that?”

Hallelujah. “Yes, I’m free.”

“It’s in California.”

Location! My internal cash register went cha-ching. I could kiss Fern. She worked for a movie director in town and knew everybody.

“That’s fine,” I said. “Can you meet me at the Starbucks on Sixth so we can work out details?” And pay a deposit. “I have a shoot at six, but—”

“We could meet in an hour.”

“That works. What was your name?”

She hesitated, and I felt a trickle of apprehension.

“I’m Mary.”

I stifled any feelings of alarm. “Okay, great, Mary. I’ll be wearing—” I looked down at my rumpled khakis. “Jeans. And a red shirt.”

“There’s one more thing.”

Here it was. They could only afford $200. Or they were polygamists. Or—

“It’s a gay wedding. All girls.”

Oh. That’s all. “Not a problem.”

She exhaled in a rush. “Okay, good. I had assumed not, since you knew Fern, but I wanted to check.”

What did she mean about Fern? I didn’t care. I just wanted this gig. “Not a big deal whatsoever. See you in an hour.”

I raced up the stairs, tugging off my vest. I had never met a lesbian in my life, but this was Austin, a progressive town, and I could be progressive. Besides, Ellen Degeneres was a lesbian, and I’d watched her show for years. I knew the issues, the prominent players, and the lingo. What could possibly go wrong?

Chapter 3: Presidential Debate

The windows reflected my bobbing head of frizz as I ran along the sidewalk to Starbucks. My dead mom’s comments flowed in an unrelenting stream. “It’s a good thing Zest has a snouser the size of a potato, otherwise with that hair you wouldn’t know if she was a’comin or a’goin’.”

Sweat trickled between my shoulder blades. Texas in October could still top ninety degrees. The shop displays exploded with sweaters and cute little ski hats as if the customers weren’t strolling in wearing tank tops.

The door whooshed open to a blast of air conditioning, and I scanned the room for lesbians. Two men. Nope. An elderly lady. Nope. A Barbie mom-and-daughter set with matching processed hairdos. Blech. The girl was too young, maybe sixteen.

Then, back in the corner, two women. One was large, a little angry looking, with short hair. A butch. The other was smaller, an intense expression on her pixie-like face, frantically scrawling across a notepad. Her fem. I had this stuff down.

I approached them. “Are you Mary?”

The big one glared at me, silent. The tiny one didn’t look up, writing madly.

A man sat down beside them, setting three coffee cups on the table. “What does she want?” he asked. I spotted his wedding ring and realized the smaller girl was actually young. Their kid. God. I had the gaydar of a Magic 8 Ball.

From behind me, a woman called, “Zest? I think you’re looking for me.”

My face flamed as I turned around. A brunette woman waved lightly. She sat next to a blonde, nicely dressed, hands around her coffee cup.

“Sorry,” I mumbled, awkwardly squeezing between tables and heading toward the real Mary.

“I should have told you what we would be wearing,” Mary said. “My fault.” She gestured to the girl next to her. “This is Jenna.”

Jenna’s gaze flitted back to the other group, and I knew she was sizing up my mistake.

I set down my portfolio, distracting myself by pulling out albums and price sheets. I could do this. Just don’t say anything stupid and start over, like the other thing never happened.

“Mary, Jenna, so glad to meet you.” I opened a book to the first page. “I have sample albums to show you so we can see what styles you like.”

The women murmured over an image of a bride riding on the handlebars of a bicycle, the groom looking over her shoulder and laughing. Mary flipped through the shots. “These are beautiful. Fern was right about your work.”

A knot began to unwind in my belly. This would be fine. I’d collect a deposit, go on the trip, and get an apartment when I got back. Or a small duplex with a yard for outdoor shots. “How do you know Fern?”

“Oh we’ve never met, but she was…” Mary hesitated. “…friends with someone we know. She forwarded a message about you that Fern sent out.”

I so owed Fern. “I’m glad she did. Do you have the location settled?”

“Yes!” Mary unfolded a fax. “Just got it confirmed.”

I tugged the wedding contract from my bag. “Good. And a minister? Or JP?”

Mary glanced at Jenna and my apprehension notched up.

“Well, we had a little trouble,” Mary said. “So many weddings are happening this weekend due to the election that most everyone’s tied up. But we found someone.”

I pressed a price list flat and tugged out a pen. “Why would the election make people get married? They carrying this Obama ‘hope’ thing a little too far?”

Mary forced a brief laugh, but Jenna elbowed her and said, “No, not the presidential election. This one is to ban gay marriage. It’s called Proposition 8.” Her voice could have iced over a frat boy at a Tri-Delt pool party.

Never heard of it. “Oh yes, of course. I forgot it was the same day.”

Mary gripped her coffee cup. “If we don’t go now, we might not get to do it at all.”

Jenna laid her hand on Mary’s. “We don’t think it will pass, but it might. We don’t want to risk it.”

I didn’t get the big deal. “Isn’t there another state where it’s legal?”

Jenna raised an eyebrow at me. She could tell I didn’t know anything. I had to stop talking. “Sure,” she said. “Massachusetts. But we don’t know any softball teams there.”

“Softball teams?”

Mary smiled at me sympathetically and reached in her purse. “Some stereotypes apply. We do play softball. In fact, we have a honeymoon game planned for the Sunday following the ceremony.” She produced a picture of a team in red uniforms. “Satan’s Hoebags.”

I was so lost. “Satan’s…what?”

Jenna pointed to the title on the bottom of the image. “Our team name. Satan’s Hoebags.”

Mary poked at the picture. “There’s eight of us are getting married on the trip.”

“Eight?”

Jenna stared at me, frowning. “You seem a little in shock.”

“She’ll be fine,” Mary said. “Show her the girls.”

Jenna turned back to the image. “There’s me and Mary. And Audrey and Audrey.”

I frantically wrote notes on the back of a brochure. “Both named Audrey?”

Jenna nodded. “Here is Bella and Nikki. Nikki’s the comedian.”

“And the flirt,” Mary added.

Jenna tapped the picture on the girl’s face. “True. Nikki will keep us entertained. And these are the troublemakers, Blitz and Krieg.”

I put the pen down. “Blitz? And Krieg?”

“Softball nicknames,” Jenna said.

I massaged my forehead. “Okay, so eight brides. And a game afterward. We’d be leaving Friday?”

“That would be Halloween,” Mary said. She turned to Jenna. “I’d miss the McCain rally.”

“Oh, darn.” Jenna tore her napkin into strips. “Mary is a Republican, despite the irony.”

Mary scowled. “I don’t feel any irony. I am not a one-issue voter.”

“Sure you are.”

“Abortion is just one of the reasons to support Republicans.”

“But them being against us getting married isn’t a deal breaker.”

Mary’s face bloomed pink. “Do we have to go into this now?”

Jenna crumpled the napkin strips in her hand. “We wouldn’t have to be throwing this together if you were part of the fight and not part of the problem.”

Oh boy. I plastered on a smile.

Mary looked ready to cry. “We are not throwing this together. We’ve been planning a long time. Massachusetts wasn’t worth taking a trip. Canada was too expensive. And we agreed a commitment ceremony wasn’t enough. We wanted a real marriage certificate. I can’t help that California suddenly went the way of the Mormons.”

Jenna shook her head. “I don’t know if I even want to get married there at this point.”

Mary started crying for real then. “Do you still want to marry me at all?”

I tugged a tissue out of my bag but just held it.

Jenna put her arm around her. “Of course I do. I don’t get the rush. The protests are going to be awful.”

“But if it fails. What will we do?”

“It won’t fail.”

Mary turned to me. “I’m sorry Zest. I was premature.”

They stood up.

I pushed my chair back, panicked. “Wait, think about it. This could be it! You don’t want to miss your moment! And the other girls probably have a say—”

Mary paused. “That’s true. The rest of the team was making plans.”

Jenna pulled her away from the chair. “They will do whatever we do. Besides, if worst comes to worst and we go last-minute, we can get a photographer there.”

“But…But you said it was crazy,” I said, stuffing albums in my bag so I could follow them out, keep pleading if I had to. “You might not be able to find one.”

“We’ll be in touch,” Jenna said, pressing Mary toward the door.

I tried to hurry alongside, but the heavy bag kept snagging on the backs of chairs, crumpled brochures falling out. They crossed the coffee shop ahead of me and pushed open the door.

“I’ll be waiting!” I waved gaily, but they didn’t look back.

I sank back onto a chair. I needed an apartment and my only means had just walked out.

Chapter 4: Cheating Cheaters and the Two-Bit Hussies They Cheat With

He’d been circling the house for half an hour.

I watched from the upstairs window as Cade’s green Tahoe made another pass. He obviously needed something but didn’t want to come in while I was around.

I could wait him out.

I ate Doritos straight from the bag in total disregard for my pot belly. If only I could have gotten the fat to move to my boobs.

In less than an hour, I had the old-lady photo shoot, one of the last two I had booked. I didn’t want to do it, but after walking out of one wedding and losing the next, I desperately needed the money.

He passed again.

This was ridiculous. We’d been married five freaking years, and he couldn’t talk to me?

As the SUV disappeared around the corner, I decided to fake him out. The stairs cushioned my stocking feet as I ran downstairs to snatch my keys and stick some shoes on. I snagged the entire pile of fabric grocery bags as though I were headed for a mega shopping trip and walked outside, slowly crossing the lawn so he’d get a chance to see me.

He took the bait, idling around the corner, parked behind a neighbor’s Hummer. As if I wouldn’t have noticed. God.

I only circled the block once, then watched him get out of the Tahoe, look around, and hurry into the house.

When the front door closed, I gunned the motor and pulled up behind him, blocking him in. I hopped out of the car and slammed the door so he could hear it. And panic.

As I passed the table in the foyer, I snatched up the manila envelope I’d been served, still unopened, and headed up the stairs.

In the master bedroom, Cade was manically stuffing underwear into a duffle bag.

“Forget the unmentionables?” If I had noticed, I would have filled them with itching powder.

He straightened and smoothed his t-shirt across his chest, a nervous gesture I hated, like a preening peacock, only he didn’t have the looks or the build to attract a half-dead hatchling.

“I thought you left.”

I let the envelope fly, for once aiming true as Robin Hood. The corner nicked him square on the nose. He backed away, holding his hand to his face.

“Jesus, Zest.”

“What are these?”

He sat on the bed, rubbing the red mark blooming on his stupid skinny beak. “We have to get divorced.”

“Without telling me? Like it’s some big secret? At a wedding?”

“You’re always home and I—I just couldn’t be there when you got them. It was Winston’s idea.”

“Do you have any idea how humiliating that was?”

“I was trying to avoid a hurtful scene.”

“You mean for you.”

He zipped the bag. “You make everything difficult.”

“And that justifies what you did?”

“If we’d talked about it—you’d have just been—like you’re being now. This was easier.”

“Easier for you.”

He shrugged, hefting the duffle on his shoulder with a self-assurance I’d never seen in him, bordering on a swagger. “It had to be done.”

He caught his own reflection in the mirror and smoothed his hair, a gesture I’d never witnessed in five years of married life. Normally, like me, he wasn’t too fond of looking at himself.

Oh my God. He was porking someone. “Who is she?”

He hesitated, as though weighing his answer. Oh, that snake.

“Don’t assume—”

“How long has it been going on? A week? A month? A year?”

He took a step forward, but so did I, blocking the door. “How long?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

I almost fainted from anger. “It matters to me. I want to know how long I’ve been stupid.”

His shoulders drooped. He did care, a little. “You haven’t been stupid.”

“So what is it? Is she better in bed? More successful?” Oh, God, I had to say it. “Is she pretty?”

He grimaced, a begrudging acknowledgment of what it took to ask that. He knew me well enough.

“Please,” he said. “Don’t torture yourself.”

I rounded the bed and lunged for the phone. “Call it off.”

“What?”

“Call it off. Let’s figure this out first.”

He half-smiled. “You asking me to stay?”

Oh, the smugness of that little shit. “No, I want to make this long and painful for you. So call it off. I want to hear you tell her.”

The grin became a smirk. “I can’t.”

I held out the receiver. “Sure you can. Call her up, tell her it’s over, you’re little affair is out, you’re busted, and you’ve got dirty laundry to manage before you can hang a new clothesline.”

He backed away. “This is exactly what I was talking about. You, taking over.”

I shoved the phone into his narrow chest. “Do it now.”

He refused to take it. “She’s pregnant.”

The blow was so much like a physical punch that I had to suck in air. And yet he stood there, calm and composed, like a strutting cock. Son of a bitch. “How seventeen of you.”

“Zest…”

“You said you didn’t want a baby.”

“It just happened.”

“You just didn’t want a baby with me. Would it be too ugly for you? Couldn’t stomach some frizz-headed, pinched-faced devil child?”

“Zest.”

“I’d hate to see how small a pecker your son will end up with.”

“Good God, Zest. How is anyone supposed to love you with a mouth like that?”

I tossed the phone on the bed. People used to say that about my mom.

I used to say that about my mom.

“I’m leaving now.” He stepped toward the door.

“So that’s it?”

He turned around, somewhat helplessly, now looking more like a lost little kid than a reproductive lothario. “I think so.”

“You won’t be back here?”

“I’ll have to come back eventually. The baby should have a house, and you can’t exactly afford it on your own.”

I sank down on the bed. “I didn’t think it would end this badly.”

He disappeared through the door, not even pausing as he called out, like an afterthought, “At least there’s no love lost.”

His footsteps on the stairs faded, followed by the front door opening and closing. I picked up a framed photograph from the dresser, me and that traitor on our wedding day. We were laughing, and the photographer had managed to capture a miracle—both of us looking pretty good, and happy. That very picture, and how I’d felt upon seeing it, was a big part of why I decided to quit the job I hated so much and become a photographer.

I never had a solid swing but it had been a good day for my aim.

The frame flew straight through the back window in a glass-splintering crash.

Then the doorbell rang.

Chapter 5: The Wicked Women Sisterhood

The three women looked terrible, bloated in oversized purple dresses, like a Mardi Gras float.  I pictured their inflated bodies hovering over Bourbon Street, tethered to teams of human ballast, scuttling to keep them on course amidst the crowds of bead-throwers.

I didn’t hate old ladies in general, but the ringleader, Marge, had made my mother miserable, loud and rich and full of opinions. Even at the funeral, Marge had dominated, taking over the flowers and the music and the food.

Normally I wouldn’t have booked them, especially on a Sunday, but my dad had actually called and asked me to do it, as a favor. Marge had contacted me the next day, arranging for me to take a picture of her “sisterhood,” who had gathered in Austin for a girls’ weekend.

The biddies wandered about the studio, applying makeup and exclaiming over each other. I mostly hid behind backgrounds and umbrellas, trying to keep my mouth shut. These painted ladies raised the Nellie Olsen in my soul.

I hadn’t actually seen Marge since the service twelve years ago, when I was fifteen and gangly and everyone wanted to pat my head and give me tissues, despite my dry eyes. I couldn’t imagine the fawning they would force me to endure if they caught any hint of marriage trouble. I had to hold it together even though at this very moment, Cade was probably searching for the spare keys to move my car so he could escape. These busybodies must not find out.

“Zest?” a sandpaper voice crooned.

I popped out from my dark corner. It was Marge, dragging jewelry from a bag.

“Tell me which necklace is better, the red beads or the purple chain.” Marge held the strands over her ample bosom.

Both were hideous. “Um, gosh. Why not both?”

Marge beamed. “I like your style!” She turned her back and handed me the jewelry. “Do you mind, dear?”

Her perfume made my head rush, sweet and strong, like rotting lilies. I fastened the necklaces and she turned, striking a Betty Boop pose, knees together, bent at the waist, hands on her thighs.

“You look fabulous,” I managed.

“We all do!” she said, straightening and walking back to the other women. “Harriet, Genevieve, isn’t Zest the spitting image of her mother?”

They murmured agreement. Genevieve patted her hair, a helmet that could easily be confused with taxidermy. Harriett bent over to rummage through a bag, and I had to avert my eyes from the strain of her purple dress over her wide, wide hips. She turned to reveal an inkjet-printed sign that read, “The Wicked Women Sisterhood.”

I adjusted the position of a flash. “So how do you know each other?”

Marge dropped heavily onto a stool. “We all volunteered at the shop where your mother worked. And we’ve all been married to each other’s husbands.” She sneered at Harriet. “At least in the Biblical sense.”

Harriet tugged out a mirror and applied unnecessary rouge. She already looked like Raggedy Anne. “Oh, sit on it, Marge. We’re all big nasty hussies. It would have been fine, but we got old, and the men moved on to other other women.”

Genevieve crossed her arms over her ample bosom. “Little gold digging bitches.”

“Not in front of Zest!” Marge protested. “Think of her dearly departed mother!”

The women all did a sign of the cross.

“We still have a little Catholic in us,” Marge said. “But it’s like snow in Texas, it doesn’t stick.” She pointed to the other ladies. “We could have hated each other, but we have too many kids in common. You know, the village raising the child.”

So they had all screwed each other’s husbands. Just what I needed at this moment.

Harriet put her arm around Marge. “Marge’s Timmy is half brother to my Annie.”

Marge faked-smiled back at her. “And my Angela is half sister to Genevieve’s Johnny.”

This was too much. All I could manage was a muffled, “Wow.”

Harriet pulled away and straightened her neckline. “It goes on. It’s possible that some of the paternity is…” she tossed a knowing look at Marge, “in question.”

Marge threw up her hands. “Water under the bridge!”

Genevieve rolled her eyes. “After we were set aside like old dishrags, we banded together.”

“And now we’re all fast friends!” Marge said, applying an additional layer of scarlet lipstick. She already looked like something from Munchkin land, short, wide, and garishly bright. I remembered my mom complaining about her, enduring all the volunteer ladies’ comments as they did their shifts at the resale store where Mom was the only paid employee. They came from a lot more money than our crummy little Dallas suburb. But Marge was the worst.

“Well, ladies,” I said. “I’ve set out stools. Let’s start arranging you.”

Harriet dashed forward. “The boas! Don’t forget the boas!”

Marge produced a bag and removed great tufts of feathers in bright pink.

“You sure picked a lot of color.” I cranked the backdrop roller and changed the plain white canvas to a vividly painted Parisian scene. Sometimes you just have to give in to schmaltz.

“Much better!” Marge crooned. “We’re in gay Pareee!”

“I thought you’d like that,” I said, and shifted the background light a few feet higher. Marge and Harriet were balding a bit, their glossy black dye jobs shot through with pale scalp. I was going to be Photoshopping through the night.

“She’s one of the best,” Marge said. “Any daughter of Fay would be.”

Yeah, a self-taught photographer with less than a year’s experience was one of the best. I tried to accept the sentiment without the whiplash of inner sarcasm. She’s so like her mother, they used to say when I popped out some smart-aleck remark as a teen. It definitely got worse after the funeral. Perhaps, like a witch, or Obi-Wan Kenobi, Mom’s death somehow caused a transfer of her snark to me.

I switched on the CD player, set to “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.”

The women immediately began dancing together, swishing their boas and striking what they thought were dramatic poses.

“Okay, everyone, right here!” I called. “Look into my eyes. That’s it.” The women fluttered around the set manically, blowing kisses and showing beefy thighs with roadmaps of varicose veins. More Photoshop ahead.

Traditional arrangements seemed futile. I snapped shot after shot, trying to capture good sides and the least horrid angles of their broad waistlines, until their foreheads began to glisten.

I shut off the main softbox. “That’s a wrap, ladies.”

The women chucked the hot boas and switched to comfortable shoes.

“So, Zest, I heard you got married,” Marge said. “Was that the young man we passed coming in?”

“It was—is. My husband. Yes.” Crap. I was rattled. I busied myself with the camera to avoid meeting anyone’s eyes. Still, in my periphery, I could see them all glancing at each other. Not much got past these women. Even if there wasn’t any drama, they’d manufacture some.

“We sense,” said Harriet, touching her fingertips together and pressing them to her lips, “something amiss.”

“Oh no,” I said.

“Fay always did say little Zest was sensitive,” Marge said.

“How long have you been married, dear?” Harriet asked.

I swallowed. Keep it together, girl. “Five years.”

“Still room to grow,” Marge said. “Good years yet.”

“You two still jiggling the chandeliers?” Harriet asked, swinging her hips and winking.

My face flamed. “Yes, of course.” I didn’t sound convincing, even to me.

“Uh oh,” Genevieve said. “Trouble in the bedroom? That’s the first sign.”

Harriet took my hand and led me to a stool. “Spill it.”

Oh no, no, no. I would not get sucked into their little society of men haters. Even if I did, sort of, despise men at the moment. Besides, they might call my dad before I got the chance.

I spun on the stool and slipped over to a light box, snapping off the modeling light. “I’m fine. Really. So tell me, should I put the proofs online or mail you some hard copies?”

Marge shook her head. “Never mind that. You can tell us about your wretched home.”

I closed my eyes a moment. I had no idea how to get out of this. I tried to circle them and make a break for the door, but the women had closed in.

“Is he working late? Taking sudden trips?” Marge asked.

“Listening to popular songs? Eating or drinking new things?” Harriet added.

“Does he pay attention to you in random spurts, then seem distracted?” Marge asked.

“You guys really are experienced,” I said.

“We’re the best,” Genevieve said, kicking their awful little sign.

“Does he have a lawyer yet?” Marge asked. “He who files last loses.”

What did that mean? Lose what? “He served me papers yesterday. Is that bad?”

Harriet drew in closer. “Now listen here, and listen good. Texas is a horrid place for divorce. A no-fault state. No alimony. You don’t have any kids, so you can’t even squeeze him there.”

“I don’t want to squeeze him—”

“Did you support him for a while?” Marge’s eyes narrowed.

“Well, I worked while he did grad school.”

The women nodded, and I felt panic rising. “I don’t think he used me. He makes a lot more money than me now!”

“Ah, good, good,” Harriet said. “Whose name is the house in?”

“Both, I think.”

“Also good.” She moved in close. “Now, once the papers are served, if he’s playing hard ball, your assets will be frozen. You won’t be able to spend any money above usual expenses. If he’s been paying the bills, you’re going to have to figure out how to work the living arrangements.”

“You need to look for any strange purchases he’s been making,” Marge said. “Furniture, a deposit somewhere. He might be supporting some hussy.” She glared at Harriet, who shrugged.

I hadn’t thought of that. “I can’t make the mortgage on my own. And he wants the house—” My throat closed. I couldn’t confess the part about the baby.

“Girl, you have to protect yourself,” Marge said. Just like at the funeral, she handed me a tissue even though I wasn’t crying.

“It’s going to be all right,” Harriet said. “Women are strong. And at least without any kids, you aren’t stuck with him any longer than the ink dries on the decree.”

Chapter 6: Pack, Rats

By late morning on Monday, the boxes covered all available floor space. I couldn’t pack the studio, as I had a shoot the next day, but after that, I had nothing booked. I only ever seemed to work in short bursts.

The living room seemed hopelessly his. Furniture, part of his grandmother’s estate. Artwork, his mother’s. Television, a gift from his dad.

Ellen’s show was on. Hilary Swank showed off an Ellen haircut and had even dressed like her, doing an amazing job of mimicking her dance moves and gestures. Normally I would have been mesmerized, but today I couldn’t care less.

I walked away and wandered down the hallway, mentally noting things I would take with me. Mainly small stuff. I had no place for furniture right now even if it was mine.

I took photos off the walls and set them in a stack. None of me and Cade, but one of my dad, some macro shots of flowers, a skyline of Austin. I had one old image up, a family shot shortly before Mom’s cancer, just me and my parents. I was thirteen, gangly but still hoping I would fill out. I was still hoping.

I should call Dad, tell him about the divorce. He’d want to know. Besides Marge would probably tattle.

Oh, those women. I still wanted to shudder, recalling how I’d been forced to endure their endless hugging and patting and squeezing and consoling. How had they wormed that confession out of me? A parrot could have kept its mouth shut better. Brrok! Zest has got a secret! Brrok!

I shoved the pictures into a frame box. Fern was due any minute to help me pack. She’d been my friend since college, the only one that was mine and not also Cade’s. Couple friends were worthless at a time like this, all worried about taking sides. Fern had offered to put me up in her condo for a while, sympathetic about me losing the wedding.

I turned to the kitchen. I’d made very few dinners here. I wasn’t any sort of domestic goddess. We’d eaten out mostly, once Cade had a good job. I really had supported him through grad school, and he had given me my turn a year ago, letting me start my own business while he supported me. Until now.

The manila envelope lay on the counter. I ripped open the top. The words “Petition for Divorce” were enough to make me suck in a breath.

I glanced out the window at a passing car to see if it was Fern, then returned to the papers.

“In the matter of the marriage of Cade Renald (petitioner) and Zest Renald (respondent).”

My eyes flitted shut involuntarily.

I thought of Winston on the day of the wedding, rushing down the hallway to tell me not to worry, that Cade had just been delayed. His hair had flapped in his mad dash, and I found myself laughing so hard I could scarcely hear what he was saying.

We’d had to rush the pictures, something that would have driven me batty as a photographer, due to Cade’s tardiness. Later, after the reception, when we entered the hotel room (he had tried to carry me but the dress was too slippery, and I kept falling out of his grasp), I learned why he was late. He’d filled the room with star lilies. Their perfume was so strong, we almost choked on it.

“I love them,” I had said, coughing and laughing.

He smacked me on the back. “You’re going to think I tried to kill you with flowers.”

No one had ever done anything romantic like that for me before. I had been so amazed, knowing I looked okay for once, the veil hiding my frizzy hair that refused to iron flat, the beaded dress rearranging my flat chest and doughy waist into something that resembled a normal figure. On that day, I’d felt worthy.

Back to reality. I opened my eyes and flipped through the pages of the petition. I couldn’t make sense of any of it. On the last page, the word “Prayer” made me pause.

I read the smaller print.

I ask the Court to grant me a divorce because the marriage has become insupportable due to discord or conflict of personalities that destroys the legitimate ends of the marital relationship and prevents any reasonable expectation of reconciliation.

That did sound a bit like a prayer, a shot in the dark, a Hail Mary, football style, not the rosary beads variety.

I dropped the pages back onto the table. I didn’t even know what I was supposed to do with these papers. It didn’t have signature flags, or action items, or instructions.

“Hellooooo! Zest, baby! You here?”

Fern stood in the doorway, the sun brightening her spunky bleached ponytails nearly to white, decked in a totally Fern outfit—hot pink halter and black leather skirt, pink-striped stockings and knee boots.

Sometimes it was all I could do to keep my self-respect in light of that girl’s utter physical perfection. I’d have hated her in most any other situation. Maybe I did hate her.

I shoved the papers back in the envelope and shook my head. “You must be on the set today.”

“The director likes me to look the part.”

“Of the slutty assistant?”

Fern rolled her eyes beneath enormous false lashes with glitter on the ends. I should photograph her, really, get some model shots. She’d do anything, boudoir, leather, nudes. If only I had some time before I dismantled the lights. I had no idea when I’d be set up again.

“So why exactly are YOU the one packing?” she asked.

“He wants the house for the baby.”

“Oh, right. The love child. You aren’t going to take him to the cleaners?”

I resumed shoving books into boxes. “He doesn’t have anything to clean out. We dumped everything into the house.” Bloody bad timing, actually, for this to happen. We could have at least had something to split, so I could get a fresh start.

She kicked a wall with her shiny boot. “Fuckin’ a.”

“Besides.” I scooted a box closer to her. “He’s obviously had her over here. I found these in the liquor cabinet.”

Fern bent over the box. “What’s in it?”

“Sex toys.”

She pulled back a flap. “Really? He just left them with the liquor?”

“Never wanted to do any of that stuff with me.”

Fern sorted through the box, her honey-toned body not showing a bulge anywhere, totally the opposite of me, with my skinny arms and legs and a pooch belly, topped by a face only a bulldog could love. But Fern. That girl inspired stalking at epidemic levels. If she’d ever had a relationship last more than five minutes, I might have been jealous.

“I guess they forgot to use these.” She held up a string of florescent orange condoms.

Not funny. I turned away to sweep all the CDs off the bookshelves. Mine, his, and ours. He’d have to start his collection over. I could resell these if I got desperate.

She dropped the condoms back into the box. “You going to be okay?”

“No, actually, I’m pretty screwed. I don’t even have a studio.”

“Well, I have good news for you. We’re going to get you that wedding gig back.”

“The one with the lesbians?”

“Oh yes.”

“But they weren’t even sure they were going to go.”

She dug through the toy box again. “Well, they are. And I want you to meet the rest of the girls. They’ll love you, you’ll be hired, and everything will be okay again.”

I stared at a Blondie album cover, not sure why Fern was so bent on helping me. We were friends, of course, but mainly as Sisters in Whine, more likely to share a text message than a night out.  She was a hottie trust-funded assistant in the movie industry, and I was, well, a wreck. “When are we going?”

“Tonight. Meet me at my place at six.”

“I’ll be there.” I swiped at the dust hidden behind the row of CDs. Housekeeping, not my strength.

Fern scooted over closer to me. “Will you be okay for a while once they pay for the wedding? Enough to get a place?”

“Yeah. I’ll be all right. As long as you’re okay with a houseguest for a few days until then. I’ve got to get out of here.”

She sorted through the teensy purse attached to her belt and tugged out a spare key. “As long as you don’t scare the boys away.”

I took the key and stuck it in my pocket. “Just warn me when they’re coming.”

“That’s the problem, they’re always coming without warning.” She reached into the sex-toy box and retrieved a pink rabbit vibrator. “You’re better off with one of these.”

Chapter 7: Get Your Game Face On

I took the stairs two at a time up to Fern’s fourth-floor condo. Time to ditch the pot belly if I was going to date again. Blech.

I paused, huffing, outside her door. A mirror in the hallway confirmed my hair had gone wild again. I smashed it down and rang her buzzer. I didn’t think I should use the key until I was officially moved in.

Fern threw open the door, and I staggered back when I saw her outfit.  “Are you really wearing that?”

The getup was straight from A League of Their Own. Short pleated skirt, matching crew-neck top, ball cap, and even bobby socks. All the color of a petunia. “Did you forget your pink pom pons?”

Fern arranged her face into a pout. God, that girl could put it on. “You never like my couture.” She headed to her bedroom.

I followed her. “It’s just a little…unexpected. Where are we meeting them exactly?”

Fern faced the mirrored wall behind her bed, adjusting her ponytails beneath the cap. “Their softball game.”

“Oh. That’ll be interesting.” I twisted my own hair self-consciously as she perfected hers. “So what’s your connection with these women?”

“I know a few of them.”

“Which ones?”

She turned around, hand on her hip. “Just Aud, really. The others I only met a time or two.”

“How do you know her?”

She sat on the bed in a huff. “What’s with the third degree? I know tons of people in this town.”

“It’s just strange how you’re going so out of the way for me.”

She pressed down on my hair, then giggled when it flew back up. “Stop worrying.”

I stepped away. “Stop worrying! These women will eat me alive. I barely made it through the first meeting.”

“They’re okay girls,” Fern insisted, coming back at me, this time with a comb.

“I don’t know anything about gay rights. I got confused just trying to figure out who they were in the coffee shop.”

She began combing through my frizz. “It’s not rocket science.” She stood back to assess her progress on my hair. “Just don’t be a homophobe.”

“I’m not a homophobe. I just worry I might look like one.”

“You’ll do fine. Stick close to me.” She turned to a rack of hats by her closet door. Every type of headwear imaginable covered the pegs, from sequined top hats to pink net pill boxes. She tugged down a red ball cap, standard issue.

“Really?” I asked.

“You’ll fit right in.” She set the cap on my head and pulled my hair through the hole in back. “This needs some conditioner.” She stepped into the bathroom and returned with a squeeze bottle. The room filled with the scent of gardenia as she smoothed the mass of frizz. “There. Much better.”

She turned me to the mirrored wall. My hair was almost tame, the flyaway strands smoothed into a curly mop.

She popped the cap shut. “Let’s go!”

I trudged after her, quite sure I was headed toward certain doom.

***

My Volvo bounced and bumped through potholes in the dirt as we approached the softball fields.

Colored shirts dotted the fields in every direction, along with knee socks and shiny shorts. I had never been much of a sports player. The two times I’d ever been to bat in junior high, I’d closed my eyes and swung. Making any sort of connection between metal and leather was about as likely as bumping uglies with Brad Pitt.

Fern peered out the window like a kid looking into FAO Schwartz.

I gripped the steering wheel. Despite being worried about how she might act, I was glad she had asked me to come along. I vowed to let her do the talking to avoid embarrassing myself. “What are we looking for?” I asked.

“Red uniforms that say ‘Satan’s Hoebags.’”

“Oh, right. Their team.”

She pointed at a mass of women in purple. “Oh, look at those. Palin’s Power Tools.”

Their shirts had an image of Sarah Palin’s face on the front. The backs read, “A Team You Can Get Behind!”

I pulled up next to the line of cars and parked. “Sarah Palin. Finally get a woman on the ballot and it has to be a conservative ex-beauty queen.”

Fern opened her door. “Don’t worry. Caribou Barbie will have the shelf life of a day-old Twinkie once Obama gets elected.”

I killed the engine. “He’s a sure thing?”

Fern stepped out of the car, then popped her platinum head back inside. “As sure as Carrot Top being your soul mate.”

I got of the car and nervously ran my hand along the conditioned ponytail. Strands were already starting to dry out and fly away.

We headed toward the bleachers. “I am so going to blow this.”

“Just be calm and confident.” She waved to a blue group. “These team names are so great—the Love Monkeys.”

A beautiful girl in a Love Monkey uniform nodded as we passed. “What team are YOU on?” she asked.

I shook my head at her. “We don’t play softball.”

Fern gripped me tighter and steered me abruptly away. “Just a joke!” she called over her shoulder. “This one’s not mine!”

After a few steps, she said, “Don’t talk!”

“What? What did I say?”

Fern leaned in so close her cheek brushed mine. “She wasn’t asking me if I was on a softball team. She wanted to know if I was gay or straight.”

“How was I supposed to know that?”

We passed another team called the “Big Rods.” I had to tread carefully over the broken ground, rutted with tire tracks and clumps of dried dirt. Fern hanging on me like a drunk chimpanzee didn’t help. “Is this a special league?”

“With names like that? Obviously. It’s the Gay and Lesbian Athletic Alliance League. They have them in California too.”

I forced us to slow down to avoid tripping. “Are only gays allowed?”

“I don’t think so. THAT boy doesn’t look gay.” She pointed at a twenty-something with a mop of curly hair and biceps on his biceps.

“How will I know what to say or do?” I asked. Paranoia began to mushroom. “What are you going to say to Mary and Jenna?”

Suddenly it was too late. A cluster of red-uniformed women approached us from behind, catching up, one of them draping her arm around Fern. “It’s the hottie!” She tossed her dreadlocks as she whipped around to the team members behind us. “Blitz, get up here. You remember Fern, right?”

We stopped walking. The woman holding on to Fern was tall, statuesque, and utterly beautiful, with model-perfect skin and dark, soulful eyes. She held out her hand to another woman, even taller, broad, and a bit menacing. My mind thought, butch! But then remembered the coffee shop. Shut up, brain. I clamped my lips together.

“Krieg!” Fern said. “It’s been ages.”

Mary pushed through them, spotting me. “Zest! You’re here too!” She enveloped me in a sweaty embrace. Fern let go of me, and I patted Mary awkwardly on the back. She pulled away. “I didn’t think you’d ever speak to us again! Jenna was such a bear!”

Jenna approached, arms crossed. “At least I’m not a Republican.”

“Stop acting like Hoebags!” A short girl with shiny black hair and smooth caramel skin pushed through the crowd. “Is this the photographer you political nut jobs pissed off?”

I raised my eyebrows, refusing to break my silence even though I was quite taken aback. They thought they had wrecked it with ME?

“Nikki!” Mary said. “You haven’t even registered to vote.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Nikki grabbed me around the neck, pulling me down to rub her knuckles on my hat. “She’s noogie-proof!” she announced. “Damn it. Somebody remove this cap.”

I stared at the many pairs of worn cleats and wondered what the hell I was doing here. I had no idea why this woman had me in a vise.

Then suddenly, I was up again, Nikki right in my face. “You’re kinda easy prey, aren’t you? Don’t let the right winger and the Obama freak scare you. We need a photographer.”

Krieg grasped Nikki by the shoulders and yanked her a couple steps back. “Give the girl some space.”

“So what do you say?” Nikki asked. “Will you do it? We leave in three days.”

I glanced over at Fern, who stood a few feet away. She nodded at me. I guessed that meant it was okay for me to talk. “Of course I’ll do it.”

They let out a collective cheer, coming forward for hugs.

Fern gave me a thumbs-up, then her expression froze on someone behind me.

I turned to look. Another Hoebag. This one wore her polyester in a tailored fit, smooth and tapered from shoulders to hips. She shifted her softball glove back to her right hand and smoothed her hair in its perfect ponytail, a spunky curl coming off the back. I could already see the image of her, the clean sharp features would photograph well. Her figure would work divinely in silhouette.

“Fancy seeing you here,” she said to Fern. She didn’t look pleased.

“Had to help out my friend Zest,” Fern answered.

I tried to listen in, but the Hoebags were all coming up to hug or high five me. Blitz and Krieg introduced themselves properly. Finally the new girl approached. She didn’t try to hug me, sticking out her hand for a shake instead. “I’m Audrey Two.” Her grip was firm, confident, and dry.

“Right. Of Audrey and Audrey.”

“Yes, my girlfriend is the first and best Audrey.” She pointed over to the stands. “She’s not an official Hoebag, just a fan. You can call me plain Aud instead. Most of them do, when they aren’t trying to be cute.”

“How long have you and Audrey been together?” I asked.

“Two years.” She smacked her hand into her glove. “I wasn’t much for making things official, but it’s what she wants. You know, the whole U-haul bit.” She glanced back at the bleachers. “And I like to give her what she wants.”

U-hauls. I’d have to ask Fern about that later. “I think it’s great, all of you going together.”

Nikki lunged forward, slinging an arm around Aud and mussing her hair. “If we don’t kill each other!” She tilted her head toward Fern. “I see Zest brought a babe. You ready for a threesome?”

My mouth dropped open.

A girl with short ringlet hair pushed Nikki away from Aud. “No recruiting the straight girls,” she said, then held out her hand. “I’m Bella. Supposedly Nikki’s bride. IF she deserves me.”

“Aww. I’ll never deserve you. And the heteros are so fun to shock. You’re in for quite a ride in Cali,” Nikki said, laughing. She waved. “See ya later, Zest! You won’t be stuck here. They only give us one hour to play, and the winner is whoever’s ahead. Then I can teach you about strap ons.”

I hoped she wasn’t serious.

Bella threaded her arm through mine. “I’ll take you to the stands.”

We weaved through the other teams, many of them moving toward the fields. “You don’t play?” I asked.

“Oh, I do, but we rotate in and out.” She tugged her shorts down over her broad pale thighs as we sat on the metal stands, no doubt self-conscious next to Fern. Everyone felt secondary to Fern’s movie star looks. I had gotten used to it.

Bella pointed to a petite brunette next to her. “This is Audrey.”

“Audrey’s Audrey?” I asked.

“I am.” The woman extended her hand, reaching over a white Pomeranian in her lap.

“I guess I’ll be taking your picture,” I said.

“Oh, good. We hoped we could convince you to go.” She petted the dog.

“Who’s this?” Fern asked, patting the dog’s head. Fern hated animals, but now she moved in close, overly interested.

“It’s Butch,” Audrey said. “She belongs to Jenna. I watch her during the games.”

Butch! “A mascot?” I asked.

“There’s several,” Audrey said. “You’ll see them.”

The two teams met on the field for the coin toss.

“So how do you two know each other?” Audrey asked, pointing at me and Fern.

Fern angled toward us, one Mystic tanned knee crossed over the other, her pink sock and saddle shoe a blur as she twitched, a tick that I knew meant she actually felt a little unnerved.

“I’ll tell,” Fern said. “We dated the same boy our freshman year of college. I figured it out when I found a drawer full of pictures Zest had taken of them together. Some of them were of the same night he’d been with me, Halloween parties. Zest here had apparently gotten the early shift.”

“Fern called me,” I said. “We decided to get our revenge.”

“What did you do?” Audrey asked.

“We both told him we were pregnant on the same day,” Fern said. “Pink sticks and all.” She glanced around the other women. “Magic markers.”

The women erupted into laughter, making the Hoebags clustered near home base glance up.

I wished I had brought my camera. Three men and two women were striding across the field now, sharp in bright red shirts. More Hoebags.

“They allow men on the team?” I asked.

Audrey leaned forward, her hand on the white dog. “It’s all co-ed.”

“They don’t mind being called Hoebags?”

“They don’t complain,” Bella said. “We’re the league leaders.”

A stick-thin woman wearing red vinyl hot pants and a teensy red top walked in front of us. She led a Chihuahua adorned with a red Hoebag jersey.

“Wow, she’s a serious fan,” I said.

“She’s a he,” Fern said.

“A HE?”

“Shush!” Fern glared at me sternly.

“Sometimes it’s hard to tell,” Bella said.

Audrey shifted closer, hugging Butch. “Some people check for the Adam’s apple, but surgery can fix that. I look at the hands to be sure.”

“Hortie still has his own neck,” Bella said.

I touched my throat, my face probably flaming brighter than a Hoebag uniform. Fern elbowed me. “Gotta hone that gaydar, dearest,” she said.

“Working on it,” I mumbled. A bat cracked against a pitch, thankfully drawing everyone’s attention to the field.

Nikki stepped up to the plate, then turned to look at us. “Hey Homos! And non-homos!”

“What!” Bella yelled back.

“If I don’t hit this one home, I have to buy the straight girls a beer after the game.”

Audrey shouted back at her. “And if you do?”

“They have to kiss me!”

Oh shit. I glanced at Fern, who seemed amused. I clutched the rim of the bench as the first pitch went wide.

Fern laughed. “You look horror-struck.”

The bat cracked as Nikki pegged the ball, but the hit went foul.

“Don’t worry,” Bella said. “Nikki’s just a flirt. She doesn’t mean anything by it.”

Nikki swung again, this time connecting neatly with the ball, which headed to the outfield. She scrambled around the bases.

“Is she going to make it?” I asked.

“I don’t think so,” Bella said. “Here comes the ball.”

Nikki stopped at third base. She looked up into the stands and shrugged.

“Your virgin lips are safe,” Fern said.

“I’ll make her buy you that beer,” Bella said. “You will come to the pub after, right? Bradford will want to meet you. He’s handling all the wedding details.”

“Bradford of Brad’s Salon?” Fern asked.

“That’s the one,” Bella said. “So will you come?”

I’d had enough stress for one day. “Oh, we couldn’t possibly—”

“Miss it,” Fern finished. “We couldn’t possibly miss it.”

“Awesome!” Bella said. “We go straight after the game.”

“If the straight girl is game,” Fern said.

“I’m game,” I answered. Like a one-winged duck during hunting season.

Chapter 8: Bottoms Up

I just wanted to show up at the pub, meet Bradford, get some information on the dresses, and escape unscathed. But as we neared the patio, I despaired. I had no idea how to handle the scene. Boys leaned on boys. Girls kissed. Hortie in her red vinyl had arranged herself dramatically along the fence rail, vying for attention.

I clung to Fern. “Don’t you dare desert me,” I warned.

She laughed. “You are out of your element, aren’t you?”

Bella waved madly. “Zest!” she shouted. “Over here!”

I swung beneath the beam of the wood fence surrounding the patio rather than walk around. I turned to Fern, who stood primly by a post.

“Coming?” I asked.

“You’re shorter than me.”

“You can’t duck?”

She continued to stand there, batting eyelashes like a 30s starlet into the crowd. I followed her line of sight to a tall dark-haired man in a chambray shirt, who finally noticed her distress. I walked toward Bella, shaking my head. That girl could flirt a spot off a dog.

The man crossed under the fence and picked Fern up, setting her easily on the other side.

“Does that one like girls, at least?” I asked Bella, not disguising my annoyance.

Bella threaded her arm though mine and led me over to the bar. “Actually, no. But she’ll figure it out when he asks her for a recommendation for face cream.”

I glanced back at Fern. She was talking frenetically to the man.

“Look who I found!” Bella called.

“The paparazzi!” Nikki shouted, hoisting a bottle in the air. “What’s your poison, straight girl? Fireman’s Four? Shiner?”

“Shiner’s good,” I said.

I stood there awkwardly, not daring to say a thing. Was lesbian even the right word? Or gay? What would they call themselves at the wedding? Partners? Brides? Civil union…ists? I longed for duct tape. Anything to keep me from opening my stupid mouth.

Nikki handed me a beer. I glanced back at Fern, who was fading into the distance, sitting on a rail with the boy. We approached a long table tucked in a dim corner of the patio, full of red Hoebag uniforms.

Mary passed an iPhone to Nikki. “You gotta watch this.”

Nikki took the small screen. “Uggh. Palin again? Spare me the conservative bitch-spawn.” She contorted her face into an expression of unadulterated disgust.

Mary frowned. “Somebody has to stand up for unborn children.”

Nikki looked at me apologetically and passed the iPhone back to Mary. “We’re more likely to convert Zest here to homo-ville than elect that conservative earwax as president.”

“Some people seem to think Obama consorts with terrorists,” Mary said.

“McCain IS a terrorist,” Nikki shot back.

Aud pulled away from Audrey. I hadn’t even seen them in the shadows, tightly entwined. “He’ll get the erectoral vote.”

Nikki nodded. “He and the other teabaggers.”

Mary huffed, scooting off the bench and walking away.

“My work here is done,” Nikki said. “I like to cause drama.” She kicked another woman, also in a Hoebag uniform, busily making out with another girl. “Get a U-Haul people. You’re making the heteros twitchy.”

As they pulled apart, I recognized Krieg. “Nikki! Just because you’re going straight to hell…”

“We’re all going to straight to hell,” Nikki said. “And it all begins on the trip to Cali.”

“Blitz here can’t wait,” Krieg said. “She always wanted a white wedding.”

Blitz growled and pulled her back into an embrace.

Mary returned. “Zest, you’ve gotta look at this.”

“Not another Palin thing,” Nikki asked.

Mary tilted the screen toward us. “No. Margaret Cho. The lesbian love boat. Thought Zest could use some education.”

Nikki took it. “Oooh! She’s perfect!” She winked at me. “Not that you need book-learnin’. But I have a feeling you don’t know many lesbians.”

She hit the triangle for play and cranked up the sound.

The woman on stage, dressed in hot pink, talked about her job as a comedian for a cruise ship where she went whale watching. The group all hooted with laughter. I had no idea why. Did they consider themselves fat? Wet? Slippery? I hung on every word.

Nikki stopped the video. “All women comedians are gay.”

Mary stood up straight. “What are you talking about?”

“Paula Poundstone is gay,” Nikki said.

Mary looked doubtful. “Are you sure?”

“Sandra Berndhart is openly bi,” Nikki said.

The other women began talking at once.

“Rosie O’Donnell is gay,” Krieg said.

“Maggie Faris,” Nikki said.

“And Ellen Degeneres,” I said. Ha, a contribution!

Mary held out her hands to shush everyone. “Gilda Radner is straight. And Lucille Ball.”

“They had gay lovers,” Nikki said.

“What!” Mary shouted. “You can’t say that!

“I just did.” Nikki raised her beer in salute.

Mary seemed genuinely miffed. “Why does everyone have to be gay to you?”

Nikki grinned in the half-light. “So I have a better chance of sleeping with them.”

Everyone groaned.

Mary was not ready to give up the fight. “Kathy Griffin is straight.”

“Kathy Griffin is not straight,” Nikki countered. “She just has not come out yet.”

Mary crossed her arms over her chest. “What evidence do you have of her gayness?”

Nikki shook her head. “I’m not going to say, because it’s mean.”

Jenna popped up behind Mary. “Julie Louise Dreyfus is straight.”

Nikki considered this. “She does standup?”

“She does.”

Nikki clearly wasn’t going to back down. “Let me tell you they have tendencies. They dabbled. They were a little gay.”

“So there is a scale of gay?” Mary asked. I was glad she asked. I was taking mental notes.

Nikki pulled Bella closer. “Sure. Your gay can go all the way or just a bit.”

Mary stepped close to Nikki, indignant. “MINNIE PEARL was straight!”

Nikki shook her head. “I’m telling you, if she is a police officer, a comedian, or works at Home Depot, then that’s a lean toward the gay side.” She turned to me. “You getting this?”

I nodded but didn’t dare utter a single word.

The women began arguing amongst themselves. Seeming satisfied with her rabble rousing, Nikki took my arm and led me away. “We should locate Bradford.”

I exhaled for the first time in four hundred minutes. “I do want to talk to him.”

“Everybody does. He’s too beautiful not to look at.”

We walked across the patio. Fern leaned against the rail, now surrounded by other women.

“She’s not bi, is she?” Nikki asked.

“Fern is like a universal remote. Anyone can push her buttons.”

Nikki nodded, thoughtful. “There’s Bradford.” She turned us to face the back fence line. A group of men were talking and laughing, beer bottles in hand, like you’d see at any bar. Some wore jerseys, the others plain button-down shirts and jeans. All were clean cut, short haired, a few sporting bits of facial hair, goatees or light moustaches.

Nikki lifted her beer in their direction. “That’s him, in the pinstripes. You’ll find yourself staring at his perfect mouth. Don’t worry, we all do it. If I were going to switch teams, he’d be the man. Not that he’d be interested in me.”

Bradford had an arm slung over another man’s shoulder and talked earnestly, gesturing broadly with his free hand. I couldn’t see his face, but his hair was clipped short, stylishly cut. His sideburns were a little longer than usual, but his face was otherwise clean.

We approached the group, and I felt another small wave of surprise when one of the men kissed another goodbye and they parted. How little I knew about these couples. Again I washed over with fear that I would say or do something stupid.

“Hey, Brad, baby! I brought you a woman!” Nikki said.

“Now whatever would I do with one of those?” he teased and pulled away from his friend. “Are you the photographer?” He extended a lean, tanned arm, his sleeves rolled partway to his elbow.

My heart did a little flip. He was beautiful. I immediately reached for my internal snark. Mom always said, “Avoid the good-looking men. They only want good-looking girls, and never the same one for long.”

Mom’s words blew away as I held out my hand to him, enraptured by his face. This is what they mean by chiseled, I thought, staring at his jaw. And his eyes were crystal and friendly. And the lips. Nikki hadn’t been kidding. Defined on the edge, then soft in the middle. Probably every woman—and man—wanted to lock into them.

My hand missed his completely, slashing the air and swinging to smack against my thigh. I blushed furiously, bringing it back up.

“Let’s try that again,” he said, smiling, and leaned forward to grasp my fingers. He lifted them to his lips and for a moment I forgot everything, our company of gay softball players, Fern, even my soon-to-be ex-husband. The emotional torrent of the week rolled away and calmed.

“Nikki said your name is…Zest?” he asked.

I heard his words but couldn’t quite yet formulate a response, still zinging with the warm kiss on my fingers that had now cooled, the grip of his hand on mine, and the startling perfection of his face. He should model, I thought, already posing him, leaning against a stone wall, lying on a hardwood floor, laughing in a lake, water droplets falling from his hair—

“She’s got it pretty bad,” Nikki said. “Give her a minute.”

Bradford grinned at me, and I realized, slowly, with increasing heat, that I was making a fool of myself. I jerked my hand back.

“Yes, Zest. My mom…thought it was funny. She liked the soap.” Good God, I never told anyone that. Someone needed to break my blurt button.

“That’s better than being named after fruit scrapings,” Bradford said. “But not quite as good as bubbly.”

“I don’t…consider myself…bubbly,” I said, willing the frenetic thoughts to slow down. But God, if I put him with Fern, I’d be famous. Maybe I could convince them do a session. But the thought of him admiring my friend made me trill with jealousy.

“Nice,” Nikki said. “You two get acquainted. Just don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“That’s a short list,” Bradford said, cocking a half smile. “Is there anything even on it?”

“Boys, for one,” she called over her shoulder. “Giant fist-shaped dildos, for another.”

I shook my head. “She’s really something.”

“She is. I guess you know I’ll be handling the wardrobe.”

“Yes!” I popped back into professional mode, relieved for a safe topic. “Please, give me details. Are they going formal? Semi? A lot of white?”

Bradford leaned easily against the rail. Images formed in my mind again. Shirtless, looking into the distance. Close up, focused on his eyes. “Each couple is a little different,” he said. “Only Bella will be in a traditional gown.”

“They said you are coming with us. Is that right?” Please. Say. Yes.

“I have hair and makeup detail.”

Sweet!

Fern stumbled across the patio in an awkward dance with a Palin Power Tool girl. She waved as she passed.

“Friend of yours?” Bradford asked.

“For maybe five more minutes.”

“That close?”

“We’re hard on each other. It’s part of the gig.”

He crossed his arms, and I had to work to avoid getting distracted by his hands. “And how is she hard on you?”

“She thinks I married wrong.”

“You’re married?” He said it quietly, but several people turned anyway.

I glanced down at my hand. I still wore, I realized, the diamond ring. Until that moment it hadn’t occurred to me to take it off.

“I was.” I shoved my hand in the pocket of my jeans.

“But not now?” His eyes had turned gentle, the smallest creases forming in the corners. He wasn’t as young as most of the others, all in their twenties. Definitely thirty.

“He served me the papers last weekend.”

“You going to be okay?” Bradford asked. “Photographing another wedding so soon?”

“Oh, yes,” I said. “Business. I’ll be fine.” Yeah, I was desperate for cash. I would suck anything up.

Fern circled in front of us again, this time almost falling.

“And that, I better handle now. I’ll see you on the plane, I guess. We’ll figure everything out.”

“I look forward to it.”

I grabbed Fern by the arm and pulled her away from the other girl. “Just let me cut in here.”

Fern let go of the Power Tool. “Party pooper.”

I led her away. “I know you’re not drunk, Fern. You have the alcohol capacity of a fifty-five-gallon drum.”

“It’s easier to get them relaxed if they think I’m toasted.”

“This is a work situation for me,” I said quietly. “Please don’t wreck it.”

“But they LOVE me!”

“I know. Everybody loves Fern.”

“Did you fall for that gay boy?”

I glanced back at Bradford, back to chatting with the other men. “Of course not, I don’t exactly need a man right now anyway.”

“They always come when you aren’t ready!” Fern waved at a Love Monkey. “Ready or not, here they come.”

“This is a theme with you lately.” I grasped her firmly by the arm and led her through the maze of jerseys, smiling and waving as we passed through.

“If you knew who I’ve been banging lately, you’d totally get it.”

“Zest! Wait a minute!” Nikki barreled across the patio.

I stopped, not letting go of Fern.

Nikki smiled at Fern. “You always look even better up close.” She turned to me. “The Hoebags are all going to Rainbow tomorrow night for dance lessons. You should come!”

Fern took a breath like she was about to talk, but I squeezed her arm.

“I’ll see what I can do,” I said.

“You know where it is?”

Fern refused to be thwarted. “I do.”

Nikki winked. “I bet you do! See you then!”

I hustled Fern back to my car and loaded her into the passenger seat. A couple team members still watched us. I waved again as I rounded the car and opened the door.

“What was with you tonight?” I asked. “Did you even like that boy? Or that girl? Was it all for show?”

She stared morosely out the window as I pulled away from the curb. “Everything’s for show.”

Chapter 9: There’ll Be Sad Songs, to Make You …Trash Your CD Collection

This photo shoot was never going to end.

What I definitely didn’t need to improve my last day in my own house was Harry Histrionic, Jr. and his clan exploding into waterworks during their session. I leaned on my tripod, waiting out the group hug and calculating if I had enough shots at this point to call it a wrap.

“And Dad…Mom,” Harry said, lifting a pretend glass in a toast, “none of us would be here today without you both.”

Of course not. They sired you.

I stifled a groan as the mush continued. When I’d booked the shoot two weeks ago, Harry-boy had told me the picture was a gift to his parents for their fiftieth anniversary. I’d figured, hey, three families in one, nice-size order, wall portraits all around.

I hadn’t counted on the sap factor.

The matriarch gathered her progeny to her bosom, eyes wet with joy. Harry Senior passed her a handkerchief, red-faced and beaming, touching the heads of his bored little grandchildren, one of whom was staring at me like I was the spawn of Satan. He squinted his beady eyes at me, freckles peppering his face like someone had attacked him with a Sharpie.

“Did you stick your finger in a light socket?” he asked.

The hair. Always the hair. “Nope. Turned these lights up too high.” I twirled the dial on the back of one of the strobes and the modeling lamp brightened.

His eyebrows shot up, and he ducked behind his mother’s gray skirt. Kids. Just as well Cade was having his with some bimbo. I didn’t have the patience or the temperament.

Except maybe for that one. A smallish girl, probably five or so, clung shyly to Harry Jr.’s pant leg. She looked up at the pictures on the wall of my studio with a solemn expression, taking in every one.

I followed her gaze to an image of a little boy with a puppy. What a horrid shoot that had been, but I’d learned from a bonus feature on a movie DVD to spread peanut butter on the kid’s face to make the dog lick him. And it had worked too, the resulting photo almost iconic, a boy in overalls, barefoot, sitting on the curb with his pet Beagle.

“You like that one?” I asked her.

She slid another quarter turn behind her father’s knee, watching me with quiet eyes. I waited—the rest of the family was still hugging and mock-toasting each other—and finally she nodded, her tiny chin shifting ever so slightly up and down.

I knelt near her. The droning of the adults was fainter down low. “Do you have a puppy?”

She shook her head. Her red hair was tied into tight braids, but the ends bushed out like puff balls. I pointed at the freckled boy. “Is that your brother?”

She nodded again.

“Does he make fun of your hair too?”

Another nod.

I scooted closer. “Here’s what you say next time.” I glanced up at Harry Jr. “You tell him that when he gets old, his hair is all going to fall out like your daddy’s.”

Her eyes grew wide.

“And you can straighten yours, but he can’t make his grow back.”

The girl cracked the tiniest smile.

I stood up again. Everyone had gone all kissy. Harry Jr. nodded at me, the signal to play the song he’d picked out.

A photography seminar had instructed us to create what I called the CD of Doom, something to keep around for emotional moments. Playing it during a session was supposed to build sentimental sales. I had a list on my web site to choose from. I started up “Wind Beneath My Wings.”

Fresh sobs commenced. Tighter hugs. Harry Senior motioned for me to come over, as if to envelop me in their love-ring. “You’ve made this such a special moment,” he choked out.

“Someone’s got to capture it!” I said, ducking behind the camera to avoid any pretense of joining the fray. I’d rather peel a pineapple with my thighs.

And yet, as I snapped the shots, Senior kissing the matriarch, adult children wiping their eyes, even the younger ones clutching various skirts and legs, I felt the inner tug. Who wouldn’t want this? All the love and family and gush.

Harry Senior came forward to clasp my hand. “This is a fine, fine day, Zest.” He gestured back to the family, “Fifty years. When I had that triple bypass in ’86, I didn’t think I’d live to see this.”

The wife touched his sleeve, her hand veined and pale against the dark wool. “You’re too stubborn to kill off that easy.”

I forced a smile. This was part of the job. In the background, Bette Midler warbled to her climax about flying higher than an eagle.

Harry Senior grasped me more firmly. “Trust me, Zest, there’s nothing like looking back at all the years you’ve spent with wife and family, and knowing they were the best thing to ever hit you.”

Hitting something. Violence was becoming a viable option. I pulled my hand back, acting as though I needed to adjust the equipment. “I know what you mean,” I said, even though I didn’t, randomly changing dials on the camera.

The grandmother pulled the eldest son to her and kissed his forehead. “You were so smart to plan a photo,” she said.

I walked behind them, clanging the roller chains against the metal poles as I raised the background. Swimming against the tide of tenderness was exhausting.

I tried to avoid doing the math, but the numbers came anyway. If I managed to find a new man and remarry within a year, I’d be seventy-eight at my own fiftieth. Someone would probably have to stick a hat on my head as I slumped on a motorized geezer cart.

Congratulations, Zest, here’s your anniversary cake puree.

Harry Senior squeezed my shoulder. “You okay, Zest?”

I snapped off the studio lights. “Now don’t be late to your big dinner. I’ll call you when the proofs are ready to view!” Not sure where I’d be or where I’d show them, but I’d have them.

They all began hugging me in turn as they filed out the side door, other than freckle boy. I gulped in air between each embrace, holding stiff to avoid letting their sentiment rub off on me. No more anniversary shoots, not for a while. Screw the money, I couldn’t handle it. The little girl peeked out from behind her father’s leg again. She didn’t offer a hug but gave me a shy smile. I pushed on my hair and pointed at her brother. She smiled bigger.

When the last one was gone, I turned back to the garage. I’d spent weeks getting it converted to a studio, what seemed a lifetime ago. Time to pack it.

In the quiet, the CD served up the next song. Celine Dion. “My Heart Will Go On.”

One CD Frisbee smashed against the wall, coming right up.

Chapter 10: Sweet Destitution

I pushed my red cart down the aisles of Target, dodging mothers with toddlers hanging from the sides of their overloaded baskets, and snagged the cheapest self-inflating mattress from the shelf. On an end cap I found a fuzzy pink blanket, as soft as I’d ever laid my hands on. It would make a good set piece for infants anyway, pastel and washable. I could write it off as a business expense. The IRS didn’t have to know that I’d photograph three-headed dogs in hell before subjecting myself to the presence of a bundle of joy.

Pillows cost more than I’d figured. Anything fuller than the squished flat things in the bottom bins were $30. I pulled one off the middle rack and tucked it under my arm. Cade would probably have to pay half of anything I bought anyway, since we were still sharing credit.

With that thought, I headed over to housewares. Fern had the most useless kitchen ever, nothing but a microwave and a blender. She subsisted solely on alcohol and protein shakes. I grabbed a couple Pyrex dishes and a saucepan, then on impulse, a coffee maker. No more pricey Starbucks for me, unless I had a meeting set up there. Time to act like the impoverished wretch I was.

I picked up a few food items on the way back to the registers. I should be set for a little while. I wheeled the cart to the checkout lane, where a beehived woman in her fifties greeted me.

I watched her scan the items, wondering how a woman like her, no wedding ring, probably no help, could make ends meet working at Target. I wished I could ask her, get tips maybe, but instead pulled my credit card from my wallet and zipped it through the machine.

“Transaction canceled,” it read. “Try again or use another card.”

“Just swipe it again, honey,” the woman said. “It’s always on the fritz.”

I ran the card more carefully this time, but it still read, “Transaction canceled.”

“What does that mean?” I asked, panic already rising.

“Let me try it over here,” she said, sliding the card across the groove above her keyboard.

She shook her head. “You’re tapped out. It doesn’t tell me why, if you’re over the limit, or expired or whats-it. But it won’t go through. You want me to call them? Or you got another way to pay?”

I pulled out the check card from my joint account with Cade, but I had a feeling I knew what would happen. “We can try this,” I said and ran the card through the machine.

Transaction canceled.

I checked my wallet. Two twenties and the uncashed check from Harry Histrionic. My face burned. “I guess I’ll have to put some things back, see what I can pay with cash.”

A women with two kids behind me sighed and began grabbing her items off the conveyor belt and sticking them back in her cart.

The checker smiled sympathetically. “Okay, honey, what you got?”

“Forty dollars.”

“What’s most important?” She pointed to the screen, which listed what I’d bought and their prices.

The bed was over thirty all by itself. The blanket was twenty.

“Um, keep the bed and the saucepan.”

“Gotcha.” She began shoving the rest in a bin beneath the counter. “Okay, $37.98.”

“And the Ramen noodles.”

She scanned the packages, six for a dollar.

“39.06.”

I handed her the cash, utterly humiliated.

***

I struggled beneath the boxes loaded with studio gear and essential clothes and pushed the button to the elevator for Fern’s condo. A security guard watched me from behind a polished teak desk as I tried to maintain my balance. Musak drifted from invisible speakers.

At last the doors slid open. A greasy-haired twenty-something stood inside wearing a ridiculous gray bellboy get-up straight from a sitcom. “Moving in?” he asked as I shuffled inside.

I wasn’t sure how to answer. There could be a policy against long-term guests. I didn’t want to get Fern in trouble, but even more importantly, I didn’t want to get kicked out.

“Oh no, just some…stuff.”

“What floor?”

“Four.”

He pushed a button, face forward, but his eyes kept shifting to my box. Finally, he pointed to the Target bag with the package sticking out, clearly marked, “Auto Blow Up Mattress.” Nosy asshat.

I angled the box so he couldn’t peer in. “We’re going camping.”

“Really? Where?”

“The Ozarks.”

“Which part?”

Crap. What states were the Ozarks in? Maybe he didn’t know either. “Missouri.”

“It’ll get cold at night. You’ll have to cuddle up.”

The elevator dinged, and the door opened. I stepped forward, but the man put his hand against my box. “Wrong floor,” he said. “Someone pressed a button on two.”

He moved to the doorway, looking both directions. “No one here. I should investigate.”

“Probably somebody just forgot something.”

“Could be someone in trouble.” He pressed the red button to stop the elevator from moving and puffed out his chest importantly. “Just let me check.”

I leaned back against the wall, trying to find a comfortable position with my box.

He disappeared down the hall. I blew a wisp of hair out of my face and waited.

And waited.

Finally, he popped back into the elevator. “False alarm.”

“What a surprise.”

“It could have been something important.”

“It could have been a kid punching buttons.”

“We don’t have any kids on the second floor.” The chest again. Uggh. A self-aggrandizing elevator man.

He released the stop button. “I know every resident.”

“Could have been a guest.”

He restarted the elevator. “So who’s your friend?”

“I have lots of friends.”

“Fourth floor? Has to be the doctor, the lawyer couple, the divorcee, or the hottie harlot.”

“The what?”

He nodded his head at the mattress. “I figured. Her place is a revolving door.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

He nodded. “She doesn’t get paid for it. I already checked.”

The elevator slid to a stop, and he smoothed his hair. “You’ll put in a good word for me?”

“What?”

“With the hottie.”

The door opened, and I rushed down the hallway. The last thing I wanted to do was broker Fern’s next lay.

And so I used the stairs for the other three boxes.

Finally, hot and exhausted, I set the last one on the stack and fumbled with the spare key. “You home?” I called as I pushed through the door.

A thump from the next room was followed by a crash. I hurried for Fern’s bedroom, flinging open the door, “Fern, you—”

I froze. Fern’s boss, the movie director, was swinging from a contraption made of satin rope, chains, and steel hooks. He was naked.

Fern knelt on the floor in black leather, shoving shards of glass into a corner. The broken body of a lamp lay nearby.

I backed away. Oh jeez.

Manny wiggled his fingers, his wrists tied with black cords. He crossed his legs in a small gesture of modesty, setting a loose chain to wild motion, narrowly missing the remaining lamp on the opposite side of the bed. “Good to see you again.”

I whirled around and raced through the living room. God, god, god, god, god. Would this sort of stuff happen every day? I paused in the front door, not sure what to do. Move my boxes in and wait? Go back in the hall?

I spied Fern’s laptop on the coffee table. I could borrow it and work on photos in the lobby.

I pulled the front door shut behind me, ready to snag my flash cards and portable reader when I remembered Elevator Boy. A revolving door. Apparently he knew his building.

And he might be hanging out downstairs.

I built a barricade with my boxes so that he couldn’t see me should he step outside the elevator, hunkering down with the laptop.

The walls were well insulated, or else Fern and Manny had settled down, as the corridor was silent. The padded carpet smelled faintly of lilacs.

I wanted to get all the latest pictures online before I left town for the wedding in hopes they’d order shortly after I got back, padding my meager funds. I’d need to open a new bank account, away from Cade. So much to do.

Fern’s laptop had a password, but she hadn’t changed it from “password,” so I got in easily.

The images began transferring, the women in their purple dresses.

Marge. I remembered her at the funeral, less girthy and still quite beautiful, decked in a black sheath and dramatic hat with netting, like a Betty Davis film.

Mom was laid out in a polished redwood coffin at the front of the room at the funeral home. Marge approached it as recorded organ music played some dirge, a black lace handkerchief held to her nose. All she needed to complete the picture was elbow gloves.

Dad sat next to me and tensed when he saw her, putting me on alert. He’d been calm and quiet throughout everything. Of course he had. He wasn’t there when I found her collapsed on the floor of the bedroom, worn out from chemo and unwilling to admit how bad she was feeling. When the paramedics came and laid her on the stretcher, she’d awakened a bit and looked around as though she’d never see the place again. “Don’t forget to dust the television,” she’d said to me. “You never remember to move the picture frames.”

Marge turned from the coffin, bent over as if grief-stricken. I hardly knew her except through an annual Christmas party and mom’s caustic remarks. Mom managed a thrift shop that was staffed by volunteers from some charity, including women like Marge who seemed offended that someone actually got paid to work at a place they served for free. Tack a religious angle onto the whole mess and Mom got a daily dose of negativity.

Marge reached for Dad’s hand and patted it with enthusiastic affection. “I’m so sorry, Ben. Eleanor was such a dear.”

Dad nodded politely but I could see him trying to extricate his hand.

Marge released him and straightened her skirt. “I do wish you’d followed my suggestion of holding the service at Our Lady of Guadalupe. It would have been so lovely.”

A muscle in Dad’s jaw ticked. “This will do just fine, thank you.”

Marge tugged several Kleenexes from her bag and handed them to me. “Poor little Zest. In case you need them.”

I didn’t reach for them, and they fluttered to my lap. Marge leaned forward, reaching out as though to cup my chin, and I ducked and took off across the room.

“Poor overwrought thing,” I heard her say as I pushed out the doors and to the bathroom.

I poked the keys on the laptop harder than necessary as I copied the images over to the hard drive. I should never have even booked that session. The pictures were useless as samples. The women probably wouldn’t even order any. Morbid curiosity, I bet, led them to call me at all.

I loaded Photoshop Bridge to look at them at full size but paused when the most recent of Fern’s images opened in the viewing pane.

A girl. An arresting girl. Dark-haired, smooth-skinned. Serious.

And familiar.

I glanced at the file names. Aud-at-concert. Aud-smiling. Aud-birthday.

Audrey’s Aud! All over Fern’s computer.

Now it was clear why Fern had so much interest in the Hoebags. Fern had been with Aud. But when? I switched to detail view to check the dates.

About a year ago. All the pictures were taken in a one-month period. Hadn’t Aud said she and Audrey had been together two years?

I didn’t want to know. I’d just put the laptop back where I found it. Pretend I hadn’t looked. I could do the women’s images later. I closed Bridge and deleted the purple dress images from the drive.

I slipped back through the door and returned the laptop to the coffee table. I heard a loud squeak of metal and an abrupt shout. Manny.

Fern responded, “You’re in BIG trouble for breaking Mommy’s lamp!” Then the snap of a whip.

Time for me to go back in the hall.

Chapter 11: 24-Karat Hearts

The Volvo idled with a gentle vibration as I waited a half block away from my old house. Someone had wrecked my life. I wanted to know her name.

The house looked deserted. If I could be certain Cade—or the bimbo—wasn’t there, I was going in.

I cut the engine. Cade should have gone to work a couple hours ago and didn’t usually come home for lunch. But just in case, the mission would end well before then.

Leaves crunched as I strode along the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street. Despite the heat, I pulled my hoodie up over my ears to hide my signature hair.

I passed the house, walked past two more, then crossed the street and doubled back. As the two-story limestone grew near, I stuck close to the trees. I could enter the garage by a side door and see if his car was there. If not, I could go in and really do a thorough search.

The second spare key—one I had made months ago after locking myself out while Cade was out of town—slid easily into the lock. Cade would never have to know I had it. Besides, the house was still half mine. Who knows, maybe I’d decide to fight him on it, just to be difficult.

Sunlight crossed the empty cement floor as I eased open the door. Awesome.

I ran up the stairs, knowing exactly where I wanted to go. While waiting in the hall last night, I’d thought about the box of sex toys that had been in plain sight, stowed beneath the liquor. I was the drinker of the family, not him. He intended for me to find it.

Then I’d remembered something else. A lipstick. A stupid pathetic cliché lipstick. In his coat pocket no less. It had been cracked and scratched up, and I had just assumed he’d picked it up off the ground in a fit of not wanting anyone to Mess with Texas, especially since it was nestled with a beat-up matchbook from some podunk bar—Billy Bob’s something or another. No place he’d ever go. The idea that Cade—the clueless, unromantic, hairless wonder—could be having an affair seemed about as likely as, well, me having one.

I was pretty sure there would be other things stowed where he figured I’d come across it, putting together the clues that would make the divorce filing less of a surprise.

I’d just been more clueless than he’d figured.

Cade had one funny little quirk about his laundry. His underwear had to be folded. And they weren’t boxers. They weren’t even tighty whiteys. He like wearing Tommy Hilfiger, Abercrombie & Fitch, or Calvin Klein bikinis. And not plain. Red, sapphire, black, leopard print. He even had some with a lightning bolt. I’d discovered this back when we were dating and found it endlessly amusing.

So one of the things I did for him was to fold them. A small thing, surely, but I had never begrudged him this service, even though my own underwear was wadded into a mass of cotton and lycra.

If he wanted to hide something and yet make sure I would find it, he’d put it there.

As I entered our bedroom, I felt accosted by images. Photos of us lined every wall and rested on each flat surface. I’d taken so many as I practiced en route to becoming a professional, before my hobby became my job.

Over the bed, we ate ice cream, laughing because I’d gotten Rocky Road on my nose. Next to that we leaned against a tree in the backyard, me pressing into him, his arm draped across my shoulder, staring at each other in a romantic engagement-style pose. From the pictures, a casual observer would assume we had a normal courtship. That, I knew, was the power of photography. It could document, but it could also disguise.

I lifted a frame from the dresser top, a serious shot. I’d set the self-timer, as always, but I thought it wasn’t going to fire. We’d dropped our smiles and looked at each other, me almost accusing, him bemused. I’d run a copy of the image because the profiles were so striking, but looking at our expressions, I could see myself clearly—annoyed, cynical, expecting things to go wrong.

And they had. Which came first? My cynicism or the unhappiness of our low-joy relationship? The desire to cheat or the opportunity?

I felt like pitching the picture through another window. I glanced back at the pane I’d smashed that first night. Cade had covered it in cardboard.

I set down the photo and rooted through the drawers. He’d apparently moved back yesterday because everything was back in its place. Folded undershirts. Perfectly matched sets of socks. I pushed aside a set of long johns to sort through underwear.

But I didn’t find anything. I’d been wrong on that.

This might take longer than I thought, especially if I had to go through the enormous walk-in closet.

I started with the other drawers. Stacks of sweaters yielded nothing. Winter pajamas, nada.

His collection of t-shirts with logos from concerts and random advertisements barely fit in its compartment. As I pushed them down to close it, I felt something. A hard squarish lump. I pulled it out.

A velvet box.

I sat on the bed, completely unsure if I should open it, what I might find.

A ring for her? Now that she was pregnant, did he plan to propose? Did he want to or had he gotten trapped? I remembered his swagger, the self-pride on that last night when I caught him packing. No, he was right where he wanted to be.

I closed my eyes as I popped it open. The sun filtered through my eyelids, staining the light red through the blood of my veins. Unshootable, like the shadows in a bedroom at dawn, or the grays of night.

I drew a breath to steady myself and looked in the box.

A locket.

The gold heart gleamed against the red backing. I lifted it with a fingernail and flicked it open.

On one side, a photo of me, turned to the side, laughing. On the other, Cade, with a closed-mouth smile. I hadn’t taken these pictures. They might have been at a picnic, last spring, hosted by one of his coworkers. I studied the bit of visible background, trying to remember the moment. Yes, I had worn that white v-neck.

I turned the locket over. An engraving etched the back side. I angled it toward the window.

For Zest, my love. 5 years.

It had been meant for our wedding anniversary—almost two months ago.

And he hadn’t given it to me.

Tears threatened. Cade never put love on a card much less engraved in gold. Something had happened to inspire out-of-character behavior.

I leaned against the bed, the gold now warm in my hand. So the affair had begun between the time he’d bought this locket and our actual anniversary. By the time the date arrived, he hadn’t wanted to give me something sentimental. What had been his gift instead?

Oh, right. A copy of The Photoshop Bible. He’d been nothing but supportive of my photography work, perfectly unperturbed when I worked late or missed weekends for a wedding.

Of course. This was when he saw her.

I wanted more. I wanted to know when it began. And I wanted her name. She’d wrecked my marriage. He’d been happy a few months ago, happy enough to have a locket engraved. Maybe he’d even broken up with her, ready to present the gift, when she’d found out she was pregnant.

Shit. Of course. So when had I been working? And where had he been? I ran down to my home office and flung open a box I hadn’t been able to move yet, full of order receipts. I rifled through the folders and tugged out August. Just before our anniversary, I’d spent two days shooting a high school reunion. Exhausting days for very few orders.

But I’d come home, and Cade hadn’t even been here. Back then I didn’t think anything of it, simply going to bed, but now…I walked across the hall to Cade’s office. In his desk, he kept all the credit card statements. Did he buy anything that weekend? Go anywhere?

I found the folders 2006, 2007.

Almost all of 2008 was missing.

Oh, I would not be thwarted.

I sat in his chair and flipped on his computer. It blinked on and presented me with a request for a password.

That dog. He never had a password on the machine before.

I paced the room a moment. He had the memory of a dandelion in the wind. He wrote everything down. I jerked open the desk drawers. Pens, scissors, paper clips.

And a folded index card.

I tugged it out, wanting to laugh. He could have at least hidden it. Sure enough, in his scrawled handwriting, “PW: radiohead.” His favorite band.

I typed it in, and the computer logged me on.

The Quicken accounts were up to date. I scrolled to August. He meticulously listed each expenditure—our anniversary dinner at Chez Zee, groceries, gas, a wedding gift for a friend. Even the locket, $152 from James Avery. Then, oddly enough, several charges that were simply marked, “Stuff.” On the weekend I had been away, he had created five line items in that category.

I right-clicked on “stuff” and printed a quick report of all the entries labeled that way.

Two solid pages.

I held them up to the light, hands shaking now. Hundreds of dollars in charges, thousands maybe, all unmarked.

They dated back eleven months.

That bastard had been banging her for a year.

Chapter 12: Emergency Paps

Rock bottom sounded like bliss. How much lower could I really go?

The Volvo sputtered at the light, as if to remind me—hey, I could quit working too. I glanced down at the gas tank. Close to empty.

I had only change in my wallet. But I did have Harry Histrionic’s check. I would have to cash it to keep driving. Thankfully a branch was close and a gas station waited across the street.

The notion of rock bottom stuck with me as I got my meager cash and spent half of it on gas. I hadn’t been brought up religious, so I didn’t have any spiritual guides. Jesus sounded pretty useful at times like this. Mom had invoked him a time or two, although she’d never dragged me to church.

Grandma had been full of euphemisms. Count your blessings. Every cloud has a silver lining. When God closes a door, he always opens a window. I had missed her funeral, five years ago, off on my honeymoon cruise without a cell phone or email.

Did all the women in my family die young? Grandma had been maybe 62. Mom had been a mere 37. Both had died of cancer.

A car cut in front of me on the freeway and I slammed on my brakes, narrowly missing his bumper. I pulled over, breathing hard. Count your blessings, Zest. I could be dead right now. I could be sick, dying of cancer. At that very moment, a pain shot up my body, originating in the most tender of places.

I almost let my foot off the brake but held on. I knew that pain. I’d been ignoring it for a couple weeks, realizing with each one that I should call my OB for my annual exam, which was overdue.

I knew not to miss. Mom had died of cervical cancer a mere seven weeks after her diagnosis. It was a silent killer. The signs were easy to ignore, especially if, like her, you didn’t bother to go in for pap smears. And hereditary as hell.

I shifted in my seat. Another pain shot up. I’d given up my health insurance to get on Cade’s. Which would be gone with the divorce.

I slammed my hands on the steering wheel. Karma had caught up with me. I’d said and thought too many mean things. I was going to rot away, starting with my sex organs. Just like my mother. We would meet up on Bitch Lane in hell.

Traffic whizzed by on Mopac. It was dangerous to sit here in the narrow shoulder. But it was dangerous to pull out. Dangerous to live. I glanced over the side of the freeway. The barrier was strong, but a truck had gone over the side a year or so ago, blown right through the concrete. The police said there were no brake marks. He’d meant to go sailing into the sky.

I sat back and another pain jabbed me. Death. Accelerating. My breathing came faster. I tried to calm it down. Don’t overreact.

I threw the car into drive and gunned it, darting into the traffic lanes and blasting through town. My gynecologist was three exits away. I’d make him see me. He’d see me. He knew my family history. Maybe the stress had been the last straw, letting the cancer overtake me.

The car had barely chugged silent before I flung my body out of it and hurtled across the parking lot. Dr. White was the nicest doctor I’d ever known, often running behind schedule because he wanted to make sure every one of his patients felt as through they had their questions answered.

The waiting room teemed with pregnant women in various states of belly balloons. Suddenly I was certain Cade’s woman was here, rubbing her happy bump, and he might even be with her. She would have a baby, and I would be dead.

I felt woozy. I kept my eyes straight ahead as I rushed the front desk. “I need to see Dr. White. It’s an emergency.”

The receptionist glanced at my belly, which I tried to pooch out, this time glad for the extra heft. Maybe if she thought I was pregnant, it would get me in.

“What’s the problem?”

“I’m in pain,” I said, willing the sharp stab to return, to justify my freak-out. It hadn’t happened during my mad run into the office. “Down there.”

“Are you pregnant?”

“I don’t know.”

She frowned. “But it’s possible?”

I hadn’t had sex with Cade in, Holy Cow, two months. How had that happened? Why hadn’t I noticed? “Yes.”

She pushed a form toward me. “Fill this out. We’ll try to work you in.”

The wait was agonizing. Mothers with babies surrounded me. Every time the door opened, I was sure it would be Cade’s woman.

I dug through a pile of magazines and paused on one. Christian Mother.

The cover showed a mom looking up at a dad with a baby on his shoulder. The bold headline said, “Gays threaten traditional marriage.”

I snatched it up, turning to the back. It didn’t have a label. The doctor’s office didn’t subscribe to it. Someone had left it there.

The story began with a hysteria-inducing account of kids being forced to go to a teacher’s lesbian wedding, then kindergarteners being exposed to information about gay lifestyles with books like Heather Has Two Mommies.

Since when did five-year-olds learn about sex at all? This was ridiculous. Of course the idea would make parents upset, but it wasn’t true. The article went on to bash Roy and Silo, two male penguins at the Central Park Zoo who were given an egg to hatch. Propaganda, they claimed. I dropped the magazine back on the table.

“Zest Renald?” The nurse in pink scrubs scanned the room.

I stood up, expecting the pain again, but it was gone. Great. I’d rushed in here for nothing. The urgency I’d felt an hour before had dissipated. I wasn’t going to die after all.

She led me down the hall. When we got far enough from the reception desk, I said, “You know, I’m feeling a lot better. I think it was a false alarm.”

“You didn’t schedule your annual. Dr. White wants to see you.”

Oh, man. What happened to impersonal health care? I wanted to be a number again, a check box on a form. Dr. White waved at me as he headed toward his office.

Nurse Kim led me into a room. “Let’s do the whole deal since you’re here,” she said, handing me a cotton gown. “Annual exam. Pap smear. Tie up the front!”

Bah. She closed the door, and I turned toward a wall of babies. A couple of the pictures were mine, actually, as Dr. White had kindly referred a few people to me after I sent him some business cards. I compared them to the work of some of the other professional photos, scattered among the home snapshots and printed announcements. I did okay. With more experience, I’d be as good as them. Once I found another studio space.

I changed into the gown and sat on the paper-covered table, another pain shooting up. Thank goodness. I wasn’t crazy. Even though I’d had the pain before, it was so random that I hadn’t paid a lot of attention.

I shivered in the air conditioning. Nurse Kim stepped back inside to take my blood pressure. “So what’s all the fuss about?” she asked. “The front desk said you came in all shaky and convinced you were dying.”

“I’ve been having shooting pains.”

“How long?”

“Not sure. A few weeks, I guess.”

“Does it hurt when you have intercourse?”

The pressure built around the cuff. “I haven’t had sex in a while.”

She nodded and turned her attention to the gauge.

The air hissed out in a long exhale. “Probably nothing major. We’ll take a look.”

“My mom died of cervical cancer.”

She flipped open my chart. “We’ll take a good hard look.”

Two quick knocks on the door were followed by Dr. White’s head poking inside. “Everybody decent?”

“You’re on time today,” I said.

“No babies rudely disrupting my schedule,” he said. “Little buggers never can arrive during their appointments. That’s why I spank them.” He sat on the stool. “So tell me about these pains.”

“It’s random. It shoots up when I’m sitting.”

“Let’s go ahead and lay back and see what we see.”

I fell back on the papered pillow, staring at the ceiling where the staff had tacked a poster expounding the virtues of self-breast exams.

The speculum went in, and I tried not to tense up. Despite having shifted from doom to calm, I began edging back toward certain death. The touch of the swab was so painful that I recoiled.

“Sorry, Zest,” Dr. White said. “It’s pretty red down there.”

So I was dying. The cancer was eating away my insides. I remembered my mom, coming home from the first chemo, pale and weak, eventually throwing up and continuing to retch long after there was nothing left to purge. Only then did she tell me she had cancer. The whole week before, as they took tests and diagnosed her condition, I blithely attended ninth grade.

I’d walked up and down the hallway outside the bathroom, listening to the terrible sounds. Finally she’d come out and laid across the sofa. “I’m not going to die,” she said. “So wipe that panicked look off your face.”

“Should I make something for dinner?” I’d asked. I always made dinner.

“Eat some cereal.”

I’d sat alone in the kitchen, unable to make the corn flakes go down, finally dumping them in the sink. Mom headed back to the bathroom again.

The second time I didn’t let her evade my questions. “I’m calling Dad.”

“He’s off shore.”

“You can get him for emergencies.”

“This isn’t an emergency.”

“Then what is it?”

She headed toward her bedroom. I followed her, flipping on the light as she curled up. “Cervical cancer,” she finally said. “This is just the treatments. I’ll be fine.”

The words slammed into me like a concrete wall, but I hid it. “You don’t look fine.”

“Yeah, well, I never was a looker.”

“I’m calling Dad.”

“Don’t call your dad. He’ll be home in three days. We’ll tell him then.” She head out her hand, as if I should take it, a gesture of solidarity I had no idea how to handle.

But I took it. Her skin felt thin and papery, like she was a hundred years old. And cold. “I won’t call him.”

She let go and closed her eyes. “That’s my good girl.”

The first and last time she called me good.

The doctor slid the speculum out, and I relaxed. He tugged off his rubber gloves and extended a hand to help me sit up. The pain was definitely worse this time, darting up and radiating out, lasting several seconds instead of an instant.

I had nothing funny to say, no ribald comment. He jotted a few things down in my chart. Probably how long I had to live.

“Zest, we can wait for the results, but I’m pretty sure you’ve got Chlamydia.”

“What?”

“One of the milder STDs. A little antibiotic will take care of it. You’re in no danger.”

“How did I get that?”

“It spreads by sexual contact.”

“Oh my God.” That son of a bitch.

“It’s very common. And seventy percent don’t have any symptoms. It could have been around a while.”

“The antibiotic will cure it?”

“Absolutely. But you might want to alert any sexual partners that they should be treated. Has there been any change at home?”

“Cade is divorcing me.”

“I see. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, well. He’s obviously been busy.”

Dr. White patted my ankle sympathetically. “I took an extra swab to test for everything else, but I think you’re okay. We’ll write you up a prescription. If the test comes back different, we’ll call you.”

I nodded at him, not sure whether to cry or bomb Cade’s house.

After dressing and instructing the desk to bill the copay to my home address—take that Cade!—I pointed my Volvo to the nearest Walgreens to fill the prescription, still burning from the notion that Cade’s woman had given both of us a disease.

Chapter 13: Dating at the Speed of Flight

I looked forward to a nap and a pity party when I got home, but Fern had other ideas. The minute the door opened, she grabbed my arm and dragged me toward her bathroom. “I called one of my people,” she said. “I set us up for speed dating tonight.”

I halted. “Oh, no.”

“She’s very exclusive. No losers in the group. I promise.”

“Fern, I’m not even divorced. It’s only been, what, five days?” Not to mention I was, well, communicable.

“Come on,” Fern said, tugging at my hand. “You need to get yourself out there. Meet some men. Have some fun! I can’t handle such a morose best friend.”

“So it’s all about you.”

“Isn’t everything?”

I plunked down on her bed. “I won’t go.”

She shrugged. “I have connections. I’ll bring them to you.”

“Fern.”

“Zest!”

I flung myself backward. “What?”

“Come on. Let’s get dolled up.”

I buried my face in the crook of my arm. “I don’t do doll.”

She hauled me up by the elbow. “Tonight you do. I’ll straighten your hair and find you some clothes.”

***

The sidewalks of the Warehouse District were deserted. Seven o’clock on a Wednesday wasn’t exactly prime time. Fern and I passed the dark doorways of bars, only half of them even open yet. My head still ached from all the tugging Fern had subjected me to in the name of smooth hair.

I didn’t really want to face any men, although I should have known whatever I ended up doing with Fern would involve a bevy. “So how does this work?”

“We’ll get to meet six guys, ten minutes each. Everyone will check either yes or no by each other’s names. If you both choose each other, Lila will hook you up with double-blind email addresses.”

I totally planned to check all no’s.

“Why didn’t you wear the tights?” Fern admonished as we walked along the sidewalk, passing the open doors of bars, their bouncers sitting idly on stools, waiting for the late crowds. “You’re too pale-legged for that look.”

I glanced down at my white knobby knees. “I don’t care.”

“You should. You’re on the market now. The style is boots, textured tights, short skirt. You can’t leave a bit out.”

“But it’s warm out.” I gestured to girls walking toward us. “They all have naked knees.”

“They’re twenty and tan.”

Fern slowed down, and we paused under the bright light of an entrance. “This is it.” She tucked some hair behind my ear, then brought it back out. “You should do your hair like this all the time.”

“It took an hour!”

“Beauty knows no timeline. You ready?”

“Like a lamb going to slaughter.”

The bouncer shifted on his tall stool. “IDs, ladies?”

We passed our licenses over. He stamped our hands and we entered, the cool air shifting to warmth, beer smells, and the roar of conversation.

Fern tilted her head toward me. She had dressed fairly normally for this occasion, a simple black skirt and striped sweater. No vamp, no cutie-pie, no bizarre theme. “Generally the guys will just check off everyone,” she said. “So don’t worry about that. You just decide if you like them.”

A woman in an unfortunate gold lamé pantsuit held a small sign that said simply, “Meet Here.”

“That’s Lila,” Fern said.

“You should give her fashion advice.”

“Believe me, I’ve tried.”

We headed over to her section of the bar where six tall tables were set with two opposing stools.

“Hello, Fern, darling,” Lila said, air kissing her. “Is this your little friend?”

“This is Zest,” Fern said. “It’s her first time.”

“Charmed,” Lila said, holding out her hand in a position that made it seem as though I should kiss it.

I grasped it awkwardly in a limp shake. “Thanks for letting me come.”

“Anything for Fern!” Lila said. “She’s my most prodigious client.” She shook her head in mock sorrow. “Poor thing never finds a keeper.”

Fern pulled me toward the bar. “I’m not interested in getting hooked,” she said over her shoulder, then whispered, “But I am interested in getting booze. Let’s grease our evening with some scotch.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea? I think I need my wits about me.”

Fern wiggled her finger at the bartender in a fitted black t-shirt, a scowling type who came instantly. “Trust me, it’s better with a buzz on.” She smiled at the boy. “Two Obans, neat,” she said.

“You got it,” he said, and winked.

Good grief. I turned my back to the bar, surveying the men walking through the door. Another woman talked to Lila, who handed her a sheet of paper.

Fern passed me my drink and pulled her arm through mine. “Let’s watch like vultures for the man-meat to come in.” She led me back to the six tables, each marked with a tiny “reserved” sign.

“Oh, Fern!” Lila called. “Your little friend needs to fill out the paperwork.” She waved a sheet of paper.

I sat down with the page and my pencil stub. Name, phone, address. I used Fern’s. “Use a throw away email,” Fern advised. “That way you can quit checking it if someone gets annoying.”

I rapidly filled out the blanks. Two men had come in together and stood just inside the door, glancing around. “You think they’re with us?” I asked.

“They’re gay,” Fern said, rolling her eyes. “Good grief.”

“They come to straight bars?”

“Stop talking, my dear. Someone might hear your ignorance.”

I bit my lip and refocused on the page. I had forgotten how mean Fern could be under stress. Despite her act, she must be a little unnerved by the prospect of meeting new men.

Three check boxes.

-- Single, never married.

-- Separated.

-- Divorced.

I checked “separated” and returned the form to Lila, who accepted it absently, still stuck in conversation. I lingered near her, pretending to look around, not really wanting to go near Fern again yet.

Three men came in the bar in quick succession. Lila waved her sign, and two of them headed toward her. Fern returned to my side. “Not Mark the Shark again,” she groaned. “He’s always at these things.”

“Did you go out with him?”

“Twice. Terrible in bed.”

“You slept with him on the second date?”

“No, on the first. We had two first dates, actually. One last year, and then we tried again a couple months ago. I thought maybe he would have learned something in the interim.”

“He hadn’t.”

“Not a thing.”

The taller of the two, tanned and clean cut in a ribbed sweater and pressed khakis, leaned against the table closest to us and said, “What’s a girl like you doing in a place like this…again?”

“Hello, Mark,” Fern said. “I see you’re still trying to pick up first dates.”

He rubbed the light stubble on his upper lip. “Delightful as always. You brought a friend?”

Fern pushed me forward so my hips rammed a stool. “This is Zest,” she said. “She’s sweet and vulnerable, and I already warned her about you.”

He extended a hand. “Nice to meet you, Zest.”

His fingers closed around mine, warm and firm in their grip. “Thank you.”

“I should have made Lila give me the list.” Fern sipped her drink casually, but her grip on the glass was white-knuckled.

“I’m not as bad as Fern would make me out to be,” Mark said. “I just didn’t grovel at her oversized feet.”

Fern actually trembled. I had never seen her rattled. She tilted her head and faked a bitter smile. “Better big feet than a tiny dick.”

“It’s time!” Lila called. Quite a number of people were gathered in our corner of the bar. “Come closer, dears, so I don’t have to shout.”

She raised a card in the air. “Here is how it goes. Each of you will get one of these. On it, you will find the first name of each person you will meet. The bachelors will sit at the table and the ladies will pick where they want to go first. Each time I ring the bell,” she paused to demonstrate the tinkling sound, “the girls will move toward their next choice.”

She walked toward the line of tables. “Boys, you may go ahead and sit. Remember ladies, no pushing or shoving. All of you will get a chance to meet each other.”

Fern stepped forward and leaned to my ear. “Try to do your favorite choice first,” she said. “That’s when everyone is actually paying attention. It gets sort of tedious in the middle.” She gazed at the line of men taking their seats on the stools. “Mark can go in the no man’s land, but I’d put him,” she pointed to a friendly-looking man at the end, “as your top choice.”

Whatever. I’d be lucky to not get trampled in the shuffle.

“Get close to him,” Fern whispered. “Don’t let anyone else beat you to his table.” She glanced around, narrowing her eyes. “Several of the women have their misguided sights set on Mark.”

“Ready, ladies?” Lila called. “I’ll give you a one-minute warning when your session is near its end.”

The six women hovered, loose-limbed, poised as if ready to run the hundred-meter dash. All wore variations on black, trendy yet casual, with perfect hair and high heels, other than one woman who already seemed to be almost six feet tall.

I couldn’t stand the tension. It felt wrong, all wrong. And still, I hovered, knees bent, frizzed hair flat-ironed by Fern, ready to race to a man. Lila rang her gold bell, and we rushed, jostling each other to find a seat, like a bachelorette version of musical chairs.

I got to the stool opposite the friendly man just as another woman did. We fake-smiled at each other, neither giving in for a moment, and then I acquiesced.

The other women had settled into stools, so I chose the empty one. I quickly perched on it, arranging my skirt, then looked up.

The man wasn’t bad looking or ill dressed. He had an average build, neither wimpy or oversized. But something about him didn’t quite work. “I’m Joshua,” he said. “I’m not sure if we should shake, or wave, or what.” He laughed nervously.

“I’m Zest,” I said, my brain still trying to work out the problem. His teeth were fine. Hair cut, in normal range, a typical shaggy crew. Skin pale but clear. Maybe it was just bad chemistry, my set of likes not matching up to his qualities. But then, no one else had rushed for him.

“So what do you do, Zest?”

“I’m a photographer,” I answered automatically. Was it his eyes? They were grayish, and set close together. Or his nose? It seemed piggish, slightly upturned, maybe a bit feminine. Yes, he was very girly, only with boy-hair. That must be it. He’d do great in drag.

“Well, I’m an accountant,” he said, grimacing.

Oh crap, I’d been ignoring him. And staring.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I have a tendency to evaluate people’s photogenic qualities. It can be…awkward.”

“Occupational hazard?” he asked. His smile was quirky, a little off center, but cute. He was all right, actually. I shouldn’t be so judgmental.

Unlike Fern. I stole a glance at her, leaning on her elbows, halfway across the table, gazing up at some long-hair who looked like an 80s throwback, but was, admittedly, gorgeous. I wondered briefly if she’d steered me to the other end of the room to keep me away from him, but the boy was far more her type than mine.

“Zest?”

Ohhh, focus. “So what do you do?” I asked.

He glanced away for a moment, drew a breath, and then returned. “An accountant.”

Shit. “Yes! You said that! I’m sorry. I’m new to this. I’m just a little…nervous, I guess.”

He nodded. “It’s okay. It’s my first time too.”

“Really? I couldn’t tell!” Cripes, I was gushing now. “You seem so confident!”

He smiled, slow and lazy, and I could tell I’d overdone it. “Thank you.”

“One minute!” Lila called.

“Already?” I said, then wished I hadn’t, as what’s-his-name inched his hand across the table as if to touch me.

“It went fast for me too,” he said. “I will mark you as someone I want to see again. Is that okay?”

“Of course!” I said, too brightly. “That’s what we’re here for!” I glanced down at the list of names to figure out which one he was. Damn my distractedness.  Ben, Daniel, Joshua, yes, Joshua! I marked a check by “yes” with relief.

The bell tinkled. I stood up, taking care to keep my hands busy. “Nice to meet you, Joshua,” I said.

“I’m glad I came,” he said.

Arrrghhh! I felt hemmed in suddenly. And irrationally. He just wanted to see me. It’s not like I was already getting married again.

The women scurried, and I looked back to friendly man, but he was popular, and the tall girl had already taken the seat across from him. I could take Mark or the rock star.

I went with Mark.

“So how long have you known Fern?” he asked. I glanced at his card, which was already marked with five checks for “yes” and one “no.”

“You’re decisive,” I said.

“I usually check them all. The men do.”

I nodded. “Did you say no to Fern?”

“No, actually. The tall one.”

“She’s probably a perfectly wonderful person.”

“She’s a woofer.”

I hated him. Damn beauty-centric, snap-judgmental, egotistical shit.

“So, Fern,” he prompted.

I clamped my jaw. I didn’t want to relate the story of how we met, our mutual humiliation. I didn’t even want to talk to him anymore.

“I leave you speechless.”

I wanted to stand up, hit him. I saw what Fern hated in him now.

“We met in college,” I said through clenched teeth.

“She ever ask you to go three up?”

I blinked. “Three up?”

“Nevermind. I can see it’s a no.”

“Sounds like your frustrated fantasy to me.” I glanced over at Fern, who sat across from a scholarly looking type, sweater vest, lean, long sideburns.

“I see this isn’t going to work out too well,” he said, making a big show of scribbling out the check by “yes” and switching it to a “no” by my name.

“You are quite the asshat.”

Talk ceased for a moment, and I realized how shrill my voice had become.

Fern leaned back to get a better look at us. “Exactly,” she said.

The couples laughed nervously, then returned to their conversations.

“This is going well,” Mark said, straightening on his stool.

“I’m sure there are gullible women here you can prey on,” I said.

He stood. “Excuse me. Little boys’ room.”

I sat on the stool, burning with embarrassment and more than a little anger, fingering my card. I made a hearty check by “no” on his name. I was tempted to erase my “yes” by Joshua too, but I didn’t want Lila to think I’d blown off the whole lot of them.

There was always friendly guy. I watched the other couples talk, the girls with their nervous over-animated gestures, the boys’ attentive gazes, carefully not dropping to cleavage-level. Overall, actually, this wasn’t a bad way to go about it. Lila obviously carefully screened her group.

“One minute!” she called.

I didn’t dare turn to look at her, worried she’d shoot a disapproving or sympathetic look my way. I caught a glimpse of Mark standing in the shadowed hallway by the restroom, waiting for the signal. This was too humiliating to be borne. Come on, bell.

And it rang.

This time I elbowed everyone out of the way and plunked myself down across from the friendly man the moment the previous girl moved away from the stool. He was still looking down at this card, as if hesitating on his answer.

“Hi, I’m Zest.” I was not going to blow this one, if for no other reason than to vindicate myself.

He looked up slowly, languorously. His eyes were blue. I remembered suddenly a short story I’d read in college, about a woman who fell in love with a man who rescued her from a shipwreck, and the pair had spent days alone in a life boat, surrounded by ocean water, like the blue of his eyes.

“I’m Sebastian.”

Sebastian. “Nice to meet you.”

“First time?” he asked.

“You can tell?”

“No, I just find it an easy starter question.”

I gripped my card. “Is it yours?”

“Second, actually.”

“How did it go last time?”

His lips quirked into a smile, exposing lopsided dimples. “How did he say it in Top Gun? First time I crashed and burned.”

“And the second time?” I could channel my inner Kelly McGillis.

“I’ll let you know in a little while.”

I was beaming like a little kid. “I remember the first time I saw that movie. I was twelve years old and my friend Kristy and I kissed the screen at the end when they rolled the credits.”

“Nice. Poor Tom isn’t the most popular fellow these days, is he?”

I shook my head. “No. But I can still reminisce the old Tom, the pre-sofa jumping, Brooke bashing, Scientology freak version.”

“We can indeed.”

We sat a moment, grinning foolishly at each other.

“So what next?” I asked.

“Hmm. What can we talk about that isn’t a cliché?” He leaned his elbows on the table. “What do you do? What are your hobbies? These things are always full of clichés.”

I fingered my pencil. “How about, ‘Laugh and the world laughs with you.’”

That got the dimples back. “Maybe it should be, ‘Don’t count your chickens before they’ve hatched.’”

I mock pouted. “But the early bird gets the worm!”

He smiled. “Ah, but all the world’s a stage, and we are merely players.”

I wagged a finger at him. “Don’t bite the hand that feeds you.”

“It’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.”

My throat closed up, so I looked across the bar where a cocktail waitress hoisted a tray of drinks to her shoulder.

“Recent breakup, then,” he said.

I nodded.

He reached across the table and grazed my fingers. “People like Lila tell us not to talk about exes when we first meet, but I think it’s okay.”

I gripped my pencil so tightly it might have snapped had it been a normal length. “What I don’t understand about cheating, and cheaters,” I said. “Is why anyone would want to be with someone who is already married. If they cheat on their spouses, won’t they cheat again eventually?”

“Everyone considers themselves the exception.”

Now that I had started, I couldn’t stop. “I can’t get my head around it. He got her pregnant. Did he want out?”

“Some men just get caught up.” His blue eyes were calm, a few lines starting to spread from the corners. He was thirty-something, surely.

“You seem to know a lot,” I said.

“I’m divorced. Marriage lasted three years. We were mutually cheating. I’ll confess to that.”

“Who started it?”

“Hard to say. We just didn’t respond to each other anymore. Should have quit before we started probably. Got carried away in all the post-college weddings. We were the last holdouts.”

“Did you guys admit it or get caught?”

He sat back in his chair, as if to move away from my question. “I got caught. Wanted to get caught, by then. I left plenty of evidence.”

Just like Cade. The idea that this was common, not something that just happened to me, opened a flood of relief. “So it was a way of getting it over with.”

“Yeah, probably.”

God, another man who didn’t take marriage seriously. Which was worse? The recent cheater you knew, or the old cheater you didn’t?

“One minute!” Lila called out.

He fingered his card. “Time flies when you’re spilling your guts.”

“How long has it been since you divorced?”

He hesitated, and in that pause my wariness grew. How damaged were we all? So much seemed stacked against anyone being happy. “Eight years,” he said.

My head whirled with what that could mean. Maybe he hadn’t met anyone since then. Or maybe he found himself no longer able to commit.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“I’m sorry for both of us.”

“Well, here’s to a fresh start,” I checked yes by his name. “Again.”

The dimple returned. “One can never have too many of those.”

He took his pencil and marked “yes” by my name. “I look forward to seeing you again. Would you like that too?”

“Of course.”

The bell tinkled, and the women shifted around, but as I headed toward the rock star, Lila tugged me by the arm.

“Zest, I think we may have a problem.”

I turned to her, still mildly hypnotized with hope about Sebastian, that he could be salvaged, that I could. “Did I forget to fill something out?”

“You marked ‘separated’ on your form.”

“I didn’t really have a good option. We’ve filed for divorce but haven’t done anything else yet.”

“I’m afraid our rules state that you must be legally divorced to participate. It prevents people from coming just to feel out the market.” Lila pursed her thin lips, lined in pink. “This is going to mess up our evening, the odd number. Can I have your card, please?”

I pulled the card to my chest. “Why?”

“You aren’t eligible, my dear. Give it over.”

“Why is that an option to check then?”

“It’s my little test.”

I turned my body and she reached around to grasp the corner of the form. She couldn’t take it! I glanced around to find Fern, but she was merrily talking to Sebastian herself. Rock star sat alone, drumming his fingers on the table.

She got a firm grip on the card and yanked. I felt the sharp edge slide along my palm and let go with a yelp. A line of red welled up. Bloody paper cut.

“Feel free to stop by again once your proceedings are over,” she said gaily, as if we were ending some friendly chat. She tore my card into pieces.

I watched the paper come apart and despaired. My head felt like it might explode. I had driven, but Fern could take a taxi home. Or go with the rock star. Or bartender man.

Mark sneered at me as I passed. Something internal snapped, and I crossed between the tables to pause beside him.

He looked at me, bemused. “Need my number? Woofer?” he asked. “Bow, wow?”

I turned to him, sitting back in his chair, legs crossed, arm casually thrown over the seat back. “This is for all the dogs you’ve undoubtedly kicked around,” I said, and released my fury with a fist into his belly.

He bent over with an “oof.”

And I strode out of the bar without looking back.

Chapter 14: Rainbows & Cadillacs, and Heterobashing Music

The cool air of Fifth Street was a welcome change from the stuffy bar. Since it was still early, only tourists and a rare couple meandered along the walkways. A few bouncers had begun to stand, randomly calling out, “No cover!” On the corner, a ratty van parked illegally while three t-shirted boys frantically unloaded a drum set.

I slipped my jacket on and pulled it tight around me. My palm was screaming. I could go into any of the bars and have another drink, but I might get approached by early birds trying to get started on their pick up lines, and I didn’t want to deal with that. In fact, as I shuffled down the sidewalk, I averted my eyes from any man I saw, as if their Y chromosome might reach out and poke me.

Two girls ran across the street ahead of traffic, holding hands. I slowed down, squinting, wondering if it might be one of the Hoebags or someone I met at Dog & Duck.

They turned down the sidewalk and headed straight for me. Before I could even register who it was, one of them squealed, “Zest!” and began dragging the other in a rush.

Jenna and Mary. “So you decided to come with us?” Mary asked.

Come? Shit. Nikki did ask me to join them at some bar to dance. “I just—I met a friend for dinner.”

“Well, you have to come with us now!” Mary’s face flashed red and yellow from a neon sign in a bar window.

“I—well, I—”

Jenna threaded her arm through mine, and we began walking. “Of course she will. Nikki would never forgive me if she knew we let you get away. She was hoping you’d come.”

I allowed myself to be pulled along for the second time that night. “Where are we going again?”

“Rainbow Cattle Company. They teach dance lessons on Wednesday nights and all the Hoebags are supposed to practice, so we don’t embarrass ourselves at the reception.”

“I should have brought a camera,” I said.

Mary laughed. “I don’t think they’d let you take pictures at Rainbow.”

Jenna led us beneath an overhang and up to a large wood door. The roar of music blasted us as we passed into the bar. A youngish guy with his sleeves rolled up checked our IDs. I hadn’t quite gotten my bearings when a shirtless man in a camouflage cowboy hat jumped from behind the bar and shouted, “Welcome to Rainbow! What can I get for you?” Jenna headed straight for him.

Now my gaydar might have the accuracy of You Sunk My Battleship, but the “ping” came loud and clear. I looked around again and realized that every couple on the dance floor was the same sex. Two boys circled the stage, hat brims colliding. Girls kissed in the dark corners. For the first time in my stupidly sheltered heterosexual life, I realized the connection with rainbows—flags, shirts, jokes, and now, the name of this bar.

“This is a gay bar!” I said, then slapped my hand across my mouth.

“The girl is sharp!”

I recognized the voice and whirled around to see Nikki behind me, hanging onto Bella.

“Oh my God! I’m in a gay bar!” I really wanted to shut up, but I was so freaked out, I couldn’t stop saying it.

Nikki let go of Bella and hooked her elbow around my neck. “No worries, penis-lover. We won’t let anyone convert you.”

Jenna handed me a light pink drink. “A cherry bomb. I think you could use it.”

I took a sip and instantly felt light-headed. “What is it?”

“Cherry vodka and Red Bull,” Jenna said. “It’ll take the edge off.”

I took a hearty swig.

The music washed over me, and I looked around, imagining everything in still frames of a camera angle. Two bars, one with male bartenders, the other with girls. A large elevated dance floor surrounded by a rail. A long mirror lined the very back, beyond the stage. A number of couples writhed, tightly entwined, in front of it. Austin was smoke free, so the air was clear, but the lights were dim. Still, I could make out about fifty people wandering the open space.

The DJ shouted over a song. “Grab your partner! It’s time for the Tennessee Waltz!”

“Is everyone coming?” I asked Nikki as they dumped their jackets on a chair and filled a table with their drinks.

“There ain’t nobody who could drag Blitz to Rainbow,” Nikki said. “But the Audreys should be here soon.”

Aud and Audrey. Crap. I remembered the pictures on Fern’s computer. Obviously Audrey didn’t know, or she wouldn’t have been so nice to Fern at the game. Maybe none of them did but me.

The two couples climbed the steps to the dance floor, and I suddenly realized I was going to be left alone.

Other partners streamed by. Men with hands in each other’s pockets. Girls locked tightly together, swaying against each other before the music even began. I tried to act natural, leaning casually against the back of the stool, kicking a leg up on an adjacent chair, like I was just taking in the scenery.

One older woman leaned against the rail a few feet away. She was tall, with amazing short gray hair that stood straight up in every direction. The odd combination of features was arresting, the mature face, the crazy hair, her lean figure in jeans and a black sweater. She caught me looking and smiled. My chest tightened. I really had to watch where I looked.

“Zest, what the hell are you doing here?” Aud stacked her jacket on top of the pile.

I startled, seeing her. I glanced guiltily at Audrey, so petite and innocent looking. But there hadn’t been any recent pictures. Whatever it was should have been long over.

Except that now Fern was involved in the Hoebag’s wedding plans. Due to me.

I swallowed. “Nikki insisted I come.”

“That girl is always up in other people’s business.” She took Audrey’s sweater and laid it across the back of a chair. “You going to be okay by yourself?”

I nodded. “I’ll just sort of, you know, watch.”

“Well, signal or scream or whatever if you need us.” She shook her head and crossed the bar to the dance floor. She said something to Nikki and Bella, and they all looked at me.

I waved casually, settling on a stool with my cherry bomb. I could do this. I would be clear that I felt no discomfort whatsoever.

The waltz began and the couples began dancing, some smoothly, others in forced mincing steps. I’d grown up two-stepping, as rural Texas girls do. We’d started going to rodeo dances at age twelve, standing along the periphery and watching the couples circle the floor.

Jenna and Mary moved easily with each other. Nikki lead Bella in long dramatic steps. The Audreys pressed close together, more shifting to the music than doing a true waltz.

“Can I interest you in a dance?”

I stopped mid-drink, setting the glass down with a thunk. The gray-haired woman stood by my chair, seeming both nervous and happy that she’d worked up the courage to ask me.

How could I say no? And what harm would there be in it? “Okay,” I said, standing up. The woman was a good six inches taller, and lean. I could manage.

We climbed the steps to the dance floor and for an awkward moment tried to figure out whose hands went where. I had moved to hold her in the traditional girl on boy position, my hand on her shoulder, and so had she. We laughed for a moment.

“It’s always hard to start,” she said.

“It is.” Ha. Like I did this every day.

She reached behind my back, taking the male role. I was relieved. I didn’t think I could dance with a strange girl for the first time AND lead. My palm smarted where our hands connected, from the cut. I forced the hideous speed dating scene out of my mind.

She waltzed easily, moving forward so I could continue the familiar backward steps. After a quarter turn, I forced myself to relax. She didn’t talk, concentrating on the beat, and neither did I. We passed Nikki, who arranged her face into feigned shock, but carefully returned to an easy smile when my partner looked at her.

She leaned next to my ear. “Friends of yours?”

I nodded.

“My name’s Tanner.”

Since she was taller, I had to tilt my chin up to be heard over the music. “I’m Zest.”

“Zest?”

“Yes. Zest.”

She grinned, bemused, probably thinking I was making it up.

We faltered for a moment, and I smashed into her. “Sorry!”

“My fault.”

When we started up again, we had shifted around, so that I was leading. Sweat popped along my forehead as I concentrated, trying to work the steps I’d done my whole life in reverse.

“Don’t stomp her!” Nikki shouted as she passed.

I didn’t even bother glaring at her, too absorbed in the one-two-three, two-two-three rhythm. At last the song came to an end.

Tanner thanked me for the dance, and we separated. I watched her walk away with mixed feelings—relief, because that had been way too tricky, and chagrin, because I obviously hadn’t impressed her.

“How’d it go?” Mary asked as we stood around the table, gulping drinks.

“I didn’t trample her feet,” I said.

“You holding out on me?” Nikki asked. “Are you really bi?”

“Oh no.” I downed the drink, now watery. “That was my first time.”

“We popped your cherry!” Nikki said. She grabbed a cocktail waiter, a skinny man in tight black leather pants and a vest revealing a smooth hairless chest. “Bring this chick another pink girly whatever it is,” she said.

We stood around the table, watching the bar start to fill.

“Now, look at that,” Nikki said as a couple walked in. The girl was dressed in a stretchy black dress, too short and too tight, cheap faded cotton, with an emphasis on cleavage and way too much body bulk for the style. Her processed blond hair was frayed on the edges from damage, with black roots. She had on so much mascara that her eyes looked like spiders.

In any other circumstance, I’d have assumed her date was a man. She stood a head taller, short hair just visible beneath a straw cowboy hat. The blue jeans were pulled high on the waist, adorned with a big belt buckle. Her stout middle gave way to a wide neck without any sort of female curve.

“Did she strap down her boobs?” I asked Nikki. The booze was kicking in.

“Probably. Or had the fat sucked out.”

“You can do that?”

She laughed. “Girl, you can do anything.”

The DJ turned on a rare rock song and fired up the disco light. “Let’s all do this one!” Nikki shouted to the group, snagging me with one elbow and Bella with the other. We danced together in a clot of flailing arms. I was actually having a better time than on nights out with Fern, where her focus was always on finding a man to take home, often leaving me to keep tabs on our table.

A new girl danced her way into our circle and bumped hips with Nikki. They all seemed to know her. Bella leaned close to shout, “That’s Samantha. She’s a Love Monkey.”

I nodded. Samantha waved at me and said something to Nikki, who laughed and nodded. Samantha maneuvered closer. Her short brown hair bobbed and flowed around her pixie-like face. She was petite in body style but average height, so when she turned to face me, mimicking my dance moves, we were eye to eye.

“Hello Zest,” she shouted.

“Hi Samantha,” I shouted back.

“My friends call me Sammy.”

I nodded. “Okay, Sammy.”

We danced together, her inching ever closer, the rock beat loud and thumping. The DJ mixed the song straight into the next with another rock beat, so we kept dancing. Gradually Samantha moved me away from the Hoebags, and we danced alone. She arched her back, her hips close to mine, and finally wrapped her hands behind my neck so that we pressed together.

The lights whirled and I liked the feel of her, soft where boys where hard, up close and clingy when guys tended to be aloof. Finally the song ended and a traditional two-step began. She shifted position with me, and we began circling the floor. We had no awkwardness, making a half-turn with every forward motion, so neither had to lead or follow. The female singer’s bold voice filled the dance hall.

“I love Taylor Swift,” she said in my ear. “Do you?”

I nodded even though I’d never heard of her. I hadn’t listened to country since I left home ten years ago. “What’s the name of this one?”

“Our Song.”

We circled the floor, and she pressed in tighter. Unlike with Tanner, who had been taller and thin, Samantha and I were cheek to cheek, and now, as I was becoming increasingly aware, breast to breast.

We rubbed together as we moved, and gradually I began to realize she was working it harder, pressing in. Her hand moved down my back, sliding just inside the edge of the waist band to my skirt.

Panic and curiosity competed for dominance. The music drove on, but each layer of outside stimulus gradually peeled away until I felt nothing but the brush of her fingers against my skin, the soft pressure of our chests, and finally, her lips against my jaw.

The song ended and she pulled me along by the hand. “I know where we can go,” she said.

As we passed the Hoebag table, Mary snagged my arm and jerked us toward their circle again. “How’s it going Zest?” She looked straight into my face. “You okay?”

I nodded. Samantha still had a firm grip on my hand. “I’m fine.”

“She’s fine,” Samantha said.

Nikki watched us for a moment, and the heat rushed in to my face. “How about you two love birds sit here and have a drink with us.” She pulled a stool away from the table. “Sidle up, Zest.”

I plunked on the chair, and Samantha released my hand. Somewhere, lodged way down in the murky wash of my semi-coherency, I was grateful they were taking charge. But the rest of me raged against their interference. I sulked.

“Whatcha drinking, Zest?” Samantha asked.

“Cherry bombs.”

“I’ll get you a fresh one.” She hurried over to the bar.

“Samantha might be a bit much for you,” Mary said.

“You feeling all right?” Audrey asked.

I slapped my hands on my bare knees, then recoiled slightly. The cut. “I’m fine. I’m a big girl. I’ll be fine.”

“We’ll keep an eye on her,” Nikki said. “It’s not like Two-Snatch Sammy is going for a long-term commitment.”

Two-snatch Sammy?

Samantha returned with the drinks. “If ya’ll will excuse me,” she said, shoving her way through the Hoebags to return to me.

Another waltz began, and Audrey pulled Aud toward the dance floor. “It’s our song, ladies. We should practice.”

Mary left reluctantly, but Nikki pushed her up the steps. “Stop your worry-warting.”

Samantha and I faced each other on stools. She scooted hers close, then wrapped her legs around me, hooking her feet behind the chair so that she sat nearly on my lap.

“I like the way you dance, Zest,” she said. “Have those Hoebags been keeping you all to themselves?”

I stirred the drink, a little anxious with her nearness. “Just never been to Rainbow before.” I didn’t dare utter another word.

The music crescendoed then, preventing small talk. We watched the dancers a while, then Samantha pressed her hand against my jaw and turned me toward her.

I took a deep breath. I’d never kissed a girl in my whole life. Not for practice, not as an experiment, and not even with my own mama other than her lips briefly grazing my forehead. As Samantha leaned in, I realized—I am not going to forget this night.

Her mouth was soft, so soft, gentle and curving in a way no boy’s had ever been. She kept her hand on my face, thumb moving along my cheek. She pulled in closer and I lurched a bit, clashing against her teeth. I withdrew and we both laughed a moment.

The song ended and the DJ’s raspy voice broke the mood of the kiss. “It’s Kate Perry sing-a-long time,” he said. “That girl we love to hate and that song we just can’t get rid of.”

The bar booed.

“What is he talking about?” I asked, keeping watch on the Hoebags, who remained on the dance floor, looking toward the mixing booth.

“The Kate Perry song. ‘I Kissed a Girl.’ You don’t know it?”

“I think I might have heard it. Why is it so awful?”

“Hello! It encourages heteros to walk in and fool around. It was a problem here for a while. But to be sure any straight girls know we’re on to them, we parody the song every night of the week.”

Fire rose to my face. She was going to hate me. I had to get out of his before she figured out who I was.

The DJ’s voice boomed through the bar. “We need a volunteer to lead the sing-a-long. Look around and find a victim!”

Samantha set her feet on the floor and pulled me up. “You, Zest! You should do it!”

“I don’t even know the song!”

She began tugging me forward. “You’ll know it when you hear it. It’s a karaoke machine. It has the words.”

I resisted, but she dragged me along. “Besides, the worse you do, the more they think you’re poking fun at it, and the better everyone will like it.”

A small crowd had gathered at the booth.

“Oh, there’s lots of volunteers,” I said. “Let them do it.”

“Hey Danny!” Samantha called. “I have a fresh one! First time to Rainbow!”

The DJ popped his head over the edge of the booth. “Well lookey there. Come on up!”

Samantha pushed me forward. “You can do it!” she said as I started up the stairs.

Oh, good Lord. I wished I’d never let Mary and Jenna drag me here. I wished I’d never danced with anyone. I should have gone back to Fern’s and watched Ellen on YouTube. That’s about as close to a lesbian as I should have ever been.

The DJ handed me a mike and pointed to a blue screen. “The words will come up here,” he said. “Do your worst!”

Oh, I was quite certain I would.

The song began. It did seem vaguely familiar. I must have heard it on the radio. The words rolled up the screen and, good God, I was singing about myself. I concentrated hard, only vaguely aware of the clapping and chorus of voices down below.

The song had a driving beat and very little tune. I looked out over the edge of the booth and everyone cheered. Nikki gave me thumbs up.

But as the lyrics continued, I felt worse. Experimental game? Would that be how Samantha saw it? Of course.

I faltered a bit and the DJ squeezed my arm, pointing at the screen and lifting the microphone back to my lips.

For an eternity the song went on. I felt certain everyone knew I was a fraud, a harlot, a raging bitch. I glanced up at the DJ, who smiled and nodded.

Finally, it ended. The crowed cheered from below. I had passed.

“Nice job,” he said. “Have fun tonight!”

I clunked slowly down the steps, as if my execution waited below. Samantha stood at the bottom, holding out her hand. I might have preferred a guillotine, a lethal injection, even electrocution seemed bliss.

“That was so hot,” she said, pressing against me. “Let’s find a more private place. There’s scores of dark corners here.”

I hesitated, but she led me past the dance floor to a narrow corridor near a back exit. The walls were painted red, one brick, the other a rough textured paint. She pushed against me until I backed into a corner.

“I want to kiss you again,” she said, coming at me with more passion than anyone had ever shown me before. I had no idea what to do. Turn her away? Say no?

I should run.

She wasted no time, but covered my mouth with hers, instantly snaking her hand beneath my sweater.

I didn’t really respond in any way, mind racing to get me out of this. She slipped my bra strap off my shoulder, loosening it enough to expose my breast. She cupped it carefully, with curiosity and interest, no frantic feel-up or careless smashing. Way better than any man. What if I didn’t really know what I was? I might not be lying. Maybe all my life until this day had been the lie.

I tried kissing her back, but it wasn’t right somehow. When I imagined giving up boys, I rebelled. This desire for men rose to the surface, bubbling up and discoloring the effect of Samantha, now pushing my bra completely out of the way.

She lifted my shirt, mouth hot on my breast. I flushed with heat again and didn’t push her away, how could I, locked tight in the corner. Everything she did bespoke of experience and desire, two things that had been sorely lacking in my life. I realized my hands were in her hair, pushing her against me.

She chuckled and pulled away. “That’s enough for now. I just might take you home with me, though, and see what else we’ve got in there.”

I felt completely out of control. I had no idea what I was doing. Leading her on? Or her me? Was I bi? What did this mean? I stumbled after her, straightening my clothes as we headed back toward the main hall.

Nikki waited just outside the end of the corridor. “You never said you were heteroflexible.”

My face burned. “I don’t even know what that means.”

“She’s straight?” Samantha asked.

“You bet your strap-on she is.” She looked at my hand. “But not wearing the ring anymore, at least.”

“You’re married?” Samantha gripped my hand more tightly. “I don’t believe it.”

“So how was it?” Nikki asked.

I sucked in a breath. “What do you mean?”

“To be with a girl?”

“We were just talking.”

“That’s not the way it looked from the spectator’s box.”

I turned to peer back down the corridor. Dim, almost dark, but still visible. Oh, God.

Samantha dropped my hand. “Are you really a hetero?”

“The player got played,” Nikki said.

Samantha strode off, hands in fists.

“Samantha, wait.” But she ignored me, hurrying toward the front door. “What did you do that for?” I asked Nikki.

“You were in over your head.”

“How the fuck do you know?”

“Don’t take this out on me. I’m not the one half dressed in the back of Rainbow.”

I walked away, winding through tables. Girls who had watched me sing clapped me on the back and smiled. I wanted to yell at them, tell them what a whore I was. A faker who faked faking.

I stalked through the Hoebags and grabbed my purse.

Mary tried to stop me. “Zest, wait. Are you okay?”

Nikki had followed. “Let her go. She’s had a rough night.”

“Is she all right to go home by herself?” Mary asked.

I slung my purse over my shoulder. “I’m right here, you know.”

Bradford stepped out from behind the others. My heart clenched all over again in such awe of his perfect presentation. He wore a thin sweater with a sharp-collared shirt. “I can take her home,” he said.

No, no no no. Not him. Please don’t let me be humiliated in front of him.

“Bradford, I’m glad you’re here,” Mary said. “I think she’s mad at us.”

Of course I am!

And myself.

Bradford’s blue eyes gazed at me steadily. “Will you come with me? Is that okay?”

“I--I don’t know.”

“Try me.” He steered me forward with only the lightest pressure on my elbow.

I moved forward haltingly, clutching my purse. I was furious, humiliated, and certain I’d just lost the wedding gig.

“Let’s keep going,” Bradford said, again administering that gentle firmness to my arm.

As we passed the bar, I caught a glimpse of blond hair slicked back in a chignon. Fern? I tried to stop and turn, but Bradford kept me moving until we were out the door.

The air hit me in a cool blast. “It got cold again,” I said lamely.

“Yep.”

“Last night it was so warm.”

“That’s Texas for you.” He moved me past open bar doors until we reached a block of regular businesses, dark and closed up for the night.

My eyes began burning in the wind and I stopped, leaning against a cold concrete wall. “I can’t go on.” I never cried and I wasn’t going to now. Still, my nose began to run, and I swiped it with the back of my hand.

He sat us down on a bench. I tried to stare at my shoes, but I was irresistibly drawn to his face, that perfect jaw and crystal eyes. “I’m a mess.”

“Those girls shouldn’t have put you in such a position.”

How much had he seen? “I think they’ll fire me.”

“The Hoebags? Not likely.”

“Oh, they will. I was awful. You didn’t see—”

“The thing with Samantha?”

I groaned. He did see.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

He shook his head. “I can guess. She’s a pretty fast mover.”

“I did everything wrong.”

“Nope. Not by a long shot.”

“They won’t want me to do the wedding.”

“I doubt that. Those girls have had their share of one-night stands.”

“Is that what it was? I had a one-night stand?” I shivered.

He squeezed my hand. I didn’t want him to let go, but he stood us both up. “A front’s blowing in.” We walked along the street until the noise of the bar district faded. He pointed to a dark blue sports car parked on the curb. “This is mine.”

I caught my reflection in the window, my ironed hair kinking up again, dark sockets for eyes. Mom spoke to me. “It’ll take more than makeup to fix that face. Make sure you marry someone who can afford plastic surgery.”

“Can’t they move belly fat to your lips or something?” I realized I’d said it aloud.

“Not the best idea,” he said. “Here we go.” He opened the door and eased me inside.

I sank into the low bucket seat. The vivid blue hood stretched out before me, sleek and sexy. “What is this car?” I asked as he slid into the driver’s seat.

“BMW M3.” He started the engine. “Where should I take you?”

I swiped my nose again. “Home.”

“With me?” His teeth gleamed in the darkness.

“Would you?”

“Of course.”

My throat closed up, eyes burning again. “Actually, I don’t have a home.”

He flipped open the center console and pulled out a Kleenex. “Divorce going badly?”

I tried to clear out my nose without a horrid honking blow. “She’s pregnant.”

“Who?”

“The other girl. The reason my husband ditched me.”

He sucked in a breath. “That’s harsh.”

“And I got kicked out of speed dating.”

He pulled onto the street and stopped at a red light. The car rumbled, low and powerful. Was everything about this man beautiful and perfect? I waited for his negative reaction, but he remained silent. “I know it was too soon. You don’t have to say it.”

“I’m not saying anything.”

“Fern dragged me there. But you have to be divorced.” I covered my nose with the soggy tissue. “They told me to leave.”

“I’m sorry.”

“There was a really nice man there too.”

“I’m sure there was.”

“You would have liked him.”

Passing headlights flashed into his eyes. “I’m sure I would have. How are you feeling? Sick? Sleepy?”

“Stupid.”

At his silence I suddenly realized what a horrid mess I was. Sniffling, like a freaking imbecile, over what—a dumb rule at a stupid dating game for losers. And for French kissing a strange girl. Among other things. I tugged at my shirt.

“Fern’s. Take me to Fern’s. Fifth Street. Eight hundred block. Big condo building. It’s only a few blocks from here.”

“Got it.”

“I don’t want to go there, but I have nowhere else to go.”

“The offer is open. I have a spare bedroom.”

The passing lights lit up his face. “You have been nicer to me than anyone I’ve ever known, and I just met you yesterday.”

“I like you.”

I clutched the disintegrating Kleenex. “I have no idea why.”

“You’re funny. You’re original. You’re cute. I like your singing.”

Cute? He meant my singing. “HOW did I get roped into that?”

“It’s Texas. I’ve discovered that people get roped into things.”

“You’re not from here?”

He shook his head. “I moved here in 2004.”

“From where?”

“California.”

This new information shocked me right out of my pity party. Why would a gay man leave California for Texas? “Was there a reason?”

“The scene got bad for me.”

“The gay scene?”

He cocked his head. “Not so much that. Just my scene.”

“Did you have a salon there too?”

“Yes.”

“And you closed it?”

“I did. Started over.”

“Because of the scene?”

He grinned. “Because of the scene.”

So he didn’t want to tell me the real reason. Fine. We pulled up in front of Fern’s condo building. I fumbled with the door handle and finally managed to wrench it open.

“I should walk you up,” he said.

“You can’t park here.” I gestured in the direction of the tow warning sign. “And the garage is a hassle. I’ll be fine.”

“I feel like I should walk you up.”

“That’s okay. I’m having a fling with the elevator man. You might cramp my style.”

He smiled, good God, that stupidly devastating smile.

“Is your car parked somewhere? You want me to get it?”

“It isn’t far enough to worry about. I’d have walked to the bar, but Fern wore four-inch heels. I’ll get it tomorrow.”

He moved his hand back to the gear shift. “See you Friday at the airport then?”

“Maybe. If I’m not fired.”

“I’ll talk to them.”

“You would do that?” I really couldn’t afford to lose the wedding.

“Of course.” He touched my arm, the lightest graze. Everything inside me zinged. Why, WHY did he have to be gay?

“Thank you.” I wanted to kiss his cheek, or something, but I just didn’t do things like that. “Here’s my number, if you need me.” I tugged a business card out of my purse, Photography with Zest, what a crock, and laid it on the console.

“Good. And Zest?”

He’d never said my name before. It hung between us for a moment. “Yes?”

“It IS going to be fine. I know these girls. Okay?”

I nodded and clumsily hauled myself from the low seat. As soon as I closed the door, the BMW pulled away in a gleam of dark blue.

What a freaking day. Before yesterday, my sole exposure to lesbians was a talk show host. Now I’d danced with one and made out with another.

I punched in the code to enter the outside door. I hadn’t even done anything. It was just touching.

“Excuse me?” Elevator Boy was just inside the door, leaning on the front counter by an oversized security guard, and staring at me quizzically. “Did you say you needed touching?”

“I said that out loud?”

“You did. And I got the moves.”

Both men’s laughs rang in the marble foyer as I ran for the stairwell.

Chapter 15: Elevator Trolls

I flung myself on Fern’s red sofa. I didn’t even feel up to inflating my bed. Fern would be home eventually. We’d separated during outings before, so this was no big thing. Besides, I wasn’t really mad at her. It wasn’t her fault that I’d been kicked out of speed dating. She probably didn’t know the rule.

I grabbed the remote to the television. It wouldn’t power on. I shook it, punched more buttons. Still nothing. Jeez. Wouldn’t anything go right?

I stumbled into the kitchen to look for batteries. I opened the first drawer. Perfect cutlery, neatly arranged. She probably never used it.

A second drawer held designer towels and a few pot holders, some still with tags. Life with a trust fund and a power job. She bought things she’d never even use on her smoothie and liquor diet.

The third drawer looked more promising. A few owner’s manuals. Spare keys. Pens, markers, matchbooks. Two loose batteries, the wrong size.

I pushed a few things around, looking for more. A red matchbook with a cartoon drawing of a hillbilly opening a beer bottle with his teeth stopped me cold. I picked it up, instantly recognizing it. Billy Bob’s Booze Bar. This was the same matchbook Cade had in his pocket. With the lipstick.

Oh my God. I dropped the matchbook and ran to Fern’s bathroom. It couldn’t be. It wouldn’t be. Of course not. Pictures of Aud flashed by as I turned on the light. And Manny in the sling. Wasn’t he married too? Hadn’t she mentioned his “possessive hag?” How could I not know this about her?

Her makeup was all stored in a custom cabinet. I slammed through the drawers, knocking bottles and jars aside. Finally I found the one I wanted.

A dozen or so light-green lipstick tubes rolled together as I yanked it open. All the same brand. I picked one up, recognizing the case.

Cade’s mystery woman was Fern.

I slammed the drawer closed again, torn between leaving some vicious message scrawled in red on her mirror and leaving without letting her know I knew.

I stumbled backwards out of the bathroom, ramming the back of my knees against her bed and sitting abruptly. This was completely and utterly fucked up.

I had to get out of there.

***

The boxes were heavy and awkward, stacked against my face. I waddled down the hall, determined to take the steps and avoid the elevator troll. I tried to reach for the doorknob to the stairwell, but I couldn’t grasp it. Damn, damn, damn.

I wanted to make it in one trip. I couldn’t bear to come back up and run into Fern. God, she’d been having an affair with my husband. My clutzy, balding, unromantic husband. Of all the men in the world—and she had so many of them—she wanted mine too.

The boxes heaved perilously as I tried to open the door. No way would I make it. I stumbled back down the hallway and pushed the button for the elevator. Elevator Boy would just be one more awful thing in a horrid night.

The light on the floor numbers immediately began zipping upward. I glanced at my watch. Almost midnight.

The doors opened, revealing the same Elevator Boy, who leaned against the mirrored walls, arms crossed. “You rang?”

I ignored him, bending down to lift the stack again. Bloody heavy things.

“Here, it’s my job to help.” He took the top two. “I can get you a dolly or a cart if you have more.”

“This is it. I came light. Leaving light.”

“Didn’t work out?”

I shook my head.

He set the boxes in the corner and pressed the button to close the door. “You got somewhere else to go?”

He had to ask that. “Of course. Loads of friends. This was always temporary.”

He nodded. We began the descent. “Your car in the garage?”

Oh, crap. “Actually, it’s several blocks down.”

“You want me to watch these while you get it?”

The elevator opened. I glanced at the boxes. My livelihood was in them—cameras, sample albums, as well as a few clothes and the mattress. “I guess I don’t have a choice.”

He smiled, looking far more friendly than he had a half hour before. “You know what, it’s time for my break anyway. Let’s drive these down. That way you don’t have to worry.”

The elevator began closing, but he stepped forward to block it. “What do you say?”

“Okay. Great. Thank you.” So Elevator Boy wasn’t a complete jerk.

He waved at the security guard as we passed. “I’ll be back in a few.”

“You only got fifteen minutes, boy.” The voice was gruff but his face was smirking. “Not that you’ll need it.”

I glared at the man. “You’d think they’d hire someone a bit more professional.”

Elevator Boy pushed open the front doors and waited as I passed. “You don’t get the pick of the litter for the night shift. But Bud’s all right. He entertains me.”

He led us to a beat-up truck parked on the street. “They don’t let you in the garage?” I asked.

“Nah. That costs money. And most of what I make goes to child support.”

What? He couldn’t be much older than twenty. And a father? Elevator Boy? Who wanted the hottie-hookup? “You have a kid?”

“Yeah. The ex, though, she didn’t want anything to do with me. I get to see Madison every other weekend.”

He shoved his boxes in the back and lifted mine over the side. “Your chariot, oh roommate of the harlot.”

“Ex-roommate.”

We climbed into the cab. “I didn’t think you’d last long. Too many houseguests.”

“You were right. I’m done. The garage is off Second Street, in the Warehouse District.”

“I know the one.”

We pulled up to a red light. The roads were quiet and dark, the street lamps leaving dim pools of light at measured intervals. I could see the photograph, the leading lines taking you out into the distance. All it needed to complete its despondency was a lone figure, head down, walking away.

Elevator Boy drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “You okay? You really got somewhere you can go at midnight on a Wednesday?”

The truck chugged through the intersection. I glanced at him and noticed a picture clipped to his sun visor. A curly haired girl, about two. This wasn’t a guy I had to bullshit. “No. I don’t have anywhere to go.”

“I got a place, you know. I don’t get off until two-thirty, but you seem kinda lost. We could hang out. Bud wouldn’t say nothin’.”

Two men inside an hour offering me a place to stay. This day could not get any stranger. “That’s real kind of you. But I do have some money. I’ll get a hotel.” Actually, I didn’t have much money. Harry Histrionic’s check had mostly gone to gas.

“You got some family?”

Of course. Dad. “I do.”

“They’ll take you for a spell?”

A neon sign lit him from behind, his nose sharp in silhouette, hair flopping on his forehead beneath a ridiculous flat-top, bell-boy style cap. “Actually, they will, yes.” I had enough gas to get to Fort Worth.

I realized suddenly that if Elevator Boy was so observant, he might have seen Cade going in and out of Fern’s place.

“Hey.”

He didn’t turn. “Yeah?”

“You seen a guy coming around to Fern’s a lot, tallish, pug-faced, without a lot of hair?”

He shrugged. “Nobody came around a whole lot. Not on my shift anyway. Always somebody different.” He stole a quick glance at me. “Did she go for yours?”

“Oh no, no. Just someone we both knew.” I could only handle so much humiliation in a day.

The truck lurched forward. “Well, I’m glad you got family. I’m going to leave Ol’ Faithful here illegally for a sec, and we’ll get these boxes to your car.” He drove half up on the sidewalk and shoved the gearshift into park.

He started to get out, but I put my hand on his arm to stop him. “Thank you. Really. I’m sorry I don’t even know your name. In my head you were just…asshat.”

He chuckled. “It’s Carlos. And most people aren’t asshats, once you get to know them. Except for a few, who become even bigger asshats.” He opened his door. “We’ll don’t sit here wasting my break time. I could be banging somebody. Let’s hit it.”

Chapter 16: Thirsty Birds and Nodding Donkeys

I arrived in my old neighborhood outside Fort Worth at four a.m.

Dad had waited up despite the hour, sitting in his bathrobe on the swing at the end of the porch. He looked more grizzled than last time I’d seen him, on Father’s Day, tall and gaunt, with a little lean to his posture. He’d had a rough life, decades of off-shore drill work, and it showed.

I climbed the weathered concrete steps, the corners broken off. He stood and pulled me into his embrace, his hand on the back of my head, and cleared his throat. I had to bite hard on my lips to keep from losing the control I’d held all the way from Austin. I would not cry. Not over those hideous people I thought I knew, my husband, my friend.

“I’m sorry, Peaches. I’m glad you called. And I’m glad you’re here.”

He led me into the house. Dad never changed much of anything. The sofas were still orange and brown plaid, the TV encased in its own fake-wood console. A dozen dusty pictures littered the top. They pretty much stopped when I turned fifteen, when Mom died, other than a wedding picture. All this time I’d been a photographer, and I hadn’t gotten a shot of me with my dad. I’d fix that. Tomorrow.

I stumbled into my old bedroom, still decorated from my teens. We didn’t talk any more, and I collapsed onto my tattered quilt and fell asleep.

***

Dad shook me awake. I peered at the ancient digital alarm clock on my old bedside table, still covered in N Sync stickers. My misspent youth. It was 6 a.m.

“Wake up if you’re coming on the rounds. I got breakfast ready.”

I mumbled something even I couldn’t parse.

He straightened. “I’m fine if you don’t. You need your rest.”

I pushed the blankets away. “No, I want to come.”

“All righty then. Make sure you dress proper for the wind and dust. Haven’t had much rain.” He set a pair of broken-in cowboy boots on the floor by the bed. “I seem to recall you and your mom wore the same size.”

He sauntered out the door, his stride hitching a bit. The muted light from the hallway eased into the room, resting on the boots. I leaned over the edge of the bed to touch them. Mom had worn them when she worked in her garden. I hadn’t seen them in over a decade.

She’d always seemed to put more time and attention into her beets and radishes than she did her family. Her little rectangle of vegetables was her refuge. “You can bury a lot of troubles by digging in the dirt,” she’d say.

She planted only oddities. Sweet onions, ginger root, cilantro, squash, habanero pepper. Never the good stuff, like watermelons or corn. Then she’d foist them on me at dinner, mumbling tripe about “salt of the earth and working my fingers to the bone.”

With Dad gone so much, we often sat opposite each other in the fading light of the kitchen, too cheap to turn on the overhead, a showdown over the Formica table. Oh, how I hated her those nights, beets bleeding across my plate, a slab of chicken smothered with peppers and onion. Not teenager food.

We didn’t talk as I stealthily transferred my meal to a paper napkin, waiting for moments when she stared into space, seeming to forget I was even there. She had my hair but a withered face, eventually lighting up a cigarette and blowing smoke into the silence.

If we broke the quiet and got into an argument, usually over what I’d do with my life and how to get out of this god-forsaken suburb and into a real town, she’d abruptly go back outside to dig and weed. Texas was good that way, allowing her to keep something planted year-round.

No matter how she went out, she’d come back in happier, with muddy knees, humming some little tune—the only indication any of us ever got that she might be in a good mood.

Dad approved of her gardening. When I’d be put out that she wouldn’t drive me to a friend’s house, he stop me from insulting her by saying “When you throw dirt, you lose ground.”

Coming from a man who married a woman who tossed more sod than a bull in heat.

But I never shot back with the truth, that I would know all about throwing dirt. I turned out just like her.

I sat up and straightened my wool socks. The cold front was chillier up here than in Austin. One foot slid down into the boot, gliding comfortably past the bend, and a quick tap on the floor brought my heel firmly down.

Dad was right. They were a perfect fit.

***

The two-lane highway stretched out long and flat as we rumbled out of town in Dad’s Ford pickup. I felt a little queasy from eating fried eggs before sunup. The lack of sleep didn’t help, but I did not want to spend the day alone.

The fields alternated in brown, yellow, and green with long skinny pipes of pivot irrigation systems sprawling like praying mantis. Sagging barns and small ranch houses dotted the landscape, flat and unbroken other than the occasional mesquite tree.

“So, you hired a lawyer yet?” Dad kept his eyes on the road, hands relaxed on the steering wheel. A pair of cows watched us ride by from behind a barbed-wire fence.

“Not yet.”

“I reckon he’ll get some big shot.”

“I don’t think so. It’s just a friend from college. I don’t expect it to get ugly. We don’t really have anything to split.”

“You going to take the house?”

I sunk down in the cracked vinyl seat. The light was shifting from gray to blue as we drove into the sunrise. “I don’t think so. It’s too expensive. Besides, he wants it, for the baby.”

Dad hit the brakes suddenly, and I shifted forward against the shoulder belt. He pulled over onto the gravel shoulder. “The what?”

Suddenly I remembered something. The woman was Fern. “Oh my God. I mean, yes, he wants the house for the baby.” I pictured her downing the Oban at the bar. “But I think he got lied to. I don’t think the girl was pregnant.” The sticks from college. The joke we’d played. She’d done it again. But why this time? Why did she want to break us up?

Dad pulled back onto the road. “The boy never did have it all together upstairs. I’ve seen one-eyed geese with more sense.”

“Oh, Dad. He has a master’s degree.”

“Paperwork doesn’t make a man smart.”

A truck hauling a trailer full of hay rolls approached in the opposite lane. Dad lifted his hand. The other driver waved back. I’d forgotten about that, such a simple gesture. The only hand signals on freeways in cities were quite the opposite of friendly.

He cleared his throat. “You okay for money?”

“Not especially.”

“I’ll loan you some. You’ll need a lawyer.”

I hated this. Each moment got more humiliating than the last. This had to be rock bottom, surely. Living with my dad and asking for money.

Dad turned off the main road onto a strip of white gravel. We bumped and jostled a few hundred yards and pulled up before a black pumpjack, its iron head slowly rising and falling in a steady rhythm.

He rolled down his window. The pump moved almost silently, the quiet of the hay field broken only by the truck’s idling motor.

He listened a moment. “Sounds like she’s fine,” he said, backing up again. “Most of ‘em only need a listen. I can tell if something’s wrong with them.”

“Do you fix them if there is?”

“Depends on the problem. Some things are easy.” He glanced over at me, his mouth in a tight frown. “Most things are hard.”

We drove back onto the road, only to pull off again a couple miles down. We had a dozen pumpjacks on today’s rounds, spread out all over North Texas. The truck lurched along a dirt road a ways before coming up on another, older pump, brown and rusting but still moving steadily against the cloudless sky.

“This one’s scheduled for shut down,” Dad said, killing the engine.

“Why?”

“It’s an old model. Runs on a motor fueled by its own oil.” He opened his door, filling the cabin with the pop pop CRACK sound of the pumpjack.

“That can’t be good.”

“Oh, that’s the way the old ones sound. But this one’s got other problems.” He slid off the seat.

I leapt into the dust, a cloud puffing around mom’s old boots. I hadn’t changed that much since high school, so my old faded jeans from my closet still fit. Dad had loaned me a flannel shirt and insisted I tie a black bandana around my neck in case I needed to cover my nose. I had, however, drawn the line at a hat.

Dad walked up to the gate. “This kind of thirsty bird is on its way to extinction. Most all are electric these days.”

“Is it still producing?”

“It’s still pulling oil. But it ain’t passed the BS test in three checks.”

“BS?” I imagined cow manure getting in machine parts.

He quirked a lopsided smile, shoving a key in the padlock to the chain link fence that surrounded the pump. “Bottom sediment.”

“Oh.”

He opened a side panel and attached a digital box. “These readings show too much sediment. Gets too high, no one will buy the oil. No point in keeping her operational.”

“You can’t fix it?”

“Generally when the BS gets too high, it ain’t worth saving.”

He pulled the box away and laid it on the metal base. “No change. I’m going to go ahead and shut her down.”

The cranks kept turning, faithfully pushing the hammer head of the jack up and down. They didn’t know they were working in vain, pulling contaminated oil that nobody could use. Death by BS.

The yellow-white light of the sun popped just above the rows of wheat stalks as Dad walked around to the back side of the pumpjack frame. He and the metal giant were thrown into silhouette as he opened a box and flipped the switch. Oh, how I longed for a camera.

Gradually, the cranks wound down, the giant arm slowed, and gently, as if a rocking cradle were allowed to rest, all motion ceased.

Dad stood, watching it, then touched the tip of his hat. “Out with the old.” He shut the box tight.

I found my throat had closed up. Over a pumpjack. “Will it get disassembled?”

“Up to the owners to decide. They might get somebody out here to take a look-see. Maybe put in a new pump. Depends on if it’s worth the trouble.”

“That’s not what you do?”

“I just take readings and check on ‘em.” He ran his hand along a metal beam. “This one’s been in service a long time.”

Something about the stillness of the pump was too much. I’d read somewhere that it takes a little thing to break you. It’s not the big stuff, dead mothers, cheating husbands, destitution, or homelessness. It’s always the simple thing you didn’t expect to go wrong.

My stomach clenched like I would throw up. I bent over, gulping in air. I’d never felt this bad, not ever.

“Peaches, you okay?” Dad laid his hand on my back.

“I…don’t…think…so.”

He dropped the back gate of his truck so I could sit. I continued to suck in air, breathing like I would hyperventilate. I couldn’t get control of it somehow. I threw all my snark at it, every cutting thought, how ugly Cade was, how he was done with sex in three minutes, how Fern couldn’t keep a man more then five days, and what a big ol’ stupid house we’d picked anyway, with a tiny yard and a water heater that kept going out, not even worth what we paid for it.

It didn’t help. It didn’t matter how awful I wanted to make those things sound, they had been mine--my husband, my friend, my house, my life. And none of it had been anything but a stupid lie.

Dad ran his hand along my head, smoothing the frizz. “This Cade, he was the wrong boy. Sometimes you can’t tell by looking. There’s no shame in figuring it out later.”

“But, he…humiliated me. With my friend.” Eyes were burning. I tightened my fists. No crying. Not going to happen.

“Some things in this life are hard to bear. And crying or not crying, don’t make no difference to what happens.”

“But I was mean to him, like Mom was.”

“You don’t have to turn into your mom.”

“I never cried when she died.”

“I know it.”

“Do you think I’m broken?”

“Peaches, we’re all broken, one way or another. It’s all in how you make do with the pieces.”

A sudden gust of wind blew dust over us. My eyes stung, and I had to wipe them with my bandana. “I think maybe it was my fault Cade fooled around.”

“Nobody makes nobody cheat.”

“I didn’t pay attention to him.”

“And he didn’t work with you on it.”

“Neither of us knew what we were doing.”

“That’s how it always feels. But he still done you wrong.”

The wheat rustled in the unrelenting wind. I coughed in the dust. Dad tugged his hat lower over his eyes. “If I could lay my hands on that boy--”

“Dad. He’s almost 30.”

“With the sense of a tumbleweed.”

“True.” I cracked a smile. Dad had never made a snide remark. That had been mom’s domain.

His eyes twinkled. “As bright as an armadillo in the middle of Interstate 35.”

“With about as much future.”

Dad stood up and dusted off his knees. “Well, let’s get out of his dust. We got to go to the next pumpjack.”

He lifted me down from the truck. He was still that strong, even at 60. “We have three stops, then I know just the place for lunch. There’s this filly named Margo who will insult the hell out of you, but she makes the meanest pecan pie this side of the Brazos.”

“A filly, eh?”

“Well, she’s more like a flat-nosed donkey, actually, and has a three-hundred pound husband. So don’t get any ideas.” He opened my side of the truck.

I climbed in. “All you need is one more mean-mouthed woman in your life.”

He shot back, “Ain’t that the truth.” And closed the door.

Chapter 17: Good Things Come to Those Who Bait

Day was just shifting into evening when we pulled onto my old street. The two hour’s sleep had caught up with me mid-afternoon, and I’d been napping in the truck during the rest of Dad’s rounds. I still had my head draped over a box that was sitting between us on the seat as he shut off the engine.

“So, who do you know with a blue hotrod?” Dad asked as we pulled up into the drive.

My head popped up. “Bradford?”

The car sat by the curb, gleaming and new against the backdrop of the weedy, broken-down neighborhood. I walked up to it and peered through the tinted window. Empty.

“I think I’ve found him,” Dad called back. He stood on the narrow porch, facing the swing.

Bradford stepped out from behind the ivy-laden rail. He looked amazing in pressed khakis and a lean salmon-colored shirt, like a visitor from another land.

He shook my dad’s hand as I gaped from the yard. “Nice to meet you. I’m Bradford Simmons. Friend of Zest’s.”

“Ben Ballard.”

Bradford nodded at me. “I see you can take the girl out of the country, but you can’t take the country out of the girl.”

I tugged nervously on the bandana. I could feel my hair blowing up in every direction.

“You look great, really,” Bradford said. “None of that pretend Texan. The real deal.”

Dad watched us a moment. “Well, this old man needs to get cleaned up. Come on in and sit a spell. We were planning some dinner. You’ll stay?”

Bradford kept his eyes on me. “I’d love to, if that’s okay with Zest.”

Was he crazy? Of course! “It’s good with me.”

Dad went into the house. I stayed at the bottom of the steps, looking up at Bradford, feeling all of fourteen years old and crushing some high school senior who was completely and utterly out of my league.

“So this is where Zest began?” He stuck his hands in his pockets, shuffling his shoe against the porch floor.

Was he…nervous? “You could say that. I wasn’t born in this house. We moved up in the world when I turned five. Started out life in a double-wide trailer.”

“Like a good country girl.”

I climbed the stairs, holding the rail to avoid a klutz moment. “You want to come in? Dad’s probably got a beer or something.”

He opened the door for me and I passed inside, suddenly seeing the house from his perspective. I spotted a photo of me and Cade on the television console and wished I could knock it off the back side.

Bradford circled the room. “This is what my grandmother would call ‘honest living.’”

“As opposed to--”

“Living flashy. Showing your money.”

“Didn’t have much of that.”

“She was all about staying within your means. Not getting caught up in new for the sake of new.”

“Were you two close?” I sat on Dad’s worn recliner, nervously straightening a towel that served as an arm protector, covering stains and holes.

“Not exactly. But she was a formidable woman. Had a falling out with my mom, but still came to see me.”

“This was in California?”

“Yes. Outside of LA.”

“Pretty different from here.”

He nodded, looking at the pictures on the television.

I shifted uncomfortably in the chair as he picked up the wedding portrait. “Bit of a surprise, seeing you here,” I said.

He turned sharply, an anomaly of crisp detail in the murky room. “The girls were anxious when they heard you blew out of town. They wanted to make sure you knew all was okay with them.” He set down the frame and tugged a slender blue packet from his pocket. “Your tickets. For the flight. Plus the deposit.”

I clutched the folder with its preprinted itinerary. Inside was a check for five hundred dollars. Thank God. “They’re really okay?”

He settled on the sofa, bent forward, hands clasped between his knees. “They’re really okay.”

“Good, because I didn’t have gas money to get back.”

“At least it’s not four dollars a gallon anymore.”

“Yeah, this might not have covered it.”

We grinned foolishly at each other as Dad crossed the living room, smoothing his damp hair. “Just passing through. Don’t mind an old man.”

I popped up from the chair. “You need help with dinner?”

“Don’t want too many cooks in the kitchen. You might catch me opening the TV dinners.”

“You sure?”

“You young people should catch up.”

The happy crinkles in the corners of his eyes made me realize he had the wrong idea about Bradford. I’d have to set him straight later. That would be something to explain.

I settled back in the chair. Bradford was watching me. “He seems like a great dad.”

“He is.”

“A good place to run to.”

“It is. I mean. No. I wasn’t running.”

He leaned back on the sofa. “No?”

“No! Just thought I’d pay…dad…a visit. Before…I got on a plane and could die in a fiery crash.”

“Really.”

I scowled. I didn’t want to go into it all, Cade, Fern.. “Seems a bit much for you to come all the way here yourself. How did you know where to come?”

“Fern.”

I tensed up at her name. “You know her?”

“Of her. She called Aud when she saw you’d packed up. We realized you were reacting pretty…strongly to last night. Fern told us where to go.”

“She say anything else?”

“Nikki said she seemed relieved to know why you’d left.”

So she assumed I hadn’t found out then. God. What a mess. I kept my gaze on everything in the room but Bradford, books, ceramic figurines, the one sampler Mom had embroidered before declaring it an unfit hobby for the impatient. It read, “Good things come to those who bait.” Dad’s fishing tackle stood in the corner by the door, ready for a moment’s impulse.

Bradford drummed his fingers on the arm of the sofa. “Did something else happen?”

“I don’t really want to talk about it.”

“Are you planning to move back here?”

I picked at a loose thread on the towel by my wrist. “I don’t know anything past this weekend.”

Dad poked his head back in. “Soup’s almost on. You probably want to wash up.”

I hopped up from the chair, glad for the reprieve. “That was fast.”

Dad dried his hands on a dish rag. “Maybe I really did make TV dinners.”

***

Dad and Bradford dominated the meal-talk. Bradford wanted to know everything about oil, and living off shore, and the price of gas. They good-heartedly debated whether it was George W. Bush’s fault prices had gotten so high, and if Obama’s imminent election had made any difference in how they had plummeted. I didn’t know anything about any of it, so I just shoveled warmed-over stew into my mouth and listened.

We cleaned up together, Dad clearing, me washing, and Bradford drying, the sleeves of his designer shirt rolled up to the elbow, like the night I’d met him.

“I’m just going to run this trash out,” Dad said, hauling the bag out from under the sink.

After the screen door slammed shut, Bradford said, “He’s a really great guy. I see where you get your sense of humor.”

“Oh he’s nothing compared to Mom. Her wit was so abrasive, it would peel paint from the walls.”

“So your Dad’s the kinder, gentler version.”

I pulled the drain stop, watching the suds circle out. “I worry that he’s lonely.”

“When did you lose your mom?”

“When I was fifteen.”

“You miss her?”

Rinsing the sink gave me time to consider my reply.  I never answered this question honestly. The truth was something I held close to my chest, like a bad hand when I was deep into a bluff.

I shut off the water. After all the lies I’d been dealt in the past few days, the unvarnished truth seemed the only course. “Not really. She was a hard woman. Biting. Full of criticism. I couldn’t do anything right. I might have hated her, even.”

Bradford exhaled in a big rush. “Whoa.”

Now I couldn’t stop. “She made me feel inferior and weak. Made fun of my hair, especially, how ugly I was. Dad was browbeaten, lucky to live away from us most of the time, off shore. When she got cervical cancer, I was certain she was just rotting from the inside out from pure meanness.”

Bradford took the towel and began drying my hands, gently, with great care. “Sometimes bad things happen to unpleasant people too.”

I let him keep hold of my hands, separated by the cotton cloth. “But that’s the thing. It was just me. I was just a whiny, self-absorbed teenager. I didn’t get her at all. I didn’t see the good things about her. I didn’t know what made her the way she was.”

“So there was a reason?”

“She wanted more kids. She wanted better things. Working around people like Marge…” He wouldn’t know them. “People like these rich biddies who were always acting superior. It got her down.”

“She shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”

“I wasn’t a very grateful kid. I was difficult.”

“You’re not that way anymore.”

“But I am. Cade even said so.” I circled the kitchen, agitated. I hated talking about Mom. I paused before a picture, a seven-year-old me with both my parents.

“This her?” he asked.

I nodded. It was just a snapshot, taken by a neighbor with a crappy camera. But the light was good, coming from the side. Both my hair and mom’s were lit up, the ends burnished red even though the color was generally a light brown.

“You got your curly locks from your Mom,” he said.

“The thing I hate most about myself.”

He fingered an errant strand. “Really? I’ve always liked it. So natural and wild. Almost like the angry sparks that come off you all the time.”

Angry? Sparks? Is that what I looked like? My first impression? “Well, I hate it.” I stared down at the floor at Mom’s boots, which hadn’t given me an ounce of pain all day. They really were a perfect fit.

Dad poked his head in the back door. “I’m going for a smoke on the porch. Who’s coming with me?”

We cut through the house, and Bradford and I settled together on the swing. Dad took a long pull on his cigarette, blowing gray rings into the night air. He leaned against the rail. “So what’s the plan, young folks? Seems like you have a plane to catch in the morning.”

“We do,” Bradford said. “And the girls need to be getting back to Austin.”

My chin snapped up. “What do you mean, the girls?”

“They’re here too.”

I shot out of my seat, staring out on the lawn as if they might be singing Kumbaya around a campfire in the driveway. “What? Where? All of them?”

Bradford planted his feet on the porch to still the wildly gyrating swing. “Just Nikki, Bella, Mary, and Aud. They’re at the Dairy Queen.”

I grabbed his watch. “It’s eight o’clock! You’ve made them wait there for two hours?”

“They wanted me to talk to you first. Especially Nikki. They’re probably gorging on peanut buster parfaits.”

Dad stamped out the cigarette with his boot. “Sounds like you need to go fetch them. DQ closes at nine.”

Bradford stood up. “Shall we?”

I turned to Dad. “I’ll be back. Eventually.”

He waved his hand, the end of the cigarette a red blur in the dark. “I won’t wait up.”

Chapter 18: Deep in the Heart of Testes

As Bradford pulled into the parking lot, I could see the girls inside the bright restaurant, hovering around a juke box on the back wall.

Nikki’s head popped up as we walked in. “They have two types of music here. Country AND Western!”

I smirked. “The last time I heard that joke was second grade.”

“And it still rocks,” Nikki said. “Unlike this selection.”

“I thought you liked country. Rainbow and all.” I winced to hear myself say the word, but it needed to get out there.

“I do, I do.”

Mary came forward for a hug. “So we all still okay?”

“We didn’t mean to traumatize you,” Aud said.

“I’m okay,” I said. “As long as you guys are.”

“Ha, you’re a half-homo now!” Nikki said. She punched a selection on the juke box. “We’ll have you fully converted by Sunday.”

I had to laugh. “Don’t hold your breath.”

Nikki shook her head. “Still in the closet! That’s okay. Sodom wasn’t built in a day.”

George Strait began crooning to “All My Exes Live in Texas.” Nikki grabbed Bradford’s hands and began two-stepping him around the Formica tables. I zinged with jealousy as they smoothly circled the Dairy Queen.

“We finally get a man, and Nikki snags him,” Mary said. “We didn’t want to horrify the natives by dancing together.”

Four old men drinking coffee sat in one corner, watching the couple.

“Personally, I would have given them a little show,” Aud said. “But Audrey’s not here.”

Nikki passed close by, still hanging on to Bradford. “We need to get out! Zest, what’s around here?”

“Don’t we have an early flight in a completely different city?”

“It’s not until eleven,” Nikki said. “I say we start the party tonight!”

Bradford stopped her mid twirl. “I say we get back home to rest up for the trip.”

Nikki completed the spin on her own. “I say you’re lame.”

Aud smacked Nikki on the head. “Speak for yourself.”

Nikki grabbed Bella with one arm and me with the other. “We hotties need some action. Let’s go find a place to kick up our heels.” She led us to the door.

Our ragtag group walked out into the night air, the cool draft heavenly after the stuffy Dairy Queen. We piled into Bradford’s little car, Bella sitting on Nikki’s lap. “We can’t go too far now,” Bella said. “I’m squishing Nikki’s nether regions.”

“Squish away, baby doll,” Nikki said.

Bradford pulled out of the lot. “Where to?”

Good Lord. We were in podunkville, beyond even the suburbs. “Head toward Fort Worth.”

I turned to the back seat, where the women smashed together like clowns in a Volkswagen. “What are you up for? Pub drinking? Rock dancing? Country swinging? Karaoke?”

“Maybe not karaoke,” Aud said.

“Right. True.” My face burned, remembering “I Kissed a Girl.” “What about a piano bar?”

“Ohhh, like the one on Sixth Street?” Mary leaned forward “That’s one of my favorite places.”

“It’s not quite as fancy as Pete’s, but it’s the same principle,” I said. “Two pianos. A lot of rowdy singing. It won’t be too crowded on a Thursday, I don’t think.”

“Let’s do it!” Nikki said.

“Just don’t volunteer to go on stage,” Mary said. “It’s embarrassing.”

Nikki stuck out her tongue. “I’m never embarrassing.”

***

The bar was more packed than I’d anticipated. Bradford paid for all of us, and we found a table near the back.

“Nobody puts Baby in a corner!” Nikki said.

“This is perfect,” Mary said, shoving Nikki toward a chair. “Let’s not get crazy the night before our wedding trip.”

Two men in cowboy hats played “Old Time Rock and Roll” on the dueling pianos built onto a raised stage. The crowd sang with them.

Bradford ordered a round of drinks, watching with amusement as Nikki, Mary, and Bella lustily shouted the tune. He knew everyone’s preference. When the waitress left, he sat back in this chair, arms crossed.

I leaned near to him. “You don’t sing?”

He shook his head. “Not in public.”

“Shower pop star?”

He finally cracked a smile, and I couldn’t help but feel happy. Of all the things to come out of the crappiest week of my life, he was the best part.

The piano players transitioned into “I Got Friends in Low Places,” and Nikki stood up to point to all of us as the chorus reached its peak. Several of the tables around us cheered their encouragement as she got up on her chair, shouting the words.

Aud covered her eyes. A bouncer began threading his way through the tables, and Bella pulled Nikki down from her chair. “Let’s not get kicked out on the second song, okay?”

I glanced at Bradford. He was looking over the bar with a serious expression. I followed his field of vision and realized what he was seeing. A whole lotta cowboys. And quite a few service men, actually, in uniform. Not the same crowd as Austin, whatsoever. I felt my anxiety ratchet up a notch.

The men at the piano ended the song. One began hammering a series of chords while the other stood in front with a microphone. “This is the part of the evening we tastefully call, ‘Show me the money.’” He grinned at the crowd. “We got an election coming up, and we figured, hey, this has got to be worth a few bucks.”

I glanced at Bradford, uneasy. He watched quietly, one elbow on the table, his chin resting on his hand. He hadn’t touched a drink himself.

“So here’s the thing,” the man called out, “We’re going to sing ‘Obama’s a jolly good fellow…’” He paused for a roomful of boos. “Now now. Put your money where your balls are. And we’ll keep playing it until you guys,” he paused to hold up an empty fish bowl, “fill up this jar.”

I shifted in my seat, stealing a look at the other women. Nikki, Bella, and Aud frowned in silence. Mary bounced in her seat, elated. Our McCain contingent.

The piano player settled in his position. “One, two, three, four, Obama’s a jolly good fellow, Obama’s a jolly good fellow, Obama’s a jolly good fellow! Who’s about to be president.”

The room echoed with boos. Men stepped forward to put money in the jar.

“Not enough! Let’s do it again!” And the song began anew. Mary pulled her purse out, but Aud stopped her. “Let’s just sit tight on this one.”

Each version of the song got increasingly obnoxious. The second piano player agitated the crowd. “What happened to the war on terror? Get scared?”

When the singer started acting silly, resembling a monkey in his actions, Nikki leapt from her chair. It took Mary, Bella, AND Aud to get her back down.

“This is a crock of shit. Racist fucks,” Nikki said.

“I don’t think they mean to appear racist,” Aud said. “Nobody’s that stupid. They’re just being asshats for money.”

“What, you girls not getting the spirit?” a man at the next table asked. “Lookee here, we got some Obaminations getting cranky!”

Bella grasped Nikki’s hand and held it close to her chest. The man tipped his hat back and wiped his forehead. “We got some lesbians in the house!”

Thankfully, the jar filled up, and the piano players switched to “Hail to the Chief.” The crowd began stomping their feet and clapping.

Nikki sullenly downed her rum and coke as the main piano player came out front again. “While we’re feeling patriotic, this next one goes out to all our service men and women who are risking their lives to keep us safe from our enemies at home and overseas.” He scanned the crowd. “I see some of you are out there. Let’s get you all up on stage.”

As men and women in fatigues, khaki uniforms, and desert camo threaded their way through the room, the pianos banged out the opening chords to “God Bless the USA.”

“Fuckin’ A,” Nikki said. “I don’t think we’re in Austin any more.”

“They do this at the bar in Austin,” Mary said. “It’s a standard thing for military.”

“I got nothing against military,” Nikki said. “My uncle was military.”

The song arrived at its big moment, and everyone held up beer bottles and glasses. The men at the pianos left their seats, playing while standing, and the crowd all leapt to their feet, shouting and cheering.

We remained in our corner, watching the spectacle, taking Bradford’s lead in not drawing any attention to ourselves.

“This is nuts,” Nikki said.

“It’s okay to be patriotic, you know,” Mary said irritably.

The man at the next table turned, then elbowed his neighbor. “The lesbos don’t think our men and women are good enough to stand up for.”

His girlfriend turned to gape at us. Her hair was overprocessed, blond, and big. Her jeans were too tight, and her belly squeezed out above it to fill out her tube top. “They like girls, really?”

Another woman at the table shushed them. “Leave them alone. Don’t be a goddamn homophobe.”

The man’s face bloomed red. “I’m not any goddamn homophobe! I’m just saying the queers ought to have some RESPECT for the people who serve our COUNTRY. I don’t give a shit if they’re queers.” As his voice rose, others turned to look.

Bradford instantly stood up. “Ladies, it’s time to go.”

We scooted awkwardly around the table, trying to push our way through the crowded room.

“You better stop,” another man said, blocking Bradford’s way. “It’s disrespectful to walk out on a song for our servicemen.”

Bradford nodded but pushed on through. Two more men stepped forward.

“Did you HEAR what our brother SAID?”

“We got ears,” Nikki retorted. “And you can get the fuck out of our way, blowhard.”

“Nikki…” Bella warned.

One of the cowboys glanced down at their joined hands, then stared Bradford up and down. “Are you one of those pretty boys who likes it up the ass?” He shoved Bradford in the chest. “Maybe if you were a real man, these ladies here wouldn’t be so hot for each other.”

“Oh, that’s real classy,” Nikki said. “Maybe if we let the cattle in, we could improve the average IQ of the place.”

“Oh jeez,” Aud said. “Let’s go. Now.”

The song had ended and the majority of the room was settling back in their seats. Nikki pushed forward, thrusting me and Bradford through the men.

One of them couldn’t resist one more shout during the lull between songs, “You take your cream-style cunts and butt-fuckers and get on outta here.”

We burst out the door.

“Did he really say ‘cream-style cunt?’” Nikki said, laughing now that we were outside. “Oh my, Zest, that was a highly entertaining evening. Next time you pick a place, I’m going WHEREVER you’re going.”

I was gulping air, I felt so panicked. How could that girl be so mad and then joke around, inside of three minutes?

“Get in the car, ladies,” Bradford said, his lips pressed together. “Before some of them decide to come out.”

He peeled through the parking lot, obviously angry.

I felt responsible. “I’m sorry. I had no idea.”

“Of course it would be like that,” Nikki said. “What did all you expect? Left wingers? We’re deep in the heart of Texas! Where sodomy didn’t go without a fight. Home of the Southern Baptists!”

Bradford’s face was tense, his jaw tight. I wanted to touch him in some small way, but it didn’t feel appropriate. “I’m sorry they said those things to you.”

“It’s fine,” he said. “We’re fine.” He glanced into the back seat. “We have a long ride home to Austin. Let’s get Zest to her dad’s so we can head back.”

I’d managed to ruin another evening. My social klutzism was just too much to bear.

Nikki tapped my shoulder. “Zest, stop brooding. Nobody’s blaming you. We forget sometimes we’re not in the bubble that is Austin. It’s fine.”

I shook my head. “It’s embarrassing to me. This is where I grew up.”

“Are you like them?” Aud asked. “Despite growing up in the exact same environment, are you mean and intolerant and a jerk?”

“No.”

“Then you’re fine by us. They can wallow in their ignorance and bigotry.”

“Unfortunately, they are the ones controlling what we get to do,” Bella said. “Look at us, flying all the way to California to get married.”

“I’d rather spend my money in Austin,” Mary said. “But we can’t.”

“And we don’t exactly get to invite all our friends either,” Aud said.

“We’ll have a kick ass reception later,” Nikki said. “All of us. Invite the whole damn town.”

Mary leaned forward. “Bradford, you don’t think they’ll annul our marriage licenses if Prop 8 passes, will they?”

Bradford clenched the wheel. “They did in 2004.”

“Isn’t that when you moved to Texas?” I asked. The pieces were beginning to come together.

He glanced at me, his lips pressed together. I was becoming familiar with his facial expressions already. “It is.”

“Then our weddings will be for nothing,” Aud said.

“Nah,” Nikki said. “Doing something this important is never for nothing. No matter what happens.”

Bella said, “All they can take away is the paper.”

I stared out at the dark flat shadows of the land where I’d grown up. It didn’t seem possible that the people in that bar, people I could have known, might have even married had I stayed in town, could be so different from me. Sure, I’d never even talked to a lesbian before Tuesday, not knowingly, although with my gaydar, it was certainly possible. But I didn’t hate them, or think they were weird or gross or immoral or going to hell.

“Why does anyone care whether or not you guys get married?” I asked.

“The straights are threatened,” Aud said.

“I just don’t see why. What does it matter to someone like me?”

“It’s all about the children.” Aud stared at the roof, her short hair sticking to the seat back, her features dark in the dim light. “We’re corrupting them. They might grow up to be homos.”

“And that will be the end of the world,” I said.

“Exactly.”

“There’s not enough of us to really be heard,” Mary said. “Only if the straights get involved can we make anything happen.”

Aud shook her head. “It’s not a cause many straights think about.”

“I never did before Tuesday,’ I said.

Aud said, “I bet the girlfriend of that ass crack could be the poster child for Vagisil.”

Nikki laughed. “I bet her snatch would make your fingers stink for three days.”

“You should always sniff first,” Aud said.

I stared out the windshield, my face burning with Bradford right beside me.

Nikki tapped me on the shoulder again. “You getting’ all this, half-homo?”

“I don’t think it’s ever going to come up.” I didn’t look back, afraid to even glance at Bradford in passing. I’d have preferred to disappear all together.

“Not by the looks of things at Rainbow,” Nikki said. “Two-snatch Sammy would have loved to get all up in your business.”

“And that could have been some nasty snatch,” Aud said.

I covered my ears with my hands.

“Awww, look, we’re traumatizing her again,” Nikki said. “You want to know why she’s called Two-Snatch?”

I shook my head for no.

“Good. Supposedly it’s because she has some birth defect that makes her have two of everything in her plumbing.”

“Wow,” Bella said. “Poor thing.”

“Yeah, double the douche,” Nikki said. “Which she doesn’t. But we really started calling her Two-Snatch after she doubled up with Ming and Shanna that time.”

“She did a threesome with those two?” Mary asked.

“You betcha,” Nikki said. “So Zest, if you want on the fast-track, she’s your woman.”

This was too much. “I don’t think she’s going to want to see me again,” I said.

“Ha,” Nikki said. “From the spectator’s box—”

I groaned. This was not to be borne.

Nikki chuckled. “From the spectator’s box, it looked like she could be convinced.”

I stole the quickest glance at Bradford. He concentrated on the road ahead, his fingers gripping the steering wheel with both hands. I knew I had no chance with him anyway, obviously, being gay, but still, I liked to preserve what little dignity I had. I pictured him in the kitchen once again, looking at the image of my mom, and telling me he loved my crazy hair.

He was the only person in the world who knew my worst secret.

Chapter 19: The Ghost of Bitches Past

Bradford let me out in front of Dad’s house. Aud crawled out of the back to take my place.

The last few bugs to survive autumn circled the porch light as he led me to the door.

I wanted to make everything right somehow. “I’m really sorry this night turned out so rough. It was great of you to come all this way just to make me feel better.”

He ran his fingers through his hair, inadvertently spiking a section out of place. “The girls are nothing if not loyal. You’re a part of us now.”

I shook my head. “I don’t know how that happened.”

“It’s a good thing.”

The lamp lit him from the side, a gentle glow that accentuated the hard edge of his jaw, the perfectly shaped sideburns. “It is, it is.”

He touched two fingers to his lips as though he knew I couldn’t stop starting at them. Then he brushed their tips against my mouth. As close to a kiss as I’d probably get. “Good night, Zest. Get rest. We’ll see you in the morning.”

“Okay.”

His retreating figure was lean and elegant. I saw a flash of the girls’ faces in the light when he opened his door. They all waved.

Back inside, I tiptoed through the house to my old room. Dad had left a note on my bed. “I’ll be gone by the time you get up. Have a great time in Cali. Bradford seems like a good kid.”

I laid back on the bed and touched my lips. Every image in my head was Bradford. Smiling. Frowning. Looking at my wedding picture. Drying my hands with a towel. Just when I didn’t think life could get any more ridiculous, I might have started falling in love with a gay man in a way I’d never felt about my husband.

My phone buzzed on the bedside table. I hadn’t taken it with me all day.

I flipped it open. I had twelve text messages and two voice mails. Good grief.

Both the voice mails were Fern. I told the girls where you were. I got the idea something went wrong last night. Let me know how you are.

Just hearing her voice made my anger rise up. Why had she gone after Cade? She always thought he was nothing, ugly, pointless, beneath her. When the second message began, I’m getting a little worried…I cut it off and deleted it.

That left the text messages. All were from Cade.

What the hell? I flung myself back against the pillows to read them.

They started out friendly.

You doing okay?

Have friends with you?

Are you getting taken care of?

The first thing to hit me is that he’d spelled everything out. He always used proper text protocol—as few letters as possible. It bespoke of premeditation. And desperate measures. He didn’t want to write me, and yet he’d slowly, painfully, typed each word anyway. I didn’t truly believe he cared that much. But maybe Fern had ditched him. Maybe he was really upset.

I read through the others.

It’s weird to not know where you are.

Yeah, even weirder to think you were banging my friend.

I hope you aren’t holing up by yourself somewhere.

Yeah, whatever. You’re the one who’s been in Fern’s hole.

The messages began to get more urgent, frenetic, and back to texting style.

Can I call u?

Z, can u answer?

R u that mad? Do u hate me now?

I almost flung the phone at that one. Of course!

Then we started getting to the real crux of the matter.

Is Fern with u?

I tried calling Fern. Will u?

Just let me know u r ok. Or Fern.

Is Fern ok? Do u know?

I dropped the phone on the bed. If I hadn’t already figured it out, I would have now. Fern. Oh. That son of a bitch. Had they talked? Did they think I knew? Had that set him over the edge?

I glanced over the messages again. No, it seemed he wasn’t getting her either, and he wanted to know from me where she was. That was rich. Really rich. He was probably worried about his nonexistent baby. That Fern was hormonal or something, and not banging her boss, or Elevator Boy, or that rock star from speed dating.

How had I married someone so stupid? Fern, pregnant. How ridiculous.

I tried to stop myself, but I did it anyway. Just one short text.

Rot in hell, lover boy.

Chapter 20: All Hallow’s Evil

I rolled over on my bed of plastic seats, my iPod still playing Shostakovich to block out the sounds of the airport. I tried to settle back down, but the chaos around me was building, busy travelers pushing through the terminals. Time to get up.

I had been too keyed up at Dad’s to go to sleep, so I just packed everything and headed to Austin. I prayed my lights and all would be okay in the trunk of my car over the weekend, and walked into the airport at 4 a.m., sprawling out to try and sleep a little before the plane took off.

The giant clock overhead read 8:35. Plenty of time to spruce up my appearance before I met the Hoebags at the terminal. I slipped the straps of my duffle and camera bag off my ankles, where I’d entwined them for safe keeping while I slept.

The bathroom mirror confirmed the worst: I was officially a mop-head. They could start a video series with me alone: Tresses Gone Wild. Extreme Makeover: Einstein Hair Edition. The Good, the Bad, and the Fugly. Mom’s voice almost came at me, but I shook her away. “Stop it. Bradford likes it.”

But still, I had to do something. I dug out a bottle of conditioner, remembering how Fern—oh that bitch, Fern—had sleeked my ponytail before the game. Hopefully this would at least make me presentable.

A tall, extraordinarily well proportioned Indian woman in a sapphire blue dress entered the bathroom. She didn’t have any trouble with her perfect hair, I noticed as she entered a stall. I tugged and pulled at the kinked-up mass, trying to work the thick cream through it all. After a painful struggle, half my hair was tame, the other half flying straight from my head. This was why I had never cared before, just letting it do its thing.

The toilet flushed and the woman walked up, stopping short when she saw the comb jammed against my scalp.

“You’re going at it all wrong.”

Without a word of introduction, she lifted my hands away and took over the job.

“You’ve got to go at it lightly, like you’re plucking a harp.” She chuckled. “You were digging in there like somebody pulling weeds.”

She turned me to the mirror. Our two faces, hers brown and mine pinkish-white, glowed in the bright light. “Now watch what I do. Start with the outer layer, and pick slowly through it.” She flipped a smooth section across the top of my head. “Then move it out of the way and do the next.”

I vaguely recalled various hairdressers doing this now, the few times I’d bothered to get a trim. My hair grew at the rate of fossilization.

She picked up the bottle. “Get you some good stuff. And always get it all the way through.” She squeezed it on her hand and worked it through the inner layers of my hair. “Didn’t your mama teach you how to fix your hair? You’re a grown woman.”

“My mother is dead.”

“Ahhh. Learning your hair on your own, that’s a hard life.”

She inched around, expertly smoothing out the back, then handed me the comb. “Now you do this last bit. For practice.”

I took the comb and lightly picked through the outer edge of my hair, then flipped it over.

She washed her hands. “My work here is done. Goodbye now!”

I watched her go, the shiny dress winking blue as she passed each overhead light. Her own hair bobbed, floating ethereally on the ends.

I turned back to my reflection and started tackling the rest. There did, at least, seem some hope.

My phone buzzed again. I kept my hands on my hair, peeking into my bag where the display lay face up. Cade again with a text. Good grief.

I sensed his desperation this time. Did Fern ever call?

I set down the comb and rapidly typed a message back. On a job. Go away.

Maybe I should have mentioned the eight lesbians.

***

Nine-o-three a.m. and not a single God-forsaken television in the whole airport was showing Ellen. The televisions loomed far above my head, and the seats were all bolted down, so I couldn’t move one to switch the channel.

Desperate times called for desperate measures. I carefully moved away from the hawk-eyed vision of any flight attendants. I could almost hear the Mission Impossible theme as I waited for passengers to bulk up around the desk at Gate 22, obscuring their view of me.

Nine-o-six. I had to act now or miss the entire opening monologue. Hopefully she had an extra-long dance this morning.

I set my camera bag on the nearest chair, glancing around to see if any thief-looking characters stood nearby. Then I rushed a garbage can, turned it neatly at an angle, and rolled it along its bottom edge to rest below the television.

A pilot walked by, dragging his rolling bag. I leaned against the trash can, saluting him. He didn’t notice me.

When he had passed, I put one knee on the lid, testing its strength. Then I saw it. A security guard eyeing my bag. Unattended luggage.

I rushed the bag, rubbing my hands together as if I’d just thrown something sticky away. “Those Cinnabuns. Whew!” I said, sliding my arm through my strap. “That frosting gets everywhere!”

He watched me for a moment. I unzipped the bag, pulled out my telephone, and dialed Domino’s pizza. When their voice mail kicked on, I said, “Hey mom! I’ll be getting on my plane in a few minutes! I can’t wait to see you!”

Ohhh, why had I invoked my mom? I watched the man from the corner of my eye. “I know. We’re going to have a great time. Don’t worry about your hair. We can stop by the salon. Maybe I’ll get mine done too! We could be the Bobsey twins!”

The security guard moved on. I relaxed against the seat. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a custodian rolling the trash can back to its spot. Curses. “Bye, mom,” I said and snapped the phone shut. That would be quite a recording for the staff to find when they arrived.

No Ellen for me. I collapsed on a chair. The agony of defeat. CNN showed a lengthy bit on the election. Obama was up eleven points in the polls. Twenty points for women voters. McCain didn’t have a chance. No one had really paid much attention to him anyway, once his running mate stole the spotlight. I watched for any mention of Prop 8, but the program switched to a financial show.

Behind me, a roar of voices had everyone at the gates turning to look. I had a funny feeling I knew who it was.

The cacophony grew louder, and suddenly, shrieking above it, I heard, “It’s Zest!”

I sucked in a great breath and turned around.

Holy crap. Nikki lead the crew, dressed as a swashbuckling pirate. I’d completely forgotten in was Halloween. She held a rubber sword and rushed forward, poking me in the chest until it bent. “Hail, my hearty! What’s this? The wench is without a costume!”

Bella caught up to her in a black dress wrapped with a red-fringed shawl. She too, wore an eye patch. “That will never do, me matey!”

Nikki turned to her. “That will never do? What kind of pirate wench talk is that?”

Bella narrowed her eyes. “Take care, ye scalliwag, or I’ll pour me mug of grog right o’er your fine head!” She turned back to me. “It’s so good to see you again, Zest.” She hugged me fiercely.

The rest of the Hoebags bunched up behind. Aud and Audrey both wore solid black with slicked-back hair beneath French berets. “The beauty marks are a nice touch,” I said over Bella’s shoulder.

Audrey held up her long cigarette holder. “We artistes know that true beauty lies solely in our work.”

Bella released me, and Jenna elbowed her way forward. She was covered in Obama buttons and stickers, and had campaign signs taped to her back. Even little Butch was in attendance, bearing a harness and a red vinyl cape that said, “Service Dog.”

I bent to pet him. “How did you get him through security?”

Jenna held up an official-looking paper. “My aunt used to have a Hearing Dog. I copied her paperwork.”

“You’re bad.”

“I can’t go without Butch! They were going to put him below the plane in a kennel!”

I shook my head.

Mary stepped forward. She looked exactly like Jenna, only all her swag was for McCain and Palin. She frowned at me. “We can’t let Zest go without costume. We even made Blitz dress up.”

“That was no picnic,” said Nikki.

“Where is she?” I asked.

They moved aside to reveal the last couple. Blitz wore a big orange apron that read, “Home Depot.”  Krieg had on a gray jumpsuit with a big gray cap and an inexplicable long silver twist of foil coming out the top. Her dreadlocks were pulled into a tight bundle at the back.

“I’m a power tool,” she said quickly.

“Yeah,” said Nikki. “I didn’t get it either.”

“So what should we do about Zest?” Bella asked.

“We’ll fix her up,” Nikki said. “Everyone donate one item to the cause.”

Bella tugged away a scarf lined with jingling bells and wrapped it around my waist.

I watched them with chagrin. “Oh, ladies, really, it isn’t necessary.”

“Oh yes it is,” Jenna said, dropping two strands of beads with Obama pins fastened to them around my neck.

“I brought extra foil in case my drill got bent,” Krieg offered.

“Perfect,” Mary said. “We’ll make a crown.” She took the silver sheet and began folding it.

Still no sign of Bradford. I couldn’t wait to see him and prayed he wouldn’t be in costume either.

“Is Bradford dressing up?” I asked, hoping, of course, for salvation. Mary pressed the crown to my head.

But then I saw him, striding through the concourse. He wore a black pin-striped Zoot suit and a dashing felt hat. Bystanders stopped to stare at him as he passed, walking jauntily along, acting the part. My heart clenched. He was beautiful.

The women backed away, as if to clear a path for him to me.

A long gold chain swung against his leg as he strode forward. His hands were gloved, the hat slung low, obscuring his eyes. As he approached, he nodded at me. “Good to see you again.”

He hadn’t shaved that morning, completing the look. He was so handsome, so breathtakingly perfect, that my throat closed up.

Nikki nudged me. “She means to say hello,” she said.

I nudged back. “Hello, Bradford.”

We stood there, looking at each other, me feeling ridiculous in beads, spangles, and a foil crown, until Blitz grunted. “Time to find our gate, Hoebags. Our plan is boarding in fifteen minutes.”

“After you,” Bradford said.

As we walked beside each other to the gate, my pulse wouldn’t slow down, even when I told it to, my stupid, gaydarless hammering heart.

Chapter 21: Party on the Plane

Nikki stood a few rows from the back of the economy section and hoisted her beer can in the air. “How many lesbians does it take to screw in a light bulb?” she called out.

I leaned toward Aud. I was sitting by her and Audrey on the three-seat side of the plane. Blitz and Krieg were opposite us. Bradford sat directly in front with Mary and Jenna, although I couldn’t see them for the seat backs. Nikki and Bella were opposite them.

“Man, they’re going to kick us off the plane,” I said.

“Bad jokes are probably prohibited by federal law,” Aud said.

“Hoebags!” Nikki called, even louder. “Do I need to commandeer the speaker system?”

I settled down further in my seat, not wanting to know who was watching.

“So,” Nikki went on. “How many lesbians does it take to screw in a light bulb?”

A chorus answered, “Four!”

Nikki laughed. “That’s right! One to change the light bulb.”

She pointed at Bella, who also stood leaning against the window, her head cocked beneath the overhead compartment. “The second to organize the potluck,” Bella said.

“Good job!” The finger moved to seat in front of us.

Jenna said, “The third to write a moving folk song.”

She chose Audrey next. I wondered if the tiny girl could even project. “The fourth to make an interpretive dance!” she called out. Aud squeezed her hand.

“Or start a drum circle,” Nikki said. A couple pillows sailed through the air, smacking into her.

Bella tossed them back. “That’s a lame joke, Nikki, even for you.”

“Ha! I’m always funny!” Nikki rummaged around in a bag. “And I come bearing gifts!” She tossed a book over the seat into my lap. “This is for your lesbian edification.”

I flipped it over. Odd Girl Out by Ann Bannon. A 50s-style woman’s face dominated the cover, and a smaller naked girl kneeled in the background, clutching a pillow.

“It’s a classic. Read it and weep.”

A flight attendant walked up the aisle. “You ladies settled in yet?”

“She means you, Nikki,” Blitz said. “Settle in.”

“You chicks are no fun!” Nikki said, but she turned and sat in her seat.

I tucked the book into my bag, too antsy to read. The foil crown was yanking my hair, so I pulled it off. I couldn’t really see anything in front of me, especially Bradford, but I spied his hand and wrist when he reached up to adjust the air vent.

The flight attendants went through their safety spiel. I squirmed a bit to settle down in the cushion, almost wishing I was sitting away from the rest so I could sleep. The night on the plastic chairs in the airport, specifically designed, it seemed, to discourage people from sleeping, had not allowed for much rest.

Audrey put on a headset to watch the in-flight movie, Baby Mama.

“She’s way into Tina Fey,” Aud said.

I nodded. “Her rendition of Sarah Palin on Saturday Night Live gave me faith in comedy again.”

“I’m sick of that vice presidential hellspawn. I’ll be glad when this race is over.”

“Everyone’s sick of Palin,” I said. “There wasn’t anything on CNN on Prop 8 this morning. What is the latest?”

“Still down four points. The ploy to ban us will fail. Gay marriage has been legal in California for six months. It’s practically an industry for them. They won’t squash a major source of destination tourism.” She pushed the button on the arm rest and pushed her seat back a little.

“So they’ll keep it for a money reason, not a moral one.”

“All the morals are on the side to ban it. All the logic goes to ‘no.’”

“Are you feeling better about the wedding now that it’s so close?” I remembered the pictures. Fern had gone to great measures to be near Aud again.

She closed her eyes. “I’m allowed cold feet. I never thought I’d be doing this, once I figured out I was gay.”

“But you are.”

She glanced at Audrey, rapt into the movie. “She’s worth it. Even if she is hot for Tina Fey.”

The seat belt sign clicked off, and Bradford’s head poked over the back. He looked so young and disarming, his eyes peeking over the blue seat that I was momentarily stunned, imaging a small boy version of him, with his crystal eyes and a mop of black hair. “You ready for this, Zest?”

My heart skittered. “I’m a little anxious about the venue and how the ceremony will go.”

“Let’s powwow,” he said. “Jenna, will you switch with Zest for a bit, so she can talk to Mary and me about the wedding?”

Jenna popped up, holding fast to Butch. “Sure.”

I unbuckled and tried to stand, forgetting my camera bag strap was on my ankle. As soon as I took a step, I unceremoniously fell into Aud’s lap.

“Sorry,” I mumbled.

“Girls are always falling onto my cooter.”

I disentangled myself and eased out. Bradford was all the way next to the window, and I felt a jolt of disappointment to see Mary beside him, reading a book, a white cloth pressed to her forehead. She’d be between me and Bradford.

“Why don’t you two switch,” he suggested. “I want to show Zest some shots I found of Bella’s dress.”

Mary looked up, revealing her face. Her skin was extraordinarily glossy, like she was encased in plastic. She caught me staring and touched her cheeks. “Bradford’s giving me a cleansing mask,” she said. “I’ll peel it off in two hours.”

“On the plane?”

“Want one?” he asked. “It’s easy to apply.”

“No, no,” I said, then thought about him applying it, his hands against my face. “Well, maybe.” I turned back to Mary, whose face looked like a flesh-colored Mylar balloon. On second thought, maybe I didn’t want him seeing me that way.

Mary moved down, and I slipped beside Bradford. His arm lay along the seat rest, and as I settled in, my bare skin connected with his hand. I felt annoyed with myself at the jolt. Why did I have to be attracted to a gay man?

I could see each sharp bit of stubble across his cheeks and chin. I tried not to stare at his lips again, but we were so close it seemed possible if I leaned forward just as he turned his head, we would—

“Here’s the shot,” Bradford said, sliding a magazine cut out from leather portfolio. “See how the light falls just so on the gown?”

He waited, without a hint of self-consciousness, for me to force myself to look down at the image.

“It’s unusual lighting,” I said, willing myself to focus. “I doubt we could pull it off in the hall unless we’re really lucky with windows. Does she want me to do a solo bridal portrait there?”

He shook his head. “I think only shots of the couples, although if you see a good image, take it. We’re not going to be traditional, as you might have guessed, in keeping the couples segregated before the ceremony. Mary has rented a big limo that can carry us all there.”

“Will you and I also ride in it?”

“Oh yes, it’s quite large.” Mary rubbed her fingers along her jaw, where the mask ended. “We’ll let you in last and out first for shots.”

We went over the order of the ceremony, the individual vows, and the basics of the reception. Another softball team, the Peppermint Patties, would also attend the wedding as witnesses. The two teams would play a game Sunday morning before we headed back to Texas.

“That’s about it,” Bradford said, closing his leather folio and resting his head against the seat.

“I guess I should switch back with Jenna,” I said.

He held his arm out in front of me. “Nay.”

“Nay?” I smothered a laugh.

“Nay, fair damsel! Do not deny me the beauty of your smile!”

All this with his eyes still closed.

“But what will the Lord of the castle say, pray tell, m’lord, if we are found out?”

“Hell if I know.” He laughed.

“Homos!” Nikki stood again. She glanced at me. “And half-homos. We need to liven up the joint! Is everyone drinking?”

“Not for six bucks a beer,” Blitz grumbled.

“I’ll buy!” Nikki said, repeatedly pushing the flight attendant call button. “Fetch me a serving wench!”

Bella tugged Nikki back into her seat. “It’s not our turn yet. She’s coming.”

“Is there an eject button on the plane?” I muttered.

Bradford chuckled. “For us or for her?”

I felt a little brazen. No harm in flirting with the unattainable. “Do we get to go together?”

“If that’s the way you want it.”

“Then for us.”

He smiled, practically a thermonuclear event at this proximity, and I wanted to hit something, especially Cade, who popped into my thoughts unbidden. This is why girls like gay men, I realized yet again. No wonder it’s a cliché. No pain, no problem. The easy flirt. The safe way to feel special.

Maybe that’s why I was doing it.

The flight attendant arrived. “Hooray!” Nikki said. “Beer for everyone. Whatever’s cheap.”

“It’s all the same price,” the woman said. She seemed unfazed.

“Don’t create an airline incident,” Krieg said. “We got grounded on a plane once due to an unruly passenger.”

“I’m not unruly!” Nikki said. “Ten beers.” She pulled a wad of cash from her pocket. “Thank you.”

The flight attendant walked away without anyone designating the brand. Whatever she had ten of, I guessed, glad there hadn’t been a scene. With our position in the back of the plane, I really couldn’t see anyone in front of us, regular passengers who might be reacting.

Nikki twisted around in her seat. “Time for more gay jokes. Anyone, anyone?”

When no one answered, she said, “All right. It’s all on me then. What’s the difference between a lesbian and a Ritz cracker?”

“Nikki!” several people chorused. “Don’t do it!”

“Okay, okay, I’ll whisper the answer. She stopped at the end of our aisle, cupping her hands around her mouth. “One’s a snack cracker, and the other’s a crack snacker.”

I pinched my lips tightly, almost laughing despite myself.

“Gotta love Nikki,” Bradford said.

“How do you know all these women anyway?” I asked him.

“A couple of my friends play on the league. They asked me to sponsor their team.”

“You sponsor the Hoebags?” I asked. “I didn’t see a salon name on their shirts.”

“I’m a silent benefactor,” he said.

Nikki heard him. “He doesn’t want everyone to know he pays off the Hoebags,” she said. “Might ruin his sterling reputation.”

“I have to watch my associations,” he said.

“You got that right.” Nikki waved at the flight attendant, who trundled the cart down the aisle. “Whoo hoo! It’s Miller time!”

She snatched the beers off the top of the cart, much to the attendant’s chagrin, tossing them across the seats. “Heads up, Hoebags!” she called.

“Airplane surfing!” She flung herself across our laps. Her elbow apparently found a tender spot, because Bradford let out an elongated, “Oooof.”

“Sorry dude,” Nikki said, rolling on her back to gaze up at him. “I’d give you a blow job to make it all better, but I’m not very well practiced.”

His face had turned pink. “I’ll pass,” he said. “But you can get up now.”

“Spoilsports,” she said, wiggling her way backwards.

Aud leaned over the top of our seats. “Riding cooter?” she asked.

Nikki looked up at her. “Don’t you know it! Straight cooter no less!”

“That’s the best kind.”

I glanced at the movie screen. Baby Mama still played, so presumably Audrey was still engrossed. But these couples seemed fine with sexual entendres between friends. I’d have diced a woman into chopped beef if she’d talked that way to my husband. Not that anyone had. Other than my…best friend.

Everything had to come back to Cade. I wondered, for a moment, what he was doing. He had no idea I was on a plane to California to shoot a mass lesbian elopement, flirting with a gay man, and drinking, ugh, Miller Light.

I wondered if he’d gotten in touch with Fern. She’d been so, well, busy (I flashed with an image of her boss in chains), that she had to have been ignoring him. He probably didn’t require a lot of attention, poor guy. She only had so long, though, before he’d know she wasn’t pregnant.

I’d probably be hearing from him when THAT happened. I might should speed up the divorce.

I popped the top of the beer and downed it in one long swallow. Nikki, who had shoved up the armrest so she could face the aisle, saluted me. “Now THAT’S what I’m talking about.” She raised her beer in the air. “To our photographer—an equal-opportunity public snogger, penis lover, heteroflex and image-snapper extraordinaire, who knows how to PARTY!”

Everyone held up their beers. I clinked my empty one against the others. Just a week ago I could never have imagined women like this would be my best—and pretty much only—friends.

I turned to Bradford and whispered, “Can you explain to me what a heteroflex actually is? Nikki’s called me that twice now.”

He grinned. “Heteroflexible means you’re primarily straight, but you’re willing to be, well, flexible on that.”

“Flexible meaning that I will sometimes be with a girl?”

“If the mood strikes.”

I leaned my head back against the seat and crunched my empty beer can. “I’m something I didn’t know existed.”

“Not a bad thing.”

“And cooter is—”

“The part you have that I don’t.”

“That’s what I thought.”

Bradford cocked one of his half-smiles. “Glad we can talk about these things.” He handed me his beer. “It might be a long flight,” he said. “I’m more of a wine guy.”

I opened it gratefully. The last thing I needed was for Bradford to figure out that a silly flip of a homeless photographer was falling for him a mere six days after her husband filed for divorce. I’d never actually felt this giddy before. Cade had been a long slow agonizing decision, a mutual agreement after we realized we’d missed our chance to easily meet other people in college.

In fact, I remembered his exact words. “It’s you and me or singles bars.”

The height of romance, that Cade.

But no one else had made it even that close. EPT-stick man, who introduced me to Fern, wasn’t anything special. And my lone boyfriend in high school was more a way to ditch my virginity than an affair of the heart.

And now there was Bradford, completely inappropriate, out of my league even if he liked women, which he didn’t. For him to know what was going on in my clueless head would be far more humiliation than I could bear, even in a week like this one.

But as he grinned down at me, relaxed, his head resting against the plaid cushion, I had a feeling he could already tell.

Chapter 22: Signs, Signs, Everywhere Are Signs

Everybody, well, other than Bradford, had their buzz on by the time we landed. I sloshed through the terminal, trying not to bang my camera bag as I walked. Some professional I was turning out to be. But the women were singing and hugging, and I was right in the middle of it.

“We’re naming you an honorary lesbian,” Bella said, her arm around my neck. We stumbled to the baggage claim.

Nikki rushed past us, shouting, “She’s already halfway there!” Then she sprinted ahead.

“I think she’s going to jump on the conveyor,” Bella said. “Let me go fetch her.”

Bradford neatly intercepted Nikki first, steering her away from the carousel, which still trundled a random bag or two from the previous flight. He pushed her onto a plastic chair and said, “Stay.”

Bella and I burst into giggles. “Stay, Nikki, be a good girl!” Bella said. “Where’s Butch? He can show you!”

Bradford turned to me. “And you, be careful with your equipment. We want it—and our photographer—in one piece tomorrow.” He took the bag from me before it banged against a pole. “Let’s get this more secure.”

I sank into a chair next to Nikki. “Thanks. You’re a peach.”

He tried not to smile, but failed. “Such a southern girl.”

Bradford dropped my camera bag in my lap, sobering. “Don’t let go. Got it?”

“Got it.”

He stood by the conveyor where the light was already beginning to flash.

“How is he going to know which ones are ours?” I asked Nikki.

“He marked them all, probably. He’s organized like that.”

The bags began appearing and Bradford stood in front, snatching bags as they came out. The other passengers began moving forward, obscuring our view.

“I’ve got to see this,” I said, sliding the strap of my bag over my shoulder. The searing light of the terminal was already beginning to sober me up.

I snuck up behind him, trying to find the common denominator on the bags. It wasn’t hard to spot. Each one sported a bit of white lace and a red tag that read “Not just a bag, a Hoebag.” Since I had checked in early, mine wasn’t marked. But he still lifted it from the belt as it passed by.

“How did you do that?” I asked.

“I’m observant,” he said. “Part of my trade.”

“But when?”

“Your dad’s house. I tripped over it, actually, in the bathroom.”

He slung the duffle easily over his shoulder. “You just hang on to the important one—the camera.” He waved the women over and got out of the way, towing a pearlized pink Pierre Cardin behind him.

Nikki grabbed her bag and Bella’s. “Oh, Bradford. Your bag! It’s so gay!”

He shook his head. “It’s from the salon. All the makeup for you ladies.”

Nikki laughed. “That is the gayest thing I’ve ever seen!”

“Well,” Bradford admonished. “If certain ladies hadn’t kept me out all night, I’d have repacked it into something more manly.”

Why did he care if he looked gay? Did he try to hide it, usually? I remembered the moment I first saw him, his arm draped around another man. Did he have a boyfriend? He always seemed to pop up places alone. I couldn’t bear to ask.

Mary snatched her bag. “The van’s waiting! Let’s go!”

We stepped out into San Diego, my first visit to California. Palm trees where everywhere, as if the city wanted to present the stereotype immediately upon a visitor’s arrival.

The Hoebags loaded into the huge red van, everyone animated now, watching out the windows. We drove along the upper part of a bay, the water extending forever. “The ocean,” Bella breathed. “I can’t wait to get in it. When are we going?”

“Sunday, after the game,” Mary said. “We’ll have time before our flight.”

“I say we go skinny dipping tonight,” Nikki said.

“Nobody wants to see you naked,” Blitz said. “Least of all me.”

“You’re just jealous,” Nikki said. She pushed her chest up beneath her pirate vest. “I got me some double D action.”

Blitz grunted.

“So Zest, you going to photograph us skinny dipping?” Nikki asked.

I glanced at Bradford, who shook his head. I hugged my camera bag closer to me. “You going to get arrested the night before your wedding?”

“Lame!” Nikki said. “I knew it!”

“I’m all for it,” I said. “But if you get busted, I’ll claim I never saw you before in my life.”

“Ha, we’re all from Texas,” she said. “No one will believe you. Like Peter trying to deny Jesus.”

“Leave Jesus out of this,” Mary said. “We’re coming up on downtown.”

“Where are we staying?” Bella asked.

“In Old Town,” Mary answered. “It’s really close to a lot of shopping, restaurants, and the historic district. We can walk to all of it.”

“Is the wedding hall close by?” I asked.

“Yes, in fact, I’ll ask the driver to pass by it on the way so you can see.”

Mary moved to the front of the van. The palm trees would make for stunning shots all on their own, easy contrast against a white sky. I would have the most amazing wedding album I’d ever done.

Mary returned. “He’s turning that way now. It’s a couple exits before Old Town,”

We drove down a smallish street. “It’s coming up, I think,” she said. “I’ve only been here once before. It’s called Brownstone.”

“That’s it!” Jenna said. “I see the sign.”

We approached a long stone wall with an arch. Outside of it, quite a few people were milling around, setting up tables, and painting signs.

“Must be something happening here tonight,” Mary said. “But we have it free and clear in the morning.”

“It looks nice,” Audrey said.

Neither Bradford nor I talked, both assessing the location as we idled by. I could see lots of green grass, some wrought iron chairs, a few trees. All good for portraits outdoors if the inside was too dark or cluttered. I sat back. “I can work with that.”

“It looks good,” Bradford said. “Only Bella is wearing heels, but we’ll keep her off the grass if it’s soft.”

“True,” I said. I’d seen more than one bride sink into a lawn, muddying up her shoe or losing it all together.

“The hotel’s coming up,” Mary said. “I’ll jump in ahead and make sure all the rooms are in order.” She checked her watch.  “Don’t forget to fall back two hours. We’re arriving well after check in time, but you never know.”

As the van approached the front, we spotted a line of people waving signs and marching in a circle.

Blitz smacked her fist against the window. “Can you read that?”

I leaned forward, peering at the lettering. One said, “Marriage is sacred.” Another showed a symbol of two women holding hands with a line through it.

“Is that for us?” Bella asked.

“Surely not,” Mary said.

“Prop 8 is crazy here,” Nikki said. “That’s why we’re trying to get in before the election.”

I pulled my camera from my bag and laid the lens against the window. The van was waiting in line to access the front walk. I snapped a series of shots.

“You shooting this?” Bella asked.

I nodded. “Good documentary stuff.”

“I don’t like the look of it,” Bradford said. “I say let’s find another place.” He pulled out his phone.

“Hopefully they’ll let us out of our reservations,” Mary said. “Surely.”

Branford tapped madly on the screen. “I’ll handle it.”

The driver swerved out of the line of cars and headed back down the street. “There’s scads of hotels around here,” Mary said. “He’ll find one.”

“One that isn’t swarming with wingnuts,” Blitz said.

***

The new hotel was set back from the highway, a sprawling yellow stucco with four separate buildings. The Hoebags got rooms on the ground floor, with mine and Bradford’s above.

“That’ll help you poor saps who aren’t in on the love action get some sleep,” Nikki said as we separated.

I’d no more gotten my Halloween trinkets off and begun arranging my equipment in a day pack when someone pounded on the door.

“Surprise!” Nikki said. “We’re kidnapping you. It’s time for some fun!”

I groaned. “Not another gay bar. Please, Nikki.”

“Just sightseeing. Come on! What else you going to do, sit up here and watch television?” She tugged me by the hand. “Besides, Bradford’s coming!”

Good Lord. Everyone knew.

“Okay okay.” I pulled my arm away. “Let me get my camera.”

***

We walked along streets lined with small shops catering to tourists and into the historic district. Everyone in our group had changed out of their costumes, switching to jeans, although many of the people around us were in full Halloween regalia.

“That’s six Sarah Palins we’ve passed now,” Krieg moaned. “Does everyone with an updo and glasses think they can pull that look off?”

Butch had given up her guide dog status and trotted along with us. Despite my anxiety that I would be dragged to another gay bar, I didn’t see how we could do anything terrible with a pet in tow.

“Ohhh! Look! There’s a haunted house ahead!” Jenna exclaimed.

“I’m not big on those places where things jump out at you,” Bella said. Nikki wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

“No, it’s a REAL haunted house.” Jenna opened her guide book. “The Whaley House is considered to be the most haunted house in America.”

Bella gripped Nikki’s hand. “What happened there?”

“Yeah, what?” Nikki asked. “Stabbing? Hanging? Murders? Mass murders?”

Bella grimaced. “Nikki, please.”

Jenna stopped. “It says here it all started with a hanging.”

“Everything good starts with a hanging.” Nikki peered over Jenna’s shoulder at the book.

“The heavy footfalls of Yankee Jim Robinson are regularly heard in the house.”

“Awesome.” Nikki said. “Let’s go!”

I shrugged. “I’m game.”

Jenna tucked the book in her bag, and we turned the corner. A line had formed outside the red brick building. “Oh, look!” Jenna said, pointing to a sign. “On Halloween they have ghost tours until midnight!”

Bella stopped cold. “No way.”

Nikki pulled her forward. “Oh, come on. It’s not real.”

Bella walked in short, mincing steps, eyes wide. “I believe in ghosts.”

“Then they’ll appreciate your support.” Nikki waved to the Audreys, who had fallen behind. “Come on, Hoebags! We’re putting our scare on.”

We waited our turn, watching groups enter the old house. Bella grew more anxious as we paid for our tickets.

Bradford stood beside me, casual in jeans and his rolled-up button-down. I pretended for a moment that we were on a date, waiting among strangers for our turn for a Halloween scare, him expecting me to clutch his arm. Sigh.

“You all ready?” A lanky twenty-something guide approached us and counted our group. “You’ve got enough for your own tour.”

The guide led us up the front stairs. He spoke in a low and rather silly voice. “Listen carefully for the footsteps of Yankee Jim,” he said, crouching. “Look for Mr. or Mrs. Whaley in the parlor or the courtroom.” He nodded knowingly at our group. “And you, with your camera—”

My head snapped up. Me?

“—Try to capture them on film. Many before have done it.”

He led us into a hallway filled with images of ghosts taken inside the house.

“So watcha think, Zest? Can you get one?” Nikki asked. Bella stared at the images, her hand in a fist by her cheek.

I shook my head. “This one here,” I pointed to a series of glowing orbs before a grand four-poster bed. “Is called lens flare. A reflection from their own flash, most likely, or light from the window or off a mirror.”

I studied the others. “These big white smears can be a smudge deliberately placed on the lens. Or it could be someone breathed on their lens just before taking the image.”

A young Japanese tourist stepped up. “Will that work, really?”

“Sure,” I said. “Try it.”

He breathed on the lens and snapped a quick shot of me. “Wow!” He turned the LCD around. “A ghost!” I had a film of haze before my face. “Awesome, thank you, thank you very much! My friends back home will think I saw a real ghost!”

I moved closer to Bella. “Feeling better?” She nodded.

“Well, that’s enough here,” the guide said, shooting me a “don’t ruin my tour” look.

We followed him into a child’s bedroom. Butch began growling, low and menacing. Jenna had placed the “Guide Dog” harness back on him so she could bring him inside.

We all tensed a little as Butch began backing toward the door.

“The dog senses a presence,” the guide said, clearly pleased. “Everyone close your eyes, let the child who sometimes haunts these walls into your consciousness.”

Butch began to whine, so Jenna scooped him up and went back into the hall.

“I’m with Butch,” Bella said, and she also left.

This would be a fun memory to capture, I realized. I assessed the room, the child’s wooden bed, toys on the parquet floor. The sun wasn’t coming in directly through the window at this hour, so I couldn’t rely on flare. I shrugged. I’d just have to fake it. I licked my finger and ran it across the filter that protected my lens, creating a streak. Then I aimed my camera at the rocking chair, tilting it so that the streak would appear to be something sitting there.

I snapped the shot and checked it. Not quite visible enough. I killed my flash and tried the image again. This time, with the darker background, the side light made the smudge more obvious. Perfect.

“I saw you do that,” Bradford said. “Show me what you got.”

“Oh, I’ll show you what I got.”

Holy shit. Did I just say that?

Bradford cocked his head. “Did I hear you right? Did you just flirt with me?”

My face flamed. “I think I’ve been around these girls too much!”

He laughed lightly. “It’s okay. I’m harmless.”

My shoulders sagged. Of course he was. I turned the camera LCD to him. “Got the ghost.”

He held it close, his fingers cradling the black metal. “Very nice.” He looked over the camera at me. “Also very nice.”

Had he just flirted back?

I’d have to ask Nikki if there was such thing as homoflexible.

Chapter 23: Hottiefication

We ate dinner at the first place that listed margaritas in their window. The light was going gray as we piled down the steps and back into Old Town. More costumes had come out, tourists snapping like crazy.

“Let’s go this way!” Nikki said, steering us across a busy intersection. I had no idea where we were in relation to the hotel anymore. Bradford and I tended to hang back a bit from the group, letting them have their pre-nuptial honeymoon space.

Besides, he might flirt again.

Nikki paused in front of a nondescript door, the windows from its former business incarnation blacked out and painted with silver sparkles. “I’ve heard about this place,” she said. “Let’s check it out.”

I looked at the signs for bands posted by the entrance with suspicion. “What’s this place called?”

“I dunno,” Nikki said. “Let’s go!” She opened the painted glass door to a blast of rock music.

Something about the gleam in her eye made me cautious. I backed away until I stepped onto the street, so I could see the main sign. A giant pair of neon lips sported a single red-tipped finger as if it were saying. “Shh.” Next to it flashed the words, “On the Box.”

I had no idea what that meant. “Can someone translate?”

“Dancing!” Nikki chirped. “You know, like dancing on a box. It’s a dance club.”

We stepped inside the dimly lit interior, bright spotlights circling everywhere. I blinked to adjust. The first thing I saw were two women in very little shiny vinyl holding trays of drinks.

“Ooo la la!” Nikki called out over the noise. “Come on Bella, let’s go make out.”

There were, indeed, dancing boxes throughout the club, lit with pulsating neon. There were no men whatsoever.

I turned around, smashing into Bradford. “Can’t do it. Not again.”

He grasped my arm. “I don’t blame you. I’ll take you back.”

We ducked out the door and into the evening. Fatigue was setting in hard. “I don’t want to spoil your fun,” I said. “Just point me in the general direction of the hotel and I will get there. I drove back last night, like you guys. I’m beat.”

“I’ll walk you. I don’t really want to stay there either.”

We fell in step. Twenty-somethings in strange, sexy costumes hurried by, all seeming to have somewhere urgent to go. A girl in a French maid outfit, boobs overflowing the lace neckline, with white thigh stockings and platform heels sauntered straight for us, tickling Bradford under the chin as she passed between us. He didn’t even acknowledge her.

I totally didn’t get him. He dressed really well to be straight. But that was a stereotype, right? Boys could care about their clothes. Straight boys.

He owned a salon. He could be an entrepreneur.

All his friends seemed to be gay, although what did I know, really. Fern had flat out said he was gay, admonishing me for throwing myself at him. Had I? I didn’t think so. But she was obviously not to be trusted. Who knew what motivated her at this point. Anger flared up again, and I stuffed it down.

Maybe I had been wrong, steered the gay direction by Fern. Oh, how I wished I didn’t have the gaydar of a Frisbee.

Bradford touched my back lightly as he led me across an intersection. He did everything so smoothly. It was really, truly, irrelevant whether he was gay or straight. For someone like me, he was unattainable. The sooner I got that firm in my head, the sooner I’d quit making a fool of myself.

Besides, I was still married.

“Nearly there,” he said. The yellow stucco hotel filled most of the block.

My reluctance to leave him grew as we climbed the steps to our building. “So, are you familiar with San Diego? Being from California and all?”

He nodded, holding the door to the hallway open. “When I lived in LA, I used to go to trade shows here. Still do, sometimes. Cosmetics. Hair products.”

“Any bad memories?” We were approaching our doors.

He paused and leaned against the wall. A reprieve. “A few. But they’re behind me.”

“2004?”

“Around then.”

Right. When gay marriages ended. I wondered how much I could pry. “Because of the scene.”

He laughed gently. “Back to that, are we?”

“I could use a change of scene myself,” I said. I walked over to a window to the view of a line of palm trees. “Not a bad one here.”

He stood beside me. “How long were you married?”

“Five years.”

I leaned my head against the cool glass. It felt calming. “I actually sort of figured something like this would happen. I was always surprised anyone would pick me.”

“Why is that?”

I turned to him. “I’m not exactly attractive. Mom was clear on that from as early as I could understand words.” I held out a chunk of my crazy hair, whipped into a frenzy from the walk, the conditioner all dried out. “And I don’t exactly have the best attitude.”

He tweaked the lock of hair. “The hair can be fixed.”

“But the attitude goes straight to the bone.”

He smoothed my hair against my head, a gesture so much like my father’s that I had to close my eyes a moment, willing my heart to still. Who was this man?

He touched my nose, and I opened my eyes. “We’ll start with the hair.”

***

I sat in his bathroom, a white towel pinned around my neck, and felt I had to warn him. “I’ve tried all this before, you know. Straighteners, relaxers, conditioners.”

He forced my chin up, painting some foul-smelling product onto my hair. “Not with me.”

I watched him in the mirror, all concentration and skill. “Did you always want to do hair? Own a salon?”

“No. I did undergrad in chemical engineering, actually. Quit with two semesters to go.”

“What happened?”

“The overbearing father died.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I hardly knew the man. He never married my mom, just gave me money for college with the stipulation of how I should use it.”

“I hate that.”

“I wanted to reject it, but mom worked hard and still didn’t have much. Even my grandmother pushed me to take it. So I did. I signed up for as little engineering as possible and racked up a bazillion frivolous electives.”

He tilted my head. My scalp buzzed from the chemicals.

“Did you ever finish?”

“Yes, I was so close that I went ahead and got a quick business degree. Used it to help me set up shop while I did cosmetology. I rented a space and hired people before I could do any of the hands-on work myself. Dad left a little money that got me going.”

“I thought my husband was going to help me until I got my business started.”

He turned my chin toward him. “You’ll do it anyway. You’re obviously good enough. People will see that.” He combed the chemicals through. “You’re going to be straight in about fifteen minutes.”

I ignored the obvious and skipped the joke. “You really think you’re going to take the kink out?”

“Without a doubt.”

“I’ve always hated it.”

“Because of mom.”

I thought of the boots, the picture, and the moment I had broken down in Dad’s kitchen. “Yeah.”

“Well, if changing the hair helps, then we’ll change the hair.” Our eyes met in the mirror. “But don’t let the things your mom said keep going through your head.”

How did he know about that?

“I heard my dad for years, how I would never be anything but an effeminate loser.”

“You’re not effeminate at all!”

He combed through my hair again, flattening it down. “Depends on who you ask. Time to rinse and neutralize.”

I sat on the floor, leaning my head over the edge of the tub as he attached a nozzle to the faucet and began to rinse. His hands were practiced as he swept the warm water away from my forehead despite the awkward position.

At last he shut it off. “Time for the finish.”

I never even attempted blow drying my hair, and the one time with Fern had been painful and long. I stared at the pinstripe of his shirt as he worked the round brush. “You have healthy hair, you know,” he said over the noise. “It took the relaxer well.”

He shut off the power. “And now for the cliché moment to beat all makeover clichés.”

He moved away from where he had blocked my view of the mirror. I had to peer at myself. It was the same old face, no makeup, a bit blotchy, but transformed by the perfect hair. The color had shifted slightly with the chemicals, edging on red, smooth from my scalp to where it curved against my shoulder.

“It’s—it’s beautiful.”

He stood behind me, nipping a few strands with small scissors. “I agree.”

“Thank you.” He stood above me still, assessing the ends. I tugged on his shirt, which was untucked now, as casual as I’d ever seen him. “I mean it.”

He looked down, as if noticing me finally. I couldn’t take my eyes off his lips—always the lips!—and I could see he had focused on mine too. He bent down and I closed my eyes, so glad I was wrong, that Fern had lied, and this boy was not gay at all, just very metro, just cutting edge liberal, tolerant, and—

Not kissing me. He held a bit of hair to his nose. “The smell will get strong again the next time you wash it, but it’ll fade quickly. We’ll get you the proper shampoo.”

I swallowed hard. Had he seen me close my eyes? Had he known?

I flooded with humiliation. “Right. Because goodness knows I don’t have a clue about good hair.”

I jumped from the chair. This was not to be borne. “I really really appreciate what you did. Now I don’t have to see mom every morning when I brush my teeth.” I tugged the towel away. “You were right, you are great!”

I hurried across the room for my camera and bag. “Big day tomorrow! Must rest!”

He leaned against the counter, wiping the comb on a towel, amused, apparently, at my sudden restlessness. Or laughing at me, maybe, that I’d thought he would kiss me.

“Good night!” I beelined for the door, but just as I turned the knob, someone pounded on it. I jumped away.

“Hey half-homo! You in there? With The Brad? Doing something I wouldn’t do?”

I flung open the door. “Hello, Nikki.”

She took a step back. “Look at that! You’re getting hotti-fied!”

I grasped my camera strap, preparing to push past her. “I think it would take a little more than hair straightening to achieve that.”

“It’s all about the attitude, girl. All in the walk. But get your camera, half-homo-hottie, we’re going skinny dipping.”

I headed out into the hall. “Oh no. I’m not photographing anybody naked. That requires copying your drivers’ license, getting a release—”

Bella waited out in the hall with the others. “Nobody’s getting naked. But the beach fires are very pretty.”

“Nobody wants to see Nikki naked,” Blitz grumbled.

Jenna laughed. “That’s because everyone already has!”

Nikki stuck her head back into Bradford’s doorway. “Penis-boy. You coming with?”

I clutched my bag tighter. I didn’t even know what I wanted. Him to come or not to come.

He picked up a light jacket. “Somebody has to keep you girls out of trouble.”

Chapter 24: By the Light of Nikki’s Silvery Moon

The girls held hands as they walked along the beach at La Jolla. Big concrete fire circles were filled with wood, the red blazes dotting the sand as far as I could see.

I set up my tripod and let the girls drift away. I snapped shots of the dim horizon and their bodies in silhouette. The bonfires tinted the images red-gold and I set my color correction manually so it wouldn’t shift the tones back to gray. If I stayed focused on my job, like I should have been from the get-go, I would get by just fine.

“I hope this is a good idea.” Bradford kicked at the sand with his bare feet, sending a spray across a piece of driftwood. God, he was still around. I had hoped he would walk ahead with the others to let me bury my shame in peace, but he’d stuck by my side.

I could be friendly. I just had to work at it. “It’s making for lovely images.” I switched the camera to preview mode. “Come see.”

He leaned in close. He smelled of salt and expensive beauty products. His hair had started to curl in the humidity. My snark melted away again. He really was so beautiful.

“Nice. I like how they disappear into the night.”

I pulled away, flipping the camera off. Keep talking, Zest, just be normal. “I’m guessing those protestors would like them to. I’ve been meaning to ask if you figured out what happened at the hotel?”

He stuck his hands in his pockets, drawing a line in the sand with his toe. “I don’t think it was a coincidence, but the manager wouldn’t talk when I canceled the reservations. Just said they were paying guests and weren’t causing a disturbance.”

“Missing out on six hotel rooms wasn’t a disturbance to him?”

“He’s a sympathizer for them. Just as well we didn’t stay.” He ran his hand through his hair. He was self-conscious about the curls. I wanted to tease him, but stifled the urge. There was no wrong look for him.

I picked up the tripod. “I’m going to follow the girls, see what else I can get.”

“You’re earning your money,” he said. His face flickered in the firelight, strained and unhappy.

I couldn’t help it. I cared. I set the tripod back into the sand. “You okay?”

He snapped his head up. “Yes, yes, of course. I’m just worried about tomorrow. I steered us around a lot of protests earlier. Signs on every other block. I don’t think the girls noticed. I’m hoping to protect them, give them a happy day.”

The wind picked up, tossing my newly straightened hair all around, and I turned to let the breeze blow it out of my face. The women were very distant now, tiny figures lined up against the shore. The occasional hyper dot of the Pomeranian zipped in and out of the water.

I slipped the camera off the tripod and looped the strap over my shoulder. Bradford slid the three legs together and lifted it. “We should chaperone,” he said. “No telling what that Nikki will do.”

“The others will keep her in line,” I said. “That seems to be how they work.”

“Sometimes that girl will not be denied her exhibitionism.”

We walked silently along the sand, the waves lapping the shore. At the next fire pit, a couple college kids passed a bottle back and forth. One of them played a guitar, plaintively singing some love song I vaguely knew.

I stole a quick glance at Bradford. He wasn’t looking at me, but the guitar player, the orange light burnishing the boy’s young face and intense expression. My heart ached. But the singer was beautiful too, really, and I snapped a quick shot. I could see what Bradford would admire in him. The pretty people should stick together.

A piercing shriek was followed by a splash. Bradford and I took off down the sand. I paused after a few yards to yank off my shoes, hugging them to my chest as we ran.

Bradford, despite the tripod, pulled way ahead. I stumbled after him, trying not to think of what we might find when we got there.

Seven of the women stood on the shore, laughing or covering their eyes, or both. A line of clothing lay in the sand, along with footprints leading into the water. I thought briefly of the old Christian “Footprints in the Sand” poem. My mom had a worn copy, curling at the edges, tucked into the corner of her bathroom mirror. I suddenly wondered what had happened to it, if my father had removed it after the funeral. And if she had found solace in it in the end.

The wind whipped harder now, and my eyes burned. I made a quick accounting of who was on the shore and realized that Nikki was missing.

“Do we need to go in after her?” I asked.

“I’m not going anywhere near a naked Nikki,” Blitz said. “She can drown.”

“Is she okay?” I asked.

“She’s fine,” Bradford said, shielding his eyes with his hand as if that would help him see in the dark. “I just got a glimpse of her.”

I stared out into the waves, some of them lightly white capping. I was still feeling tension about her nighttime swim when her dark head popped out of the water and she waved. Bradford turned and set the tripod back up on the beach. “You better capture this.”

He cupped his hands around his mouth. “The cops are coming!”

Her hands flew into the air, and she bobbed under for a moment, then resurfaced. I snapped the camera back on the tripod, realizing the shot would be nigh to impossible, but setting it up anyway. I slowed the shutter as much as I dared, turned the ISO rating to maximum and the aperture as stopped down as it would go, and waited.

Sure enough, she surfaced once more, then dove down, her broad pale backside gleaming in the feeble sliver of moonlight, iridescent as a fish, as wide as a sail. I took the shot.

Chapter 25: Here Come the Brides

“I can’t believe I’m in a pink limo,” said Blitz, hanging tightly to Krieg’s hand. “Mary, you are going to pay for this.”

Mary sat close to Jenna, the flowing fabric of their matching white silk pantsuits intermingling. “I thought it would be cute,” she said. “You know, just us girls, getting married, our childhood dream.”

Blitz scowled out the window, shrugging as though uncomfortable in her flowing black pants and white peasant shirt. I eased the camera up slowly, so as not to attract attention, and fired six shots in rapid succession. The light clicks of the shutter were scarcely audible.

I tilted the camera down to see the last image. Blitz stared out the darkened window, stormy as always, and Krieg’s hand lay on her shoulder, her engagement ring a dazzle of gold. Perfect.

“At least we don’t have a U-haul behind us,” Nikki said, reaching for Bella’s hand. I snapped the shot of their entwined fingers, which lay on the beadwork of Bella’s traditional white dress. With the cuff of Nikki’s black jacket edging into the image, it could have been any wedding photograph.

I’d had enough talk of U-hauls. “Okay, what’s up with the U-haul references?” I asked. “Is it about getting hitched?”

The women burst out laughing, even Blitz. “It’s an old joke,” said Nikki. She nudged Bella. “You tell it.”

Bella beamed, her round face bright and happy beneath her tiara and veil. “What does a lesbian bring on a second date?”

“A U-haul?” I asked. “I don’t get it.”

More laughs.

“We tend to shack up quickly,” Mary said. “It’s a stereotype.”

“Because it’s true!” Nikki said. “Look at us! Getting married like a bunch of heteros.”

“What does a lesbian bring on a third date?” Bella asked.

“I’m sure I have no idea,” I said.

“A turkey baster!”

“A turkey…Oh.” Heat rushed to my face. “But where do you get the—” I turned to Bradford, who was madly sewing seed pearls to the back of one of Bella’s gloves.

“Don’t look at me!” he said. “I’m happy to let the girls be well hung.”

“The girls?” I stopped. I had no desire to know what he meant, envisioning contraptions made of leather.

Nikki wiggled her fingers. “Small hands. Not well hung.”

Bella squeezed her arm. “You’re fine by me.”

“Zest doesn’t get it,” Nikki said. “So, what do you call a lesbian with long fingernails?’

I had no idea. I shrugged.

“Single!” Nikki laughed as my face burned even hotter. “So, what do you call a lesbian with long fingers?”

“Well hung,” I said.

“She CAN be taught!” Nikki broke into solitary applause.

The women were anxious and jittery, sitting in a line along the plush silver seat that ran down one side of the limo, curving along the back. Across from us lay a long line of cabinets and carpeted walls with built in stereo speakers. Jenna sat in the front with Butch on her lap, a white veil flowing from his gold sparkly collar. Aud and Audrey’s matching red satin dresses stood out like gems.

Blitz grunted. “Hoebags, you might want to look at this.”

We all leaned toward the window as the lino parked along the curb in front of the Brownstone.

“Oh my God,” Mary said.

“Is that the minister?” Jenna asked.

“I think so,” Mary answered. “Oh, God.”

I slid to the floor between our seats and lifted my camera to the window. It wasn’t easy to shoot through the darkened glass, but no way would we roll the window down.

A man in a black suit stood on a ladder with a megaphone. We couldn’t hear what he was shouting, but a crowd of thirty bystanders was obviously chanting with him. On their signs read messages like, “Sinners repent your homosexual ways.” And “God can save your souls.” The minister himself had a sign around his neck with symbols of a man and a woman holding hands.

“I can’t believe it,” Mary said.

Nikki’s face had turned scarlet. “Mary…why is there a preacher leading a Prop 8 rally at our wedding site?”

“Who did you call?” Aud asked. “1-800-Bash-a-Queer?”

Mary clutched her bouquet to her chest, a few white petals dropping to her lap. “I called the Episcopalian Diocese.”

“Never trust an Episcopalian!” Nikki said.

“I’m an Episcopalian!” Mary shouted.

“And look what happened when we trusted you!” Nikki shot back.

“I didn’t think the California Episcopalians would be wingnuts!”

“Slow down,” Jenna said. “What happened when you called?”

“They said they were pretty booked, that this was a big weekend, and I had to leave a number. I got another call last week.”

Jenna squeezed Mary’s arm. “Did they say anything strange?”

“Well, the minister—his name is Reverend Haverty—had an assistant. Her name was Monica.”

“Cut to it,” Nikki said.

Mary frowned at her. “She seemed very eager to talk to me. Asked how many ceremonies. Where we were coming from. It all seemed very normal, and she was so excited.”

The crowd had noticed the limo and the chants grew louder as they turned and directed them at us, moving closer.

“Nothing else?” Nikki asked.

“When I talked to him, I did think it was strange he didn’t want to know about our vows. I just assumed he thought we’d bring them. But the Episcopalian ceremony can vary a lot.”

“Of course he didn’t want the vows,” Blitz growled. “He never intended on letting us have them.”

Mary pressed the heel of her hand against her forehead. “I should have been careful. I knew Episcopalians were divided on this. He got hold of our information somehow.”

“Oh, they did all right.” Nikki tapped on the glass. “And now they have us right where they want us.”

The minister was still on his ladder, shouting through the megaphone. Now that it was aimed right at us, we could make out words, including, “repent” and “sinners.”

I recognized a sign from the hotel the night before and glanced over at Bradford. His face was grim and when our eyes met, I could see that he was making the connection too.

The driver rolled down the glass partition between compartments. His leathered brown face was tight with concern. “Should I let you all out?” he asked.

“No!” shouted Bella.

“We have to!” Nikki said. “We can’t let them stop our wedding!”

“How can we get married if our minister is against us?” Mary asked.

Two women surged forward and pressed their signs against the window. “Protect marriage,” one said. “Love means family,” said another.

“Like hell I’m going to put up with this!” said Blitz, and before we could stop her, she had flung the door open, knocking the protestors back, and hurtled out.

“You get ‘em, Blitz!” Krieg screamed, stumbling in her flowy pants as she fell out of the limo.

Nikki scrambled out next, then turned back to me. “Looks like you’re going to get more than you bargained for.”

I had a split second to decide to part with my mega camera bag, which held my back up camera and extra lenses, as well as the tripod. I ripped the smaller inset bag, with spare cards and batteries, out of it, slinging it over my arm as I leapt out the door and took off after Blitz, Krieg, and Nikki.

Blitz was no small woman at five-ten and a good two hundred pounds, mostly muscle. She already had her hands on the ladder, glaring up at the minister as if deciding whether to shake him off it or carry the whole lot and dump it in the bay. I knelt in the grass, madly shooting frame after frame, the sunlight pouring from behind his head, leaving his purple bellowing face in shadow.

He pointed his megaphone down at her and shouted, “Sinners, behold the hour of your judgment!”

At that, Blitz gave the ladder a mighty push. The protestors scattered as it began to tilt. At the last second, the man jumped off and the metal frame crashed to the ground.

“Oh good God,” Mary said, rushing up and grabbing Blitz by the arm. “We’re going to get arrested.”

Krieg grabbed Mary’s hand and flung it away, wrapping herself around Blitz. “You do whatever you think is right.”

The minister had gathered the crowd around him. “Let’s pray! Pray for the souls of the wayward sinners. Let them see the healing light of Jesus, our Lord and Master, may he enter their hearts and souls, and save them from the fiery pit of hell!”

The men and women began to kneel, some clasping their hands to their chests or foreheads, laying their signs on the ground. A chorus of “Praise, Jesus,” and “Hear our prayer,” started softly, then grew into a chant.

I zoomed in on their faces, on Blitz, standing stiff and angry, surrounded by the white silk of Krieg’s flowing sleeves. Then Mary, off to one side, red-faced and crying. The others must have remained behind me, but I didn’t take my eye away from the camera to see, scooting forward, still low to the ground, trying to remain unobtrusive.

Mary strode forward. She still held her bouquet, the ribbons loose. It must have begun unraveling in the scuffle with Blitz and Krieg. She stopped before the minister, then flung the flowers at his face.

“Shut up! Shut up all of you!” she shouted to the crowd, who began to quiet. She pointed to the minister. “How can you call yourselves Christian?” she said. “How can you claim to followers of Christ when you sit here in a position of judgment?”

The minister held out a hand, and a white-haired woman passed him a Bible. He opened it to a place marked with a red ribbon. I snapped a quick shot of the open book cradled in his knotted arthritic fingers.

He raised one hand into the air. “Leviticus 18, verse 22! Do not practice homosexuality! It is a detestable sin.”

Blitz snorted. “I had a feeling he was going to pull that one out.”

“Back up three verses, Leviticus 18, verse 19,” Mary said, her voice practically a snarl.

The minister’s face bloomed red. “Leviticus is very clear on the matter of aberrant sexuality! Incest! Adultery! Bestiality!”

Mary crossed her arms across her chest. “Verse 19. Do not have sexual relations with a woman during her period of menstrual impurity.”

“Aberrant sexuality!”

“You really believe that?” Mary shouted now. “That having sex with your wife on the rag is a sin?”

The minister closed the Bible and held it to the sky. “Pray with me!”

Mary grabbed him by the collar. “I will not pray with you. The word homosexuality didn’t even exist when Leviticus was written. Or Corinthians. Or Timothy, or any of the other clobber passages you might have marked in your book, our book, my book too.”

The Bible wavered at the end of his arm. “DEAR HEAVENLY FATHER!”

Mary twisted the collar in her grip. “I do believe, reverend, that we talk to the same heavenly father. And I also believe that Jesus, if we love the same Jesus, healed lepers and blessed the outcasts. That he told us to love the Samaritans and didn’t even judge a woman who was guilty of adultery. I don’t think when he names us children of God, he starts excluding people on the basis of anything other than the greatest commandment.”

She pulled him closer, her pale flushed face staring up into his blustery mottled one. “Love the Lord Your God with all your heart, with all your soul and all your mind. Luke 10:27. You know what comes next, reverend?”

Nikki walked up, loosened Mary’s fingers from the minister’s shirt. “I still remember that one from Sunday school a billion years ago,” she said quietly. “Love your neighbor as yourself.”

I stopped snapping frames as everyone silenced. A pair of birds swooped overhead, in and out, bumping into each other then flying apart, back and forth in a strange manic dance. Mary began to shake, then sob, and Bradford stepped forward to pull her into his arms. “That’s enough,” he said. “We’ve made our point here.”

The women shuffled slowly back to the limo. Bella, Jenna, and the Audreys stood outside the open door and slipped back in first.

I continued to photograph the crowd, then the women as they reentered the car. The protestors were huddled together, discussing something fervently. When Bradford motioned to me from inside the limo, I ran forward. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw four people also dash to their cars. I didn’t like the look of it.

“They may follow us,” I said, lunging inside. “Keep an eye out.”

We all leaned toward the windows as the limo pulled away from the curve. “Where should I go?” the driver asked. “I am not used to this.”

“Just go,” Mary said. “We’ll figure out where in a moment.”

“We can’t hesitate,” I said. Three cars were already pulling out, and a news van was coming up the street. Had they called the freaking news? They were clearly going to follow. “Too late. Don’t go to the hotel.”

“What’s the opposite of ‘follow that car?’” Nikki said. She walked, hunched over, across the compartment, and sat next to the driver’s window. “Can you lose them?”

“I can try!” He took off his cap, revealing a wild tuft of gray hair.

“I bet you’ve seen some crazy things in this job,” Nikki said.

“Actually, this is my first day,” he said.

And we careened around a corner.

Chapter 26: Road Rally

Bella let out a scream as we crunched over a median, did an ungraceful 180, and sped down the road going the other direction. We all slid into each other, flowers flying, limbs askew in white silk and taffeta. I gripped my camera.

“Oh my God, this is nuts,” Jenna said. “I don’t know whether to laugh or cry or hit something.”

“Hit Mary,” Nikki said. “She got us into this.”

Mary’s eyes were red, her makeup smeared. “How was I supposed to know this was a set up?”

“Ladies,” Bradford said. “Divided, they conquer. Let’s figure out what to do next.”

Audrey turned in her seat to peer out the back window. “Bogies at six o’clock,” she said. “They’re limo-magnets.”

“We’re not exactly hard to spot,” Nikki said.

Blitz pounded her hand on the glass. “Fucking pink limo.”

“I don’t think any limo would exactly disappear in traffic,” Jenna said.

The driver rapped on the partition. “Should I get on freeway? I can lose them.”

“Whatever works,” Bradford muttered. “I don’t want them figuring out where we’re staying.”

“You got it,” the man said. He gunned it, rapidly changing lanes to fly up the ramp. This time we all hung on to our seats, trying to avoid smashing into each other.

“Did they make it on?” Mary asked.

“Not sure,” Audrey said. “I don’t think the black Honda did, but there was another one, something blue.”

We weaved through traffic, gripping the cushions and door handles grimly, as if starring in our own movie and handling our own stunts.

We passed signs for Mission Bay, the water appearing and disappearing as we raced down the highway. We were driving away from our hotel, without a destination, and I certainly had no suggestions about what to do next. I could barely process what all had just happened.

I flipped backward through the images on the LCD. The protesters chanting. The limo exit. The minister shaking his fist. The flowers smashing into his face. Mary crying. The ladder tipping. Blitz, red and angry. A blood red sign reading, “Marriage is sacred.”

Then into the past, last night—ocean water, fire rings, and a line of silhouettes, figures stretching out across the dark. Only as the scenes flashed by could I begin to process them, as though they hadn’t really happened until I lived through them this second time. I set the camera in my lap, remembering the pictures in the house of me and Cade, of my parents, and realized, suddenly, for the first time, far too late, that there weren’t any pictures of me and my husband from this last year, just sample shots in the studio, set designs, all photographs designed to help my business grow.

How much of my life did I live in the moment? How much did I only assess after the fact? I thumbed through the images, faster this time, and saw how quickly something wonderful can turn tragic. I shut off the LCD. I couldn’t bear it.

The women were all intent on the windows, straining to see if we were being followed.

“I think that news van is for us,” Jenna said, her fingers splayed on the glass.

The limo changed lanes and zipped forward. The news van kept pace.

“Are they filming us?” Nikki asked. “Does that one guy have a camera?”

Mary turned back to her seat, resting her head in her hands. “This is awful.”

Krieg’s dreadlocks were silhouetted against the glare outside her window. “I think we got two more behind us,” she said. “We gotta shake these crazies.”

The driver punched the gas again, swerving through lanes and at the last minute flying off an exit ramp.

“Did they get off?” Jenna asked.

“I don’t think so,” Kreig said.

We screeched through an intersection, running a red light, and turned down a street lined with hotels.

“We’ve definitely lost them for the moment,” Jenna said. “We’re the only ones on this street.”

Everyone visibly relaxed, smoothing skirts and checking bouquets. Mary wiped beneath her eyes. “I’ll fix that in a bit,” Bradford said.

Krieg continued her vigil out the back window. “Might be the news van turning onto the road,” she said. “I think he exited and circled around. Still pretty far back.”

Everyone turned back to the windows, their faces grim. “Where the hell can we blend in with a pink limo?” Nikki asked. “A car wash? Something we can hide behind?”

As we passed an enormous hotel, we all saw it at the same time. So did the driver, and instantly crossed three lanes to bump over the curb and into the parking lot.

Full of pink cars.

We drove along the rows, line after line of pale pink Cadillacs. As we got further back, the types of cars became more varied, SUVs and even a pick up truck—all still pink. On the back wall by a fence, we found four other pink limos. “Hey, those are ours,” the limo driver said. “We got a fleet of pink ones.”

“What is this?” Nikki asked. “A Pepto Bismol explosion?”

“It’s that cosmetic company. Anna Visigmilla,” Bella said.

“Did you say Vagisil?” Nikki asked.

Bella punched her arm. “No. Visigmilla.”

“I don’t wear Vagisil on my face,” Nikki said.

“Oh Nikki,” Bella said. “They must be having some sort of consultant gathering. The big wigs, looks like. You have to get people under you to earn a pink car.”

“They have people under them?” Nikki asked. “I’d like to get a gander at THAT.”

The ladies broke into wan smiles.

“The news van is slowing down!” Krieg said. “Park this sucker!”

The driver rolled the car into the line of other limos and killed the engine.

“Did it pass?” Jenna asked.

“It passed,” Krieg said.

Everyone sighed.

“So what do we do now?” Nikki asked.

Bradford kneeled on the floor before the line of brides, holding his cell phone in his palm. “We can try to find a JP.”

“Won’t happen,” Mary said. “The courthouse is closed and everyone was booked. I had the worst time trying to find the guy we got.”

The dresses rustled lightly as the women shifted around.

Bella leaned forward. “I hate to bring this up, but I really have to pee.”

“Hold it,” Blitz said.

Bella frowned, sending a concerned look at Nikki. “I’ll try.”

“Not necessary,” Nikki said. “We’ll walk in there like we own the place.”

I looked out at the hotel. It was a short sprint to a set of side doors. “We can make it in,” I said. “Plus, there might be a bar.”

Everyone murmured in agreement on that one. The driver hopped out and opened the door. We filed out of the limo and hurried across the pavement, not stopping until we were safely inside the carpeted hallway by the meeting rooms.

The place was an explosion of pink. Balloons, streamers, glossy pamphlets and folders. A line of rose-colored badges lay spread out on a wide table. But the corridor was otherwise empty. We could faintly hear a speaker talking over a sound system in the grand ballroom.

“There’s the bathroom ahead,” Nikki said. “Let’s go.” She glanced at Jenna, still clutching Butch. “Don’t get caught with that dog, or they’ll throw us out.”

As if on cue, a perfectly coiffed and suited woman emerged through a door. She saw us and hurried forward. “You’re here! I was so worried.”

She held out a hand and grasped Bella’s. “The dress is lovely. You didn’t have to do that! But it will make the experience even better for the women as they practice bridal looks. And for prom.” She nodded at the two Audreys in their red dresses and turned to Krieg. “Your skin tone is excellent for our new line.” She tugged both women forward. “We must hurry. Everyone’s been waiting!” She ignored the dog, who fortunately had the good sense not to bark at her.

Nikki grabbed Bella’s other hand and yanked her back. “Where are you going with my girl?”

Bella stood suspended between the two women, Nikki in her black tux, and the woman in her pink wool.

“I think there’s been a mix up,” Bella said.

“Oh no, we’ve been waiting for you!” The woman let Bella go and pushed the ballroom doors open wide. Inside rows and rows of women listened to another pink-bedecked speaker up on a platform.

“And look who’s here!” the speaker called, gesturing to all of us. “Our models, here for their makeovers.”

The women turned in their chairs as the speaker continued. “We have many looks to practice today. I can’t wait to see how they turn out.”

Several other pink-suited women circled our group and pressed us forward.

“I don’t THINK so!” Blitz turned and barreled back out the door, almost bulldozing the Vasigmilla reps in her way.

“Blitz! Wait!” Krieg followed quickly. I looked around at the others.

“Stop!” the first woman shouted. “We have to do your new looks!”

Nikki put her fingers in her mouth and let out a tremendous whistle. “Run!”

The brides took off down the hallway, following Blitz and Krieg. I stayed to the back, watching the Vasigmillas, who looked around quizzically. The speaker shouted into the microphone, “Somebody, get them back in here! We’re already off schedule!”

The pink ladies gave chase. I couldn’t believe it. I jerked the cap off my lens, shooting madly as the brides sailed down the long corridor. Bradford waited beside me. “This is the most bizarre thing ever,” he said.

Behind us, a thundering sound alerted us that more of the women had gotten out of their chairs to see what was happening. I turned for a moment and caught a glimpse of the undulating wave of rose-colored dresses coming toward us.

I took off in a dead sprint and Bradford followed suit,  passing through the high-heeled Vasigmillas and moving in on the brides. “The bathroom!” Nikki said and we burst through the doors, Bradford included, cramming into the long narrow room and flipping the lock.

“WHAT THE HELL HAVE YOU GOTTEN US INTO NOW!” Blitz bellowed. Her hair was in total disarray, sticking to her sweating scalp. Krieg clasped her in a hard bear hug.

“I didn’t get us into THIS!” Mary said.

Bella slipped into a stall. “Don’t listen to me pee!” she said. Nikki turned on a water faucet. Voices murmured outside the door.

“Now we’re really stuck,” Jenna said. “We’re in a hotel bathroom.”

“Nope,” Aud said. “When you have to barricade the door, somebody always opens a window.” She looked up.

About six feet off the ground was a high, wide window with a sliding glass. Aud rolled the trash can underneath it and hiked her scarlet satin skirt, revealing a long pale leg. I snapped the shot, her low-heeled sandal poised on the edge of the metal cover.

“That’s not going to hold your weight, Hoebag,” Nikki said.

“I’m not a diesel dyke like you,” Aud shot back.

“Snap!” Nikki said, smiling. “I’m not the one looking like a hooker on her wedding day.”

“Carpet muncher.”

“Boob skank.”

“Skeezer.”

Bella smacked open the door of her stall with a bang. “Stop it!”

Aud scrambled up the trash can. “Lucky it’s one of these blow hole types, so there’s room for our feet.”

“I’m not even going to touch that one,” Nikki said.

“It always comes back to whales,” Jenna said.

They lost me at blow hole, but the trash can did have a very narrow opening, which made it easier to stand on. Aud opened the latch on the window, slid it open, and heaved herself up to sit on the ledge. She peered out. “The ground is actually high on the other side. It won’t be hard to hop down.” She swung her legs through.

Audrey began scrambling up next, struggling to manage the long skirt.

“This is a crock of shit,” Blitz said.

“You’re the one who bolted,” Nikki said.

“I was the one who had to pee,” Bella said.

Aud helped Audrey through the window and they both disappeared outside.

“I guess I’m next,” Mary said. “At least we’re in pants.”

“How will I get out with Butch?” Jenna asked.

“Pass him up to me once I make it,” Mary said.

“I don’t think I can get up there,” Bella said.

Krieg watched Mary haul herself up, then shook her head. “You know, I think I’m just going to walk out of here. They can’t exactly mascara us to death.”

She unlatched the door. “See you on the other side.”

The hallway was empty again. The Vasigmillas had moved on. Mary hopped off the trash can. “Let’s go then.”

We slinked down the corridor, heading for the exit closest to the limo, all of us praying that no doors would open.

The sunshine blasted as we burst through the doors and into the parking lot. Aud and Audrey had circled the building and were standing puzzled before the line of limos, trying to remember which one was ours.

We caught up with them. “It’s the first one,” Nikki said.

“No,” Bella said. “I’m pretty sure we were second.”

“Good fucking grief,” Blitz said. She banged on the windows of each limo. None of them had drivers.

“Where did they all go?”

“I see them,” Krieg said. “They’re all smoking behind a tree.”

Mary dashed over to them to find our driver. I watched the street, expecting a news van to cruise by at any moment.

And right on cue, it appeared. “Oh, shit, ladies! Get behind a car!” I shouted.

They all turned, horrified, to the entrance. The van slowed, the window rolling down. The parking lot was vast, so maybe they hadn’t seen us. We clamored to the back side of the limos.

“Shit, shit, shit, it’s turning in,” Jenna said.

Mary dragged our driver behind her. “Get us out of here, now!”

He dropped his cigarette on the asphalt and opened the door. “I’ll close up,” Bradford said. “Just get in there and get us moving.”

We piled into the back, a jumble of satin and taffeta. Butch, who had been calm and quiet during the hotel excursion, started a low growl. Jenna petted her gently, murmuring quietly by her fluffy ear.

The limo eased away from the curb, idling down the row of pink Caddies.

Nikki walked, bent over, toward the front. “Take your time,” she said to the driver. “Don’t do anything sudden.”

“We should have swiped a Vagisil bumper sticker,” Audrey said.

“Surely they didn’t see us,” Aud said. “The parking lot is huge.”

“If we could see them, they could see us,” Krieg said.

The van moved slowly along the next row, a crew member hanging out the passenger window. We approached them, driving in the opposite direction, toward the exit, and everyone held their breath as we moved side by side, separated only by a meager row of pink cars.

The man watched us pass, elbowing his driver. He pointed at the line of limos, then at us, seeming to argue about something. Then he gestured to speed up.

“He knows it’s us!” Krieg cried. “Hit it!”

I watched from a side window. The man in the news van opened his cell phone and dialed. I didn’t like the look of it.

Our driver stomped the gas, flying out onto the street without looking. Cars bleated at us as we careened in front of them, but nobody hit us. I could faintly hear him mutter, “Just like James Bond,” as he raced down the road.

“Where should we go?” Nikki asked. “Who knows this town?”

Bradford shifted forward. “I do. But I don’t think we should go back to the hotel just yet. Maybe head to Pacific Beach, get him to drop us somewhere and leave so we can regroup.”

“Yeah, without the lipstick Nazis,” Blitz said.

Krieg rubbed her arm. “Nobody’s going to make you over.”

Blitz grunted. “Like they could.”

A buzzing sound overhead silenced everyone. We stared up at the roof of the limo as if we had x-ray vision.

“That isn’t what I think it is,” Nikki said.

She pressed her cheek against the glass. “Fuckin’ a. It’s a news helicopter.”

“Try two,” Kreig said, staring out the back. “I think our fifteen minutes of fame are about to begin.”

We stopped at a red light and the driver looked back at us. “What should I do?”

“This is only going to get worse,” Bradford said. “Let me figure out where we are.”

“Already worse,” Krieg said. “We’ve got a convoy behind us.”

I sat up from my position on the floor to look out the back window. A dozen cars approached, some not even pulling up to the light, but hovering beside us, including the news van.

The light turned green and Nikki rolled down the window, shaking her fist at them. “Go fuck yourselves!” she shouted over the mayhem, chants and honking and the buzz of helicopters.

Jenna hugged Butch close to her and tugged the veil off his collar. “It looks ridiculous, doesn’t it?”

She rolled down the window and let the veil lose. I caught the image just in time, her fingers releasing the white gauze into the air, her profile etched against the light of the morning and repeated in the long snout of her prized Pomeranian.

“Is it too early to start drinking?” Blitz asked.

“Hell, no,” Nikki said. “It’s 11. Practically lunch time.”

Nikki turned back to the opening in the partition. “Stay the course, my good man,” she said. “Find us a bar and we’ll buy you a drink.”

“No drinking on job,” he said. “But we are almost to the PB.”

“Will anything be open?” I asked.

Bradford reached down to pet the dog, who was shivering. “Something’s always open. There’s Mexican restaurants, if nothing else.”

“I could use a margarita,” Jenna said.

“I could use a shot of tequila,” Nikki said.

“I could use both,” Blitz mumbled.

“There is booze in the cabinet,” the driver said.

“Right,” Nikki said. The line of seats faced a glitzy row of speakers, cabinets, and, as we had finally noticed, a fully stocked bar. “Probably gouge us worse than a hotel.”

“I have forms for booze,” the driver said. “Champagne bottle included in wedding price.”

Someone’s phone chimed. “That’s me,” Nikki said, kneeling on the floor and tugging it out of a pocket of her coat jacket. “It’s the Peppermint Patties.” She pressed the phone against her ear as she pulled the bottle of champagne out of the fridge.

“I completely forgot about them,” Mary said. She turned to me. “The local softball team that was supposed to be our witnesses.”

Nikki nodded, glancing around the compartment. “We’re in the limo. Some area called the PB.”

Bella smoothed her white dress against her lap. “I don’t feel much like champagne.”

Blitz grunted. “Booze is booze.”

Nikki passed the bottle to Blitz. “The wedding was a trap. Fucking minister had all his gay bashers ready with their clobber verses. Saving our souls and shit. And now they’re following us.”

She slid the phone away from her mouth. “They’re coming. Where should we meet them?”

“The Marquez,” Bradford said. “It’s a restaurant and bar.” He glanced at his watch. “Should be open now.”

“The Marquez,” Nikki repeated. “We’re practically there?” She looked at Bradford for confirmation, who nodded. “Yeah, you know where that is? Good.”

She closed her phone. “At least misery will have company.”

Blitz popped the top of the champagne. She took a long slug and passed the slim green bottle to Krieg. I snapped a shot, the elegant gold label bright against her hand.

“Pass that son of a bitch over here,” Nikki said.

The limo slowed, then stopped in front of the pink façade of a stucco building.

Bradford leaned toward the partition. “Let us out right by the door and then keep going. Park somewhere other than here.” He looked as grim as I’d ever seen him, his lips pulled into a frown, the crystal eyes etched with lines that suddenly seemed more pronounced.

I grabbed the tripod and my bag, tucking the small breakaway section back inside. I assumed they’d want me to document everything, even a gloomy bar stop in lieu of the wedding. I didn’t really care anymore if they paid me or not. What was happening here was more than a wedding, it was a slice of history, the cusp of social change while the oppressed were still down.

The driver didn’t just pull up to the front, but drove up onto the sidewalk only feet from the entrance.

“Go, go, go, go!” Nikki yelled, throwing open the door and sending us through like we were parachuting onto a D-Day invasion. Maybe we were.

We hurtled into the restaurant, Bradford standing by the door, the sun outrageously bright. It should be dark outside, or stormy, lightening cutting across the sky. Life never followed cliché.

As we closed the door behind us, the driver sped away.

Bradford fell into step beside me. “We should go on the patio so Jenna can keep Butch,” he said. “That’s why I picked this place.”

“You know your San Diego,” I said, wondering again how much business and how much personal was involved in his trips here. Maybe he had been seeing someone on the side, work related, and that had led to the demise of his relationship.

“My knowledge is limited but what I know, I know,” he said.

“So you’ve been here before?”

He held the door for me. “A time or two.”

“Good memories or bad?”

“Not much either way.”

His ability to give away nothing had become maddening.

The hostess, upon seeing the Pomeranian, led us directly out to the covered patio. High walls surrounded the space, so we couldn’t see anything but a swath of blue sky.

Nikki plopped into a chair. “Ten margaritas and ten tequila shots,” she said.

“I’ll tell your waiter,” the girl said.

“I’m not a big drinker,” Mary protested.

“Who said I was sharing?” Nikki said.

The restaurant was deserted. We pushed tables together, and I sat at one end, relieved and happy when Bradford pulled a chair up next to mine.

“How many Peppermint Patties are coming?” asked Mary.

“All of them,” Nikki said. “We’ve got room.”

“I’m going to check on the front,” Krieg said. “See if they are going to follow us in.”

The sun streamed through the leaves of the crepe myrtles, a few last blooms still bright and pink on the tips of the branches. Our waiter arrived with a tray of margarita glasses and lime. “I’m Roger. I’ll be back with the shots,” he said. “Rough day already?” He nodded at Bella’s gown. “Someone make a run for it?”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Nikki said. “Keep them coming,” she said. “And bring on the queso.”

Krieg dashed back into the room. “They’re organizing out front, but they don’t seem to be coming in. We’re trapped, but we’re safe.”

“Bloody Prop Haters,” Nikki grumbled. “Give me a drink.”

I took a thin-stemmed glass, the broad bulb filled with gold and bobbing with ice, trimmed with a slice of lime. Nikki held hers aloft, “To the wingnuts, who have won the battle but not yet the war. Let today be the Stonewall of our wedding weekend, and bring on the madness.”

We all held our glasses up and I snapped the shot, blind, holding the camera next to my shoulder, and hoped for the best. I’d look at it later. For now, like the girls and Bradford, I would drink.

Chapter 27: Patty-Cakes

“It’s about time we found you Hoebags!” A voice called from the entrance to the patio, and we all turned to it.

A muscled twenty-something with white-blond hair led a group of women toward our table.  She grabbed a chair, turned it around, and sat, straddling the seat back. “Are you Hoes drinking without us?”

“Hell, no!” Nikki said. “We’ll get another round coming.” She waved at Robert. “Double the margaritas and shots!”

I leaned to Bradford. “Peppermint Patties?”

He nodded.

Bella passed her shot glass down the table. “Ivy, you can take mine.”

Ivy accepted it with a mock toast. “That’s quite a dress you have there, Bella.”

She blushed. “It’s a little traditional, I know.”

Nikki wrapped her arm around Bella’s neck. “That’s my girl.”

Ivy downed her shot and surveyed the table. “Fine mess you all got into. Why didn’t you run the name of the minister by me? Jacob freakin’ Haverty. He’s pretty well known in these parts.”

“How?” Mary asked.

Ivy tapped the orange plastic chair back. “He’s an anti-gay grandstander with a fetish for being on the news. They’re all talking about the Texas homosexuals. You’re their mission.”

“A mission from God,” another one said in her best Blues Brothers accent, but no one laughed.

“Will they find us?” Mary’s face had turned ashen.

“It’s a big town,” Ivy said. “But there’s still the issue of your wedding. You girls still trying to go through with it?”

“We’re screwed,” Jenna said. “It’s a Saturday. Courthouse is closed, so we can’t go to the JP. We don’t have a minister. Prop 8 rallies are everywhere.”

“I’ll say,” said another of the Peppermint Patties, pointing at the silent television angled down from the corner. “Check out the television.”

“Ooooh, it’s Rekha,” one said. “She’s hot.”

“It’s the minister!” Mary said. “Quick, turn it up!”

Nikki shoved a chair beneath the TV mounted to the wall and stepped up to crank the volume.

“It’s another victory for supporters of traditional marriage,” the minister said, his face purple. “ We must not release anarchy, a sexual insanity that will break lose on California. Let this be a warning to all the people of this nation. We are on the cusp of Armageddon! However goes California, goes the world!”

“What was that creep’s name again? Haverty?” Nikki asked.

The reporter turned to the camera. “And today, at San Diego’s QualComm Stadium, 10,000 Christians have gathered to pray and show their support for Proposition 8 to end gay marriages.”

“What?” Mary stood up, walking closer to the television. “There’s a huge rally today? On our wedding day?”

“Good choice, Mary,” Blitz said.

“Don’t worry about it,” Ivy said. “There’s stuff going on all over the state.”

“Is the amendment going to pass?” Nikki asked.

“Shouldn’t. It’s down in the polls.” Ivy pointed back to the monitor. “Looky there, one of their misleading commercials.”

We all stared up at the television.

On screen, a young girl approached her mother in their kitchen and  showed the cover of the picture book King & King.

Nikki whirled around and stormed back to the table. “That is such crap! Manipulative bullshit!”

“It’s working,” Ivy said. “We had an eleven-point lead in the polls earlier this year. Now it’s down to three percent.”

Robert returned with a tray of margaritas. Ivy drained her second shot. I angled my camera toward her, trying to remain unobtrusive.

“The ads are all over the place, look there’s another one.” She pointed at the screen. “I love this one. They have all these sickly looking kids supposedly poisoned by a field trip to a lesbian wedding.”

“Where is the opposition to the amendment? Aren’t they organized?” Mary asked.

“They are,” Ivy said. “But the money going into this election by the fundies is unreal.”

Mary plucked at a loose string on her silk sleeve. “I just wanted to have a fun weekend, and get married, and have a great softball game.”

“You didn’t know this would happen,” Ivy said. “I didn’t know it either, or I would have warned you.”

Robert slid baskets of chips onto the table, but no one touched them. He seemed to know not to say anything and didn’t even bring menus.

Ivy turned to me. “So you’re the straight girl, right? The photographer?”

I nodded.

“What to you make of all this mess in California?”

I shrugged. “It’s worse than Texas right now.”

Another of the Patties leaned forward. “I hear it’s rough out there. You girls have problems?”

“Not really,” Nikki said. “Austin is a magnet for liberals.”

“Unless you try to go to a restaurant on Valentine’s Day,” Bella said. “Remember how that girl quit waiting on us after we started making out?”

“I’d stop waiting on you if I had to watch that,” Blitz said.

“It sucked,” Nikki said. “But nobody said anything to us.”

“It’s better than 2004,” Ivy said, glancing at Bradford. “Gay bashing reached a height. Boys especially got the crap beaten out of them.”

I stole a peek at Bradford, wondering if he’d ever been targeted for that, how often it might happen, like at the piano bar. I suddenly raged with protectiveness.

“Nothing like those naked marches,” Nikki winked at Bradford.

I tried to picture him, wrapped in a flag, arms linked with other men.

“I wasn’t there for all that,” he said. “Had my own personal demons.”

“I recall that little drama queen,” Ivy said. “That’s how we met.”

Queen? Drag queen? I couldn’t picture Bradford with a man who dressed like a woman. But what did I know. His face was pretty enough to win a drag contest, hands down.

I hoped they would keep talking about Bradford’s past, but Mary said, “You girls have any ideas for us? If we don’t get married today, and the measure passes, we won’t be able to do it at all.”

“You can always go to Canada,” another woman said. “That’s what we did.” She squeezed the hand of a petite girl next to her. “The license doesn’t travel, but it carries weight for legal stuff. Though my parents have never recognized that we had a ceremony.”

“I don’t think anything was worse than me having to tell my redneck daddy I was gay,” Jenna said. “I still don’t think he’s gotten over it.”

“At least he’s not still asking if you’ve met any boys,” Mary said, nudging her.

“I haven’t spoken to my mom in six years,” Audrey said. “She disowned me when I came out.” Aud threaded her arm through Audrey’s.

“You think she’ll ever come around?” I asked.

“I don’t know.”

Ivy rocked forward on her chair. “What exactly was her problem with it? Did she say?”

“She wanted grandkids.”

“You can do that!” Bella said.

Audrey rested her small chin in her hand. Bradford had rolled her hair into an intricate updo, glossy and near black, with tiny rhinestone flowers dotting the backward sweep. “She couldn’t save face to her Bunko friends, I think. They were always bragging about their handsome successful sons-in-laws, the weddings that were too lavish for words, the country club outings.”

“How did she let you know you were disowned?” Bella asked.

“She wrote me a letter actually. Said it was too painful to talk about. Asked me not to contact her anymore.”

“And you let that happen?” Ivy asked. “You just allowed it?”

Audrey fingered a dangling earring. “What else do you do? Make them accept you?”

Ivy slammed down her margarita glass. “I fought back. When I brought Amy over for Thanksgiving and announced we were dating, my parents tried to pull the ol’ silent treatment. I just kept talking. And when they put sheets on the sofa for Amy, I just took them right off and put them in my room.”

“You’re braver than me,” Audrey said. “I never was good at disobeying my mom.”

“You were not disobeying!” Ivy’s pale face had flushed red to her roots. “You act like you wrecked the family car! You were being who you are.”

“It’s not that easy,” Bella said. “It took two years for my parents to get used to the idea. That’s one thing that will be different about this little one,” she smiled up at Nikki. “He won’t have to grow up like we all did, with that built-in assumption that he has to be like his parents.”

“God help me if he turns out to be some Tonka truck crashing macho man,” Nikki said.

I caught on first. “Are you saying that Bella is—”

“Oh my God, I can’t believe I didn’t figure it out!” Mary said. “Bella!”

Everyone jumped up and began hugging her. I stood, snapping shots, the first happy smiles since we’d seen since the minister.

“I so hope you get some strapping young buck, chasing skirts and driving you mad,” Ivy said. “Justice.”

“Shut up, ho’!” Nikki shouted, laughing. “But it’d serve me right, with all the trash talk I do about boys.” She glanced at Bradford. “No offense.”

He held up a palm. “None taken.”

“So what did you do?” Audrey asked. “Sperm bank? Was it expensive?”

“The old fashioned way,” Nikki said, and this time Bella flushed red.

“Oh no you didn’t!” Audrey said.

Nikki elbowed Bella. “Well, you know she used to date boys.”

“Nikki, stop it!” Bella lightly smacked her on the knee. “I did no such thing.” She turned back to Audrey. “But we didn’t do IUI. Insurance wouldn’t cover it and it was going to cost six thousand dollars.”

“Six thousand!” Mary said.

Bella nodded. “We picked a friend we know and love, and he was the donor.”

Jenna leaned forward. “You did the turkey baster? That really works?”

“It was a little more intricate than that,” Bella said, her face blossoming red again. “It took a few tries.”

Nikki held up the glass. “I got the honor, thank you very much.”

Aud tossed a napkin at Nikki. “No wonder you were hot to get married!” she said. “You knocked her up!”

Jenna grasped Mary’s hand. “We were hoping to do medical IUI. But it’s expensive.”

“What’s an IUI?” Ivy asked. “Don’t be using all these inside code-words.”

“Inter-uterine insemination,” Jenna said. “They unfreeze the little squirmies and stick them in you.”

“Is that the technical description?” Ivy asked. “Because if that’s the technical version, I don’t want to know what really happens.”

Aud rolled her eyes. “No details!”

“Where else do we get details?” Ivy asked.

Nikki slapped the table. “Did you know it takes fifty million sperm to fertilize an egg?”

Ivy jumped up from her chair. “No way.”

“But it does! Because none of them will ask for directions!”

The collective groan was punctuated with laughter. “She got you, Ivy,” Jenna said.

Ivy shook her head. “I should have seen that coming.”

A petite Asian woman with sleek black hair popped through the doorway and waved. “Sorry I’m late!” she said.

“Ameeeee!” the Patties chorused.

“Our fearless leader,” Ivy said, leaning to pull an empty chair near her. “And love of my life.”

Amy leaned over to drop a quick kiss on Ivy’s mouth and sat down. “I’ve been on the phone and here’s what I found out.” She looked around the table. “There’s a JP I know who can do the wedding.”

“Really!” Mary said. “Oh, Amy!”

“Here’s the catch. We have to go to him because he’s sandwiching us between two ceremonies today already.”

Nikki jumped from her chair. “So let’s go! I’ve got to make my honey legitimate!”

“Sit down,” Amy said. “We can’t just walk out of here.”

Nikki crossed her arms. “What are you talking about?”

“The protestors are pretty serious outside.”

“What do you mean?” Nikki glanced at the patio walls.

“Out front,” Amy said. “Nobody’s coming in, actually. The manager’s not thrilled about it. I hung out for a while to see what was going on, then walked around and came in through the delivery entrance.”

“So we’ll sneak out the delivery entrance,” Nikki said. “Let’s go!”

“But the limo,” Mary said.

“You Patties got cars, right?” Nikki said. “We’ll ditch the limo.”

“We might could make it,” Ivy said. “It’s worth a try.”

“I wouldn’t,” Amy said. “They’ve got handcuffs.”

“They’ve got what?” Nikki stopped her pacing across the floor and whirled around.

“They’re planning to stop your wedding no matter what.”

Mary dropped her head to the table. “Why are they doing this to us?”

“It’s show time for Haverty,” Amy said. “He’s hell bent on stopping you, and now that the media’s involved, he doesn’t plan to lose.”

“I’m going to go check out the back,” Nikki said. “This is ridiculous.” She hurried through the door to the restaurant.

“Can we call the cops? Isn’t that assault?” Audrey asked.

“We could,” Amy said. “But if we get detained, you’ll miss the chance to get married.”

“We have to be careful with Bella,” Mary said. “We don’t want a scuffle.”

“I’m ready for a scuffle,” Blitz said.

Krieg tweaked her ear. “You’re always ready for a scuffle.”

“Let’s not get arrested,” Mary said.

My cell phone pinged with a text message. Fern, of all people. Where r u?

I ignored it. I didn’t have time for that drama.

It beeped again. We have 2 talk.

Ah. Somehow, she knew I knew.

My focus shifted for a moment, away from the women, and back to my life. Maybe it was my show time too.

I sat on a chair and texted her back. I know about u and Cade.

Almost immediately came a response. I figured. Can we talk?

I sucked in a breath. Not interested.

No choice.

What did she mean by that? Why?

He won’t leave me alone.

Ha. That’s hilarious. Ur problem. Not mine.

He luvs u.

I typed furiously. Nope.

I’ve fallen 4 a girl. Surprise! He mite wreck it 4 me.

“Zest, you with us?”

Ivy stood near me. “We’ll need you as a back up in case the women get caught. Someone who won’t have been arrested or handcuffed. Haverty shouldn’t target you.”

I nodded and snapped the phone shut. Fern was not going to fuck up one more thing for me.

Nikki shoved her way through the door to the patio and dropped into her chair. “I talked to the wait staff. Apparently there’s over a hundred people out there now, and a lot of them have handcuffs. They’re shouting crap about how it is their moral obligation to stop our wedding. Even if we got out the back way, we don’t have access to the parking lot and the cars. We’d have to walk right by them.”

Robert came back out with a tray of shots. “These are on the house,” he said. “The owner’s called the cops, but unless they damage something, we can’t make them leave.”

“What if we dressed as waiters?” Jenna asked.

“In what?” Nikki said, gesturing to Robert in his jeans and t-shirt, a black apron tied around his waist. “They just wear regular clothes.”

“What would we do if this was a movie?” Jenna went on. “What would be the most ridiculous thing we could think of to create a diversion?”

“There’s always explosives,” Blitz said.

“In Star Wars, the Ewoks steal their speeder bikes,” Audrey said.

“In Revenge of the Nerds, they had a panty raid,” Bella offered.

“That’s useful,” Aud said.

Audrey nudged her. “Don’t be mean to the mama-to-be.”

Aud frowned. “We’ve got to come up with something.”

“Well, if you need a laugh,” I said, suddenly remembering a funny line from The Lion King. “You can always dress in drag and do the hula.”

Everyone turned to me. “That’s brilliant,” Ivy said.

Bradford threw up his hand. “Please don’t ask me.”

“No,” Ivy said, pulling out her phone. “The Ball Breakers.”

“Perfect!” Amy said. “Their bridal show!”

Ivy walked to the corner of the patio, talking manically into her cell.

“Someone explain?” Nikki started pacing.

“The Ball Breakers are another softball team,” Amy said, then turned to me. “The gay male one.”

“Yes!” said another one of the Patties. “They do a mock drag show every year to raise money for the food bank. This year was a bridal show.”

“So they all have wedding gowns?” Nikki asked.

“They should,” Amy said.

“Can they pull it off?” Mary asked. “The protestors know what we look like.”

“Not true,” said Nikki. “Only some of the wingnuts know what we look like. All the Ball Breakers have to do is excite enough of them to stop watching the back door, and we can make it out to the limo.” She turned to Mary. “Can you call the driver and make sure he knows to be ready?”

“I’m on it,” Mary said.

“This is crazy,” Bella said.

“Not as crazy as what they’re planning out there.” Nikki paced the room again. She turned to me. “You have to get all this,” she said.

“I’m on it,” I said, grinning.

Jenna picked up her dog, clutching it to her chest. “I’ll have to make sure Butch doesn’t get squashed in the rush.”

Mary petted the mop of white fur. “He’ll be okay.”

Ivy popped her phone closed and walked back to the table. “They’re coming,” she said. “Amy, what time are we supposed to meet the JP?”

“Not until two. We can make it as long as the Ball Breakers don’t take too long.”

Chapter 28: Send in the Cavalry

They arrived slowly, in twos and threes, carrying duffle bags and expressions of grim determination. Tall men, short men. Good looking and average. None looked the least bit pretty or feminine.

One man was especially striking, not just strong, but with a body builder physique and wheat blond hair that spiked in every direction. He strode in with his bag over his shoulder, his immense chest seeming to enter the room before the rest of him.

“Horatio!” Ivy called. “I haven’t seen you in ages! Have any trouble getting through the crowd?”

Horatio laid his duffle on the table. “Nope. They’re not stopping anyone, but the regular people are just driving by without parking. Not going to get much business here today.” His voice was unnaturally low.

“Did they say anything to you?” Nikki asked.

“Yes. They said that if we saw the sinners, to beseech them to come out for healing and forgiveness.”

“Beseech us?” Nikki said.

Horatio got on one knee, his thighs bulging in the faded jeans. I couldn’t help but stare, longing to photograph each one separately, in honor of every sinew. He stretched out his arms. “Ladies, I beseech you, shed your sinful ways!”

Ivy shoved him from the side. He neatly caught himself with one palm to the floor, then sprung back toward her, pulling her into a headlock. “Sinning lesbians get noogies,” he said, rubbing his fist through her hair.

“Arghh! Stop!” Ivy called, laughing. “My do! You’re wrecking my do!”

“Awww, you dykes don’t care about your hair,” Horatio said. He glanced up and saw Bradford, and instantly let go of Ivy.

I turned to glance back at Bradford, who also seemed frozen in place.

“Hey, Brad baby,” Horatio said.

Bradford responded with only a grim smile. They had a history, I knew it.

Four more Ball Breakers strode through the door. “What’s the plan?” asked one, heaving a suit bag over an empty table. “We left our cars in the back like you asked.”

Amy held out her hand. “Give me the keys. I think it will work best if we ask the driver to move the limo forward, like he’s about to get the women. Then we’ll send you boys out, and this will make them think we’re making a break for it.”

Nikki came forward. “And we’ll sneak out the back and take their cars?”

“Exactly.” Amy handed her the keys. “It’s a red Rav 4 and a black Prius, right?”

The men nodded. Amy walked back around the girls. “Let’s decide who’s driving and who is getting in each car. Don’t worry about the Patties, they’ll make it out okay. I’ll ride with the Hoebags to get them to the JP.”

Bradford began unzipping bags and pulling out great tufts of white fabric. “What about me and Zest?”

“Heads up.” Amy tossed him another set of keys. “You take my car and meet us. That way Zest can cover the fun with the Ball Breakers, and then you guys can catch us at The Plantation.”

Bradford winced. “That’s where we’re meeting the JP?”

“Yeah, sorry,” Amy said.

“It’s all right,” Bradford said. “I’m a big boy.”

I watched him, hoping they’d say more, but Bradford just walked away.

First Horatio, and now this. I desperately wanted a moment alone with Nikki to see what she knew.

A set of near-identical California surfer types came into the room, and we were up to eight Ball Breakers. Two of them had facial hair, and I had no idea how they were going to pass for lesbians, but what did I know.

Bradford tugged another gown out of a bag. “Let’s get everyone dressed.”

Horatio immediately kicked off his shoes and stripped out of his light sweater and jeans. I held my camera a moment, frozen in awe, then Nikki elbowed me awake. “You don’t want to miss this man.”

I raised the camera and began taking shots. The light entered from above the high wall and struck the curves of his arms and thighs with amazing effect. I could have photographed this all day, him in gray silk boxers, utterly tan and perfectly formed.

Bradford approached with a white bustier and the sight of him fitting the lace-trimmed underwear to this man was just too much. The bulging shoulders, the delicate trim. The broad chest, the fitted corset. I sat on the floor and burst into giggles.

“Somebody cut off the photographer,” Nikki said. “She’s had too much booze.”

“No,” I said, tears beginning to stream out of my eyes, “I just—I can’t—”

Nikki stood over me, holding a pitcher of ice water. “Don’t make me do this.”

I scrambled to my feet. “The camera!”

“That’s better.”

All around, the Ball Breakers were stripping with no shyness whatsoever. I needed six photographers to cover it all well. I stepped away, trying to get broader shots, glad for the ambient light and no need for flash, which would have been distracting and would have flattened the perfect shadows and highlights of their bodies.

And the dresses. They were obscenely overdone, all sequins and satin, lace and enormous puffs of crinoline and net.

“Hold up, you’re missing something,” Bradford said. He extended his hand, cupped around a perfect pink breast.

“My contour!” Horatio said. “Where’s the adhesive?”

“Heads up,” a gray-haired man tossed him a roll of tape.

Horatio looked at me. “Medical grade tape. Works wonders.” He pulled off a three-inch section and ripped it with his teeth, laying it against the back section of the breast. Then he removed the other side of the tape and slipped the breast into the top of his bustier. “Reverse mastectomy!” he said, shimmying his shoulders.

Nikki groaned. “Man, you’re terrible. My gramma had a mastectomy.”

“So did mine,” Horatio said. “Where do you think I got these?” He held up the other breast.

He ducked as underwear, gloves, and t-shirts flew at him. I snapped the shot at just the right moment, Horatio leaning backward, laughing face full of surprise, breast in hand, just as a white glove was about to hit his ear.

“Where’s my gaff?” one of the others asked.

“You don’t need a gaff!” Horatio said. “It’s a gown!”

“I’m wearing a mermaid style,” he said. “It’ll show! Remember the picture on the runway!” He turned to me. “Damn photographer caught my junk.”

“I’ll do better,” I said.

Horatio rifled through his bag.“ All right, fine, borrow mine.”

“I’m not wearing yours!” the man said.

I had to know. “Okay, what’s a gaff?”

Horatio held his up. It looked like control top panties. “You tuck your jewels up and under, then push down your bad boy, and this keeps it all in flat and smooth.”

All I could manage is, “Oh.”

The other man walked up and took it. “You can’t wear them too much or you lose potency.”

“Potency,” I repeated.

“Hot balls,” Horatio said. “Loss of testicular function. Mark worries about those things.”

“Do any of you do drag professionally?”

Horatio looked horrified. “God, no. Just once a year for the fundraiser.” He glanced at the Hoebags. “And for this very special occasion.”

Despite what he said, Mark did indeed borrow Horatio’s gaff, stripping completely naked. I turned away, then back. This was education.

“Can someone tape these down please?” Mark asked.

“You wish!” Horatio called back.

Bradford stepped forward with the tape and then I couldn’t look at all as he knelt before Mark’s naked thighs. I whirled around, photographing the more dressed members of the Ball Breakers. The tall gray-haired man had on a slender white sheath and looked stunning. Amy slid a black wig into place.

“Are we going to hide the ones with goatees?” I asked.

Horatio tugged a full head and face veil from his bag. “Voila!” he said.

We just might actually pull this off.

“Zest?”

It couldn’t be. I lowered the camera from my eye. But it was.

Fern.

She wore one of her more conservative outfits, a frilly blouse with a ruffle down the front and a short navy skirt.

“Why are you in California? How did you—” Fern wasn’t looking at me. She stood, still as night, staring at Aud.

Aud hadn’t noticed her, sitting to the side and leaning against Audrey.

Fern strode toward their table. Her hands were tightened into fists, not swinging at her sides, but great stiff rods.

I changed my path to intercept her, snatching her elbow and whirling her around. “What is going on?”

“What is SHE doing here?” She pointed at Aud.

“Getting married. It was the plan.”

“She isn’t supposed to.” Her voice had turned shrill. “She told me she was backing out.”

The Audreys had heard her. Aud sat stiff and anxious, her arm curled through Audrey’s.

Audrey looked at me. “I remember your friend.” She turned back to Fern. “You were at one of the games.”

The room grew still, even the Ball Breakers paused in dressing.

Fern yanked her arm free. “You told me you weren’t going to marry her!”

Aud seemed paralyzed, pressed against Audrey, staring with shock at Fern.

Audrey pulled her arm away from Aud. “Is someone going to explain this to me?”

Fern circled the table and tried to grasp Aud by the shoulders.

Aud pulled away. “Fern, you’ve known all along I was getting married. What we had is totally in the past.” She turned to Audrey. “There is nothing going on between us right now.”

Audrey’s hand flew to her chest. “You slept with her?”

Aud reached for Audrey’s hand. “Remember when we split up? Before we got back together and figured out this was it, we were the ones?”

Audrey nodded, her face a startlingly white against the black of her hair.

“It happened then, and never again. I swear.”

Audrey pulled Aud into an embrace. “I believe you.”

Fern’s face bloomed red to her white-blond roots. “You little bitch.”

Blitz stepped forward, arms across her chest. “You’ve worn out your welcome.”

I rapidly crossed the room to approach them. “Don’t believe anything Fern says. She’s a class A manipulator. She was fucking my husband.”

Aud glared at Fern. “That’s the man you were using to make me jealous, as if I’d care? Zest’s husband?”

I stepped between Fern and Aud.  “Have you told him you’re not pregnant yet?”

“This is not about your stupid Cade, that simpering, small-cocked idiot. This is about me and Aud.”

“No it isn’t. Not anymore.” Audrey spoke with a fierceness I hadn’t imagined she possessed. “I don’t know why you think you have any claim on her now, but you’re not welcome here.”

Enough. I grabbed Fern, dragging her across the patio and into the restaurant, where the wait staff stood looking out the windows onto the protest. Their silhouettes against the colorful banners would make an incredible image, but I left the camera alone. I’d shoot it later.

I whirled around. “I don’t get you.”

“Ugly girls never do.”

I wanted to punch her. “Fine. We’re ugly, you’re a bitch. Why Aud? Why Cade? What is your thing?”

She stood, chin down, petulant, like a child. “No one ever wants me.”

“Because you’re such an inconsiderate self-centered whore.”

“You’ve been my friend all these years.”

“And now I regret it.”

“You’re going to throw away all these years?”

“After you connived to make my husband leave me? Sure.”

She sat on a chair. “You were too good for him.”

“I think that was my call. Besides, you’re not?”

Her foot jiggled wildly. “It’s hard to be like me. Money and looks. People just want to get something from you.”

“Not sympathizing.”

“I kept thinking the only reason that no one hung around for more than a few months had to do with them.”

“And hopefully you’re getting now that it’s actually you.”

The chants from outside began to penetrate the walls. “Respect democracy, our votes count!” The crowd had to be growing.

I didn’t have time for this. “I’m going back to my job. You know, I don’t even know why you got me this gig.” I turned to head back to the patio.

“To keep track of Aud.”

I halted and turned back. “You wanted me to be at her wedding so you could follow?”

“I had to know.”

“How did you even find me?”

“A GPS tracker.”

“A what?”

She hurried toward me. “I couldn’t bear not knowing where she was.”

I pushed her away. “This is fucked up.”

“She was genuine with me. I know it. I had to stop her from doing something stupid.”

“Like I had, marrying Cade?”

Fern’s expression suddenly froze, fixed on something behind me. I turned around.

Audrey stood in the doorway, diminutive, angry, the rhinestones winking in her hair like sparks. “I’m still going to marry her, despite you.”

“She ditched you for me.”

Audrey’s stance was menacing, despite how petite she was. “That’s how you see it.”

“That’s the way it was.”

“She says it’s over, so it’s over.”

Fern rolled her eyes. “Until next time.”

Audrey took a step forward. “I really feel sorry for you.”

“Don’t.”

Audrey released the tight fists she’d been holding at her sides. “You’re right. I won’t. This is my wedding day, and I’m going to be happy. You can’t mess this up for us.”  She whirled back around and exited to the patio.

Fern sank back onto a chair. “I guess I got played.” She laughed, a rueful bark against the chants outside. “The player got played. Figures.” She tugged a mirror from her purse and examined her eyes, smoothing her liner.

“Fern, what is this about?”

She snapped the compact shut, her back rigid again, and stood with her old flourish, the haughty demeanor I was used to.

“It’s about how stupid relationships are. Marriage, love, the whole pathetic bit. I actually liked that girl, more than I ever liked anyone.” She pulled out her cell phone, checked it almost as a reflex, then stuffed it back in her purse.

“She was getting married. You always knew that.”

She tucked her purse beneath her arm and sauntered to the exit. “Tell Cade he might as well call off the divorce. He never should have bought you that stupid sentimental locket. He had me, and he had to want you anyway. But I proved he could be swayed. Everyone has a breaking point.”

She tugged open the door. Chants blasted into the room, then quieted, the brightness of the afternoon fading again as the doors eased shut. I shifted to the window and watched her shove her way through the crowd and disappear.

My hands wouldn’t stop shaking. I wondered when she’d even let Cade off the hook. He was so desperately worried about her.

Bradford approached me, squeezing my hands until they stilled. “Everyone’s ready,” he said. “You okay?”

“You heard that last part?”

He nodded. “You going to try to patch things up with your husband then?”

I stared into those crystal eyes, reflecting the light from the restaurant windows. Fern was right, I was ridiculous, falling for a gay man like a movie cliché, letting my best friend get away with my real husband. “I’m fine. I’ll do whatever. Just tell me the plan so I can get this job done and forget all this ever happened.”

A muscle tensed in his jaw. He pulled his hands away. “All right, then. You and I will slip out to Amy’s car once the men are in the limo,” he said. “If they make it there. They are ready to do whatever it takes.”

“You bitches ready?” Horatio stood in the doorway, striking a dramatic pose, arms against the door frame, one hip kicked to the side. He looked stunning, a long black wig flowing down the open back. I lifted the camera and took the shot.

“You look gorgeous,” Bradford said. And for the hundredth time that day, my heart shriveled.

Chapter 29: Hell’s Belles

The image was definitely once-in-a-career. I had lined up the Ball Breakers in their elaborate gowns. A Hoebag stood by each one, leaning on his shoulder, one leg kicked up, about to kiss his cheek. Well, other than Blitz, who had refused and stood in the middle, arms crossed, glaring at the camera.

After the photo, the Ball Breakers filed into the restaurant. On cue, the driver started the pink limo and began easing it toward the entrance, nosing through the outer tier of protestors.

As we expected, the crowd grew more animated, and the ones on the edges motioned to the others, creating a mass around the limo.

“I’ve seen streets in east L.A. that looked a lot like this,” said Horatio. “Only someone would have already bashed in the headlights.”

The Hoebags, led by Amy, began streaming along the back wall toward the kitchen. A waiter went ahead to check for any stragglers.

“Wait for their signal,” Bradford said. “Horatio, you’ll go first.”

He nodded, adjusting his veil. Bradford was right, he looked gorgeous.

“We got a plan?” one of them asked.

“If anyone touches, you, kiss the fuck out of them,” Horatio said. “Make love, not war.”

Bradford’s phone buzzed. “That’s our cue,” he said. “Good luck, men.”

Horatio yanked open both doors and said, “I’ve seen the light! I need a man!”

The crowd lunged forward, shouting and waving signs. The boys fanned out, grabbing the nearest person and kissing them soundly, then moving on to the next. The driver tried to wrench open the limo door, but the protestors rapidly closed in.

I could barely see anything in the commotion, just jostles of arms and shoulders. “Over here!” Bradford shouted,  and he climbed onto the rails of a wood fence, holding on to a post. “You can get the shots from up here.”

I pressed through the crowd and struggled up. The vantage point was perfect, and the Ball Breakers in their gowns were easy to follow.

At first the crowd accepted the men, clapping them on the back and cheering. Then, a woman pulled back one of their veils and screamed, “She’s a man!”

Horatio picked the woman up and spun her around. “Marry me!” he shouted. She flailed, trying to escape, so he handed her to a large woman who was clutching a Bible.

The twins had sandwiched a rather large man between them, all front to back. “Daisy chain!” one cried. “Join the daisy chain!” The man reached out for someone to pull him free, but the protestors had begun to back away.

An ear-splitting siren changed the tenor of everything. I looked out across the parking lot. I could see two cars trying to exit the parking lot—yes, it was the Hoebags—and a line of police blocking their path. Then I noticed the two police vans and three news crews. This was going to be big.

Suddenly I knew my pictures were going to matter.

“I don’t think they can get out,” I yelled to Bradford.

“I’m going to go see if I can help. Amy’s car is the white Volvo,” he said, pointing to the end of the lot. “If they get out, wait five minutes, then meet me there.”

I nodded, snapping shots as he jumped from the railing and dove into the crowd.

Two Ball Breakers had lifted the minister on their shoulders and were spinning him around. The police were now shouting through megaphones and penetrated the crowd from the other side. I momentarily spotted the limo driver crouched just inside the open door, waving madly.

Horatio lifted a man onto the rail at my feet, grasped his face with both palms and kissed him on the lips.

Oh my God. I shot it from every angle, the man’s splayed feet, the fanned-out fingers, the tilt of his head. Horatio broke away and said, “You’re a natural!” and spun away for a fresh victim. The man touched his mouth and, dazed, he stumbled away.

The twins each had a middle-aged woman in their arms and carried them through the crowd. The protestors equally tried to escape and push in, creating a vortex of bodies, and the eye of the hurricane was all white veil and seed pearls. I snapped faces, signs, upraised fists, and forced kisses. Black skin, white skin, boy parts, girl parts. The crazy jumble became a blur of color, light, and sound.

I looked beyond the skirmish, past the limo. Bradford had broken through the other side of the mass and now sprinted across the lot to where the police were talking to Amy, who had rolled down her window. They all conferenced for a moment, then the police waved the cars through. The Hoebags were free, and the protestors never even looked their direction.

Certain words became distinguishable. “Break it up, break it up. Time to go.” The police were apparently ending the demonstration. The Ball Breakers began to move toward the limo as the rest of the crowd began to pull away, trying to avoid contact with the officers. They set the minister down in a large garbage can near the front door, where he sat, kicking his legs until his supporters pulled him out.

I took images nonstop, including the men blowing kisses and waving handkerchiefs. Several of the waiters came out the door and began flinging rice from industrial-sized bags. The first few Ball Breakers made it into the limo, then others followed. I peered across the parking lot and saw Bradford waiting by the white Volvo. I decided not to wait for all of them to get into the limo, but climbed down to make my own getaway.

We had done it.

***

Bradford sped down the highway toward the wedding. The clock on the dash read 1:40.

“Will we make it?” I asked.

“Not a problem.”

I had to stop myself from bouncing in the seat. The photographs were going to be killer. Nothing like I’d ever done, or even seen. Social change. Big newsworthy moments. Beautiful men. Chaos. A minister in a garbage can! I couldn’t repress my sudden, “Whoop!”

Bradford laughed out loud. “Somebody’s happy.”

“I am! That was really something! And we won! We got out of there. Haverty can stick it up his craw.”

“He’s going to look pretty silly on the six o’clock news, certainly.”

A knot of traffic slowed us down, so Bradford pulled off the highway and began cutting through neighborhood streets.

“So you know this place we’re going to?” I asked gingerly.

His expression altered completely. “I’m afraid I do.”

“Something bad happened there, I take it.”

“It did.”

Silence. His face was dark. He seemed small suddenly, in this frumpy car, not his sleek one.

“Soooo, you don’t want to talk about it.”

“Nope.”

“Have you ever talked about it?”

“Nope.”

“But the Peppermint Patties seemed to know.”

“There were plenty of witnesses. Over one hundred, according to the RSVPs.”

“Your wedding?”

Silence.

“Something happened on the day of your wedding?”

The tires squealed lightly as Bradford abruptly turned down a side street.

I wanted to ask him if his bride had jilted him, but I didn’t know what to call it—his partner? Intended? Wait, fiancé.

“Something happen with your fiancé?”

“You aren’t going to give up, are you?” His hands squeezed the steering wheel in that same tight grip I remembered from the night in Dallas.

I turned away, staring at the houses flashing by. “Yes, I will. I’ll give up. Right now.” All the way. Drop this stupid infatuation. Focus—AGAIN—on my job.

We drove along a wide curving driveway up to a large southern plantation-style house, enormous white pillars lining the front. The Hoebags waited on the oversized front porch, sitting on cast-iron benches or leaning against the columns. Blitz had sprawled out on the steps.

I wanted to gauge Bradford’s reaction to seeing the place again but didn’t dare look at him. He pulled into a spot in the side parking lot and got out without another word.

“How did it go?” Mary asked. “Did Horatio and the rest get away?”

Bradford nodded curtly then cut across the porch and off around the side of the house.

The women looked at me. “He doing okay?” Nikki asked.

I adjusted my camera strap on my shoulder. “I don’t think so.”

“Something happened here,” Mary said. “I know he was supposed to get married, but it didn’t happen. The Patties know.”

“Should we go after him?” Audrey asked.

I unpacked my camera. “I don’t think so. Give him some space. He was a little…unhappy on the drive over.”

A petite woman in a trim black suit approached. “Are you the ladies from Texas?” she asked.

“Yes!” Mary said. “Are you the JP?”

The woman nodded. “I’m Alexandra Green. I have about an hour before the next ceremony.”

Mary smoothed her pantsuit nervously. “Is there a spot we should go?”

“The owner said we could hold the ceremony out here on the porch at the far end, so that if guests arrive early for the three o’clock, they won’t disturb us.”

“We so appreciate you doing this,” Mary said. “We’ve really been stuck.”

“Yes, you ladies have caused quite a stir, I hear. I’ve been here all morning, so I didn’t catch any of the broadcasts. Reverend Haverty, was it?”

“That lowlife blackguard son of a—ooof.” Blitz silenced when Krieg’s elbow landed in her belly.

Alexandra laughed. “That about sums up how many of us feel. I hope he doesn’t have all your paperwork.”

“Oh no, we did that ourselves.” Mary gestured to Jenna, who set Butch down to dig in a satchel and produce a folder. “All our licenses are here.”

Alexandra accepted the documents and gestured to the far end of the porch. “Then let’s get started.”

We arranged each couple between a set of white columns, looking out over the grounds where a cleanup crew rapidly removed the remains of the previous reception.

I had to angle the shots carefully to avoid a distracting background of tables with cloths thrown up over leftover china, kneeling to keep the sky behind the women’s tired but relieved faces.

They recited their vows, one by one, in sickness and in health, as long as they both shall live, and got their “I now declare you spouses for life” and a kiss.

Nikki covered Bella’s belly protectively for their photo. Blitz and Krieg stood back to back, holding champagne flutes. Mary cried in her portrait while Jenna held an embroidered cotton handkerchief her grandmother had carried in her own wedding. I lingered by Aud and Audrey. Both repeated the rites with clear strong voices, holding hands and never taking their eyes off each other. Hopefully Fern never even crossed their minds.

Bradford kept at a distance. As much as I wanted to sympathize with his bad memories of the place, the fight in the car made me stay away from him.

The Patties arrived halfway through and stood across from us, by the wall, and signed the documents at the end. The Ball Breakers had not made it to the Plantation, but Amy got word that they had all escaped in the limo, save Horatio, who decided to remain behind to torment the minister. His willingness to interrupt and argue the blustering man’s every point had made the news, and apparently a counter rally in support of the Ball Breakers had formed in front of the restaurant.

“What now?” I asked Mary as we thanked the JP and headed back to our cars. The guests for the next wedding were arriving and looked curiously at all the women arm-in-arm.

“You and Bradford have the night off,” Nikki said. “We have some consummation to take care of.” She ran her free arm through mine. “Unless you’re ready for that threesome!”

I kissed her cheek. “I can’t have you knocking me up too!”

The pink limo had returned and waited in the lot. The driver opened the door, taking off his hat and bowing to us. “Got the, errr, men, home safely, ma’am,” he said. “Time to go back to the hotel?”

Mary hugged him. “You’ve been so wonderful to us. Yes, we can all go home now.”

“I don’t know,” Jenna said. “I’m still dizzy from that 180 across the median.”

He laughed. “I may get fired on my first day.”

“We won’t tell if you won’t,” Nikki said.

The women hugged the Patties goodbye, promising to be in good shape for game the next morning. They loaded into the cars, and we closed the door to the limo.

“The Ball Breakers left a few things behind,” Jenna said, holding up a scrap of stretch material.

“It’s the gaff!” Nikki said. “Drop it! Now!”

Jenna tossed the fabric in the air and it landed on Bella’s lap. She picked it up with tentative fingers, holding it up to the window. “I’m sure I’m going to deal with worse than this in a few months,” she said. “No use being squeamish.”

“Ugghh, am I going to have to change diapers?” Nikki asked.

“Oh yes,” Bella said. “And I’m going to give you all the nasty ones.”

Chapter 30: When Gary Wed Marvin

The images were unbelievable. Horatio. The kiss. The spinning minister. Mouths frozen in angry shouts. I rapidly watermarked the digital files and tried to connect to Flickr to start uploading them.

No connection.

I checked my wireless settings again. The hotel staff had assured me I could log on from my room.

Still nothing.

My palm smashed into the desk with a WHAM. I was not going to let some silly internet issue come between me and what I was sure would be a very excited audience for these images.

I searched the walls for an Ethernet hookup, clutching my Cat 5 cable like a lifeline.

Nothing.

Arrrgghhh! I lunged for the telephone and dialed the main desk.

I cut off her greeting. “Why isn’t your wireless working in the room?”

“It should be up and running.”

“Well, it’s not!”

“If you can’t connect with your equipment, try after a system reboot. Or you are welcome to come down to the bar area or lobby. It’s working fine here.”

I slammed the phone down and rebooted my machine, tapping anxiously. News like this would not be news long. The television droned on with the volume low. We hadn’t made CNN or anything national, but the local stations was covering Prop 8 like crazy, including their favorite clip—Haverty with his legs sticking out of a trash can, the protest sign around his neck crumpled and smashed.

The monitor blinked back on. I rechecked the wireless, still nothing.

I yanked the plug out the back and clutched the laptop to my chest as I hurried out of the room and down to the main lobby.

The entrance was a crush of people and kids checking in. I waded through the crowd and into the bar, a cool dark cave that was empty save a few couples curled together in booths.

I settled on a stool at the bar itself. The bartender approached but I waved him away. “In a minute,” I said. “Let me check the wireless first.”

I hadn’t even closed the lid of my laptop on the walk down, too impatient to wait for it to power up a second time. I refreshed the network, and YES, a connection. I leaped onto it and immediately logged into my Flickr account.

On second thought, upon seeing all the old images of me and Cade, I logged out and signed up again as a new user. I didn’t want clutter on my photo stream.

Only when the first set was loading into the new account did I look up.

Two middle-aged men had settled to one side of me.

“The doll rejoins the world,” one said in a falsely high voice, a gold tooth glittering when he flashed me a patronizing smile. “You working hard or hardly working?”

The bartender set down a highball glass before each of them and nodded at me. “You ready for something?”

“Crown and coke,” I said. “Thank you.”

“A polite one,” the man said, turning around on his stool to face the open part of the room. He patted the other man on the knee. “You should take lessons, Gary.”

I shook my head and shifted my attention back to the screen. Polite, I was not.

One of my favorite images, a shot of Horatio kissing an old lady with a white beehive, had an odd arm shooting up from behind him. It appeared as though he had an appendage growing out of his veil. A bystander, no doubt, but it looked odd, and I wanted to Photoshop it out before I uploaded.

“Look at that hunk of love in drag,” my neighbor said. He was not going to shut up. “Gary, look at the doll’s pictures.”

I quickly used the stamp tool to erase the errant arm, saved the image, and dropped it into the upload.

“You got more of him, honey?”

I clearly would have to endure the company. “I do.”

“Show me!” His hair was thinning, slicked down with an overkill of gel. He had a long pointed nose, and now that I was looking, eyeliner.

Gary, his companion, leaned over his back to look. Early fifties, both of them, but Gary had normal hair and a rather ordinary ruddy face with squinty dark eyes. “We should introduce ourselves.”

“Oh yes, let’s do.” The closer man extended a hand, damp and chilly from his glass. “I’m Marvin, and this is my lover Gary.”

“Husband,” Gary corrected.

“Of course! Oh yes. We got married today.” Marvin turned to kiss Gary’s cheek.

“Congratulations.” I flipped over to an image of the whole bridal party, the one in the restaurant, with the Hoebags and the Ball Breakers. “I photographed a wedding today.”

“I just knew you were a professional! Look, Gary, at what she’s done.”

“And this.” I clicked the image away, revealing a close up on a mostly naked Horatio.

“Bless my buttons, look at that one,” Marvin said. “Wow, wow, wow.”

Okay, enough. “Don’t tell me you just said ‘bless my buttons,’” I said.

Gary nudged Marvin. “You can kill the fag bit.” He wrapped an arm around his husband’s neck. “He’s in a show, at a cabaret, for straights mainly, and he tends to let it bleed over into real life. He’s really a straight-up fag.”

Marvin set his glass down with a clink. “How Mattachine of you,” he said, in the same almost-falsetto. “But okay.” His voice changed completely into a baritone.

I shrugged. “What’s Mattachine?”

“A society, darling, one who tried to show how gays were like everyone else.” Marvin wagged his finger at me. “Gay history.”

I sent the next set of pictures up to the queue. “I’ve gotten quite a dose this week. At this point, nothing would surprise me.”

“Tell it all, sister,” Marvin said. “We’ve got nothing here but time.” He winked at Gary. “We have to endure a little recharge here and there.”

I uploaded the last set of images. “Let me post some comments to a couple news sites first. I want to link to my pictures.”

“Go right ahead, honey,” Marvin said. “Do Channel 6 first. Their weather girl is hot!”

“Aloha!” Gary said. “That’s her name.”

“She can say Aloha to me anytime.” Marvin faked swooned.

I Googled “Channel 6, San Diego.” Aloha, the meteorologist, was featured on the home page. Now I was really confused. “But, she’s a girl.”

Marvin shook his near-empty glass, setting the ice to tinkling. “Beauty knows no sexual orientation.” He sipped his drink, frowned, and set it on the bar. “I’m such a fucking lush.” He leaned in close. “Haven’t you ever been into a girl? Just for a minute?”

I thought of Samantha at the bar. I shrugged. “Maybe.”

Marvin turned abruptly to Gary. “See! Even a super-straight like this doll can be flexible.”

Oh, that again. “So how did you know I was straight?”

“You don’t eye the women in your pho-toes, doll. You oogle the men. It’s plain as the sunburn on a naked man’s ass.” Marvin tapped the top of his drink to signal the bartender. “Now this hunk heading over.” He nodded as the bartender took the empty glass. “Six-one. Dark curly hair. No styling products. Moderately muscled but not over-zealous on the work outs. Equally flirty with girls—” he paused as the man dropped ice into a fresh glass, “and boys. He knows his town.”

He swiveled to face me. “So what would your conclusion be, doll, gay or straight?”

I had no idea. “You’re asking the wrong hetero. I’ve been flirting with a gay man for five days.”

“Girlfriend!” Marvin’s voice hit high again. “That will never never do! It only leads to heartbreak!”

“I know, I know.” I already regretted saying it, but it felt good to admit it to someone. “And I knew it all along too. It just…happened.”

“Tsk, tsk, tsk.” He leaned in close. “Well, for the record, that one packs more fudge than Lucille in a candy factory.”

“I have the gaydar of a lemon.” I tried to recall all my schooling from the last few days, Adam’s apples, sizes of hands, but it was such a jumble. There was no way to know. They were just…people.

Marvin chuckled. “Watch the eyes. Where they look. Where they glance and where they linger.”

I rapidly typed in a line about my pictures in a comment on the news story about Haverty and the “Texas Brides,” as they were calling the Hoebags. I added a link to my Flickr account.

“You keep working, girl, get yourself famous with those photos,” Marvin said. “But you have to tell me about your gay boy.”

“Probably just a post-divorce thing,” I mumbled, clicking to another news site.

“You’re divorced? Poor thing!” Marvin said. “Recently?”

“Not even done yet. He served me papers last weekend.”

“Oh my stars!” his voice went high again and Gary nudged him.

Good grief. “Oh my stars?”

He lowered an octave. “Well, god damn it, that’s a son of a bitch.”

I had to laugh. “Yeah, left me for my best friend.” Maybe each time I said it, the edge would dull a little.

“Good riddance,” Marvin said, swishing the air as if to wave away flies. “And so you met the boy.”

I sent a comment to the final site on the list. I could search around for other places, but that was a good start. I twisted around on the stool. “He came along on this wedding gig. Hair and makeup for the brides.”

“And you fell in lo-ove,” Marvin sing-songed. “But not happily ever after, because he wants rods, not cones.”

“Something like that.”

“He’s just a rebound, baby. A safe, safe rebound. It’s a cliché, the way women flirt with us.”

“I have no female friends,” Gary said.

“Harrumph.” Marvin crossed his legs, agitated. “You’re forgetting the two-bit hussy.”

“She hasn’t lived out her year yet. Doesn’t count.”

I had no idea what he meant. “Lived out her year?”

“Transgendering, doll. Before you can do the knife, you gotta live the life.”

Gary added, “Well, it depends on where you live. Used to be you always had to wait, but now it’s up to the docs, and sometimes, legal mumbo jumbo.”

“So your friend,” I said slowly, “is a man changing into a woman, and Marvin considers her a female friend.”

“He’s a little bitch that way,” Gary said, laughing.

Marvin pouted. “I hate it when you call me a little bitch.”

“You love it.”

Marvin shifted into a bright smile. “I do. You know me. I do. Say it again.”

“Little bitch.”

Marvin pretended to shiver. “One more time.”

“Little bitch.”

They moved together in a fervent kiss. Jealousy zinged through me. I didn’t think anybody had ever kissed me like that. Okay, maybe Two-Snatch Sammy. She had been pretty enthusiastic.

I was about to turn back to the screen when a man entering the bar made me double take.

Bradford!

Shit!

I swung around, leaning inches from the screen, using my hand to obscure my face.

Marvin and Gary broke apart. “Uh oh, the doll’s in hiding,” Marvin said.

I elbowed him to be quiet, stealing a quick glance. Bradford hadn’t noticed me yet, walking up to the bar and asking for a Merlot. The wine guy. He settled on a stool, then nodded at Marvin and Gary, who had already begun to make the connection.

Then he saw me. “Zest!”

I waved lamely. I remembered our last words in the car, the way he’d avoided me at the wedding, our big moment, screwed up by my inability to stop prying. Even though he obviously hated me now, I still sang a little inside when I looked at him, his blue eyes, that mouth—

“You’re a lip girl!” Marvin whispered, and I elbowed him again.

“You know these men?” Bradford asked.

“We’re bosom buddies,” Marvin said. “The doll was showing me her pictures.”

Bradford accepted a glass from the bartender, who was taking in Bradford’s chest beneath the tailored jacket and pink shirt—gaydar ping—it’s working! Bradford stared at the liquid as he swirled it around. “They come out well?”

“She’s brilliant!” Marvin answered. “A total smash!”

That guy. You had to love him. “They came out all right.”

Bradford nodded, now staring at the carved wood of the bar, as if I was painful to look at.

“Oh, doll, is this the gay boy toy?” Marvin whispered loudly.

“Shh!” Oh, God, I had to get away. No, I had to get us both away. Marvin had the discretion of an exhibitionist at a nudist colony.

I slammed the laptop shut, lunging at Bradford. “We have to talk, NOW!” I grasped his arm so hard and so fast that his wine sloshed on his fingers.

“Relax there, honey,” Marvin said. “You’ve had a mix-up—”

“Come on!” I said, almost shouting now, trying to haul Bradford away, but he resisted.

“You okay, Zest?”

Marvin stood up. “Girl, let the man finish his drink!”

I grabbed Bradford’s wine and downed it. “All done. Let’s go!”

Bradford shook his head. I knew he was confused, but I didn’t care. We had to GO.

Marvin took two steps forward, and I dragged Bradford across the room. “Bye, Marvin, bye, Gary! Have a great honeymoon.”

Marvin stood in the middle of bar. “Doll! You’ve got it all wrong!”

I made a slashing movement so he would shut up as we headed for the door.

He put his hands together in a T shape. Time out? I shook my head, glad Bradford wasn’t looking back. Marvin turned to the side, made a humping motion, then gave me a slashing symbol. What? Don’t have sex? Of course I wouldn’t have sex with him.

We entered the lobby, momentarily stopped by a line near the check in counter. I stole one last glance. Marvin had grabbed Gary, now pumping air sex behind him, and both of them made slashing motions, shaking their heads for no.

Good grief, I was NOT going to have sex with Bradford. Why were they acting this way?

We pushed our way through the lobby. I was about to head to the room when Bradford suddenly stopped. “Sit on this bench,” he ordered. “And tell me what the hell is going on.”

I had to think fast. “Marvin and Gary were…” God I had no idea. “I wanted to get you alone.” I plopped down on the cushion. Geez, what a thing to say. I might as well throw myself on his body. Then he could laugh. Just get it over with.

He sat next to me. “The fight bothered me too. I’d like to apologize.”

This was unexpected. “No need. I’m sorry I was nosy.”

“I shouldn’t have been so sensitive.”

I stifled a laugh. “I like you sensitive.”

“No, it was just—”

“I know,” I said. “I should have let it go.”

He took my hand and my heart foolishly fluttered. Die, stupid hope, die, I told it, but it beat relentlessly just the same,

“How about I make it up to you over dinner?” he asked. “I know a great place just a few blocks down.”

I squeezed his hand back, his fingers warm. “No bad memories?”

“No memories there at all.” He smiled, making my pulse jump yet another notch. Oh, how I hated this. And loved it.

“I don’t know. You seem like a shady character.”

He stood up and whirled in a quick circle, holding his jacket open. “Nothing up my sleeve.” He paused, hands on his chest. “And no muscled manhood like you got to photograph today. I’m on the scrawny side.”

Bradford, insecure. Was he nuts?

He pointed to my laptop. “I’m sure the ones of Horatio were something worth gawking at.”

Jealous, even? “He’s not exactly my type, since I require my boys to be willing to go on the box.”

Bradford threw his head back with a full-on laugh. “Look who’s mastered the lingo.”

“It’s called language immersion. How can I help it? Today I learned about gaffs and transgendering and telling if someone is gay by how they look at people.”

“Sounds like good stuff. You’ll be fitting right in soon.”

“I don’t think I’ll take up calling anybody a homo, though, like they do.”

He leaned against the wall. “They’d let you get away with it. It’s like queer. It’s lost its stigma.”

“Makes sense to own the words that are used against you.” I flashed with an image of the jerk at the piano bar, saying, “Are you one of those pretty boys who likes it up the ass?” I winced.

“It does.” He pointed at the laptop. “So can I see some?”

I flipped open the lid and powered it back up. The screen flashed to right where I had left it, with the image of Horatio, undressed. I quickly flipped to another one.

“These are really good.” He pointed to the image of Haverty in the trash can. “That one is just fantastic.”

“The video clip of this has been all over the news.”

I clicked away, revealing a message on screen. “Images uploaded.”

“You getting these out there?” he asked.

“Oh, yes. Apparently I got the only still shots during the chaos. Video footage is running on three stations.” I maximized a few web sites to show him. “I uploaded them all.”

He straightened. “You’re going to be famous!”

Hardly. “Well, I’ll probably be the most illegally downloaded photographer for, oh, five minutes.” At least with the watermark, they’d be impossible to reproduce.

My phone buzzed. “Maybe I’m famous already!” I glanced at the screen. Cade. My good mood evaporated. “Actually, it’s my husband.”

He stepped back. “Should I go?”

“I don’t think I can take it.”

“You need someone to hold your hand?”

I glanced at his perfectly manicured fingers. “I might.”

“Then let’s do it.” He took my free hand. “Together.”

I could scarcely breathe as I answered the line. “You’re pretty brave, calling.”

Cade didn’t respond.

“Is this a prank call?”

Bradford squeezed my hand.

Cade finally spoke. “Zest. I—I just can’t seem to find Fern.”

“She’s here.”

“She is?”

“Yep.”

“Where’s here?”

“California.”

“California?”

“I’m shooting a wedding. She tried to bust it up, actually.”

“She what?”

“But she failed.”

“I don’t understand.”

Of course he didn’t. “Let’s start at the beginning. I know you’ve been banging Fern.”

“But I—”

“Ugh. Don’t insult me.”

‘I don’t mean to—”

“If you want to learn anything more, you have to apologize.”

“I’m sorry.”

I gripped the phone harder. “You don’t even know what you’re apologizing for!”

“But I am sorry.”

“Not accepted.” Another squeeze. I glanced up at Bradford. Uggh. He was going to think I was some horrid thing. “Did you need something from me other than the whereabouts of your lover?”

“I need to find her. I’ll grovel. I’ll do anything.”

“Good grief, you’ve got it bad.”

Silence.

I sighed. “I don’t know what to tell you, Cade. She’s here in San Diego. I last saw her at the protest.”

“A protest? Did she get hurt?”

“I don’t think so. I didn’t see her after she stormed out. She got lost in the chaos.”

“Chaos? Was there tear gas?”

“Cade! Good grief!” I tried to be angry, but my voice broke. He’d never been this concerned about me, ever. What was it, beauty made her worthy of concern?

Bradford waved a hand to get my attention. “You okay?”

I shook my head no. But I would not freaking cry. Not today.

Bradford tugged the phone from my hand. “Monsieur? Monsieur Cade?”

The fake French accent burst me right out of the blues. “Bradford…”

“Monsieur Cade, this is French Ligation Capital Bradford Le Plume. I have bissaness with your ex-wife. Good day!” He snapped the phone closed.

“All done!” he said. “Feeling better now that you got that out of the way?”

“That was the most out of character thing I have ever seen you do.”

“Not all knights use their swords.”

Ah, geez. Wasn’t that the truth. Time to give in. I leaned into him and rested my perfect straight hair on his shoulder. “Thank you, Bradford,” I whispered. I could pretend, just for a moment, that he cared and had done all that to protect me.

He lifted my chin up, a silver screen moment. The man gazes into her eyes, limpid pools of desire. He inches toward her, lips aching to touch hers…

I swallowed. If only this were a different life. If only it were possible. I pulled away. Fantasy over. “I think you said you were buying me dinner.”

He closed the laptop and led me to the door. “I believe I did. Let’s put this away and see what fine grub this city has to offer.”

Chapter 31: Moon River. Sans Nikki’s Moon.

“I should NOT have had that last shrimp,” I said, smoothing my skirt as it pooched over my belly on our way out of the restaurant. I’d changed into girl clothes to match Bradford’s stylish sweater and dinner jacket a little better. “But what a great place.”

“We can walk it off if you like.” Bradford held the door for me. “If it’s not too cold for you.”

“I’m okay.”

“We’re just a block from the beach.”

“It will be nice to go when I’m not lugging equipment. Or worrying about what Nikki is up to.”

“Precisely.”

I longed, with a fierce ache, to be able to hold his hand as we approached the shoreline. The moon was just a tiny sliver in the sky, but the fires in the drum barrels every so often made it possible to walk without stumbling.

I decided I had a mission. I would hold hands with this man, one way or another, before the night was out.

Just as friends, of course. But I needed it. I needed the contact, the warmth. Him.

“So give me a history,” I said.

“Of the world? Of California? Of marine biology?”

“Gay rights.”

“Really?”

“You know it, right?”

“I’m fairly knowledgeable, yes.”

“Well, I don’t know anything that hasn’t been on Ellen.”

“That might be quite a lot.”

“I know Sarah Palin is against it. I know Massachusetts recognizes gay marriage. And Canada. And…that may be about it.”

“How far back do you want to go?”

“Roman baths.”

He laughed. “That’s pretty far. But certainly there have been gays as long as there have been people to draw pictures about it.”

“Sweet. Gay cave porn.”

His chuckling continued. Oh, I loved making him smile. Okay, mom, if your snarky sense of humor led to this, then yeah, maybe it was worth it. I smoothed my hair self-consciously.

“Getting used to it?”

“It’s a little strange yet.”

“It looks amazing.”

“Of course it does. I’m your masterpiece!”

He nodded and turned away, staring out across the gray waves. “So you ever heard of Harvey Milk?”

“Nope.”

“He was the first openly gay elected official, in San Francisco. A city commissioner. Big champion of gay rights.”

“Must have been important, if we know the name of a city commissioner.”

“He was assassinated. Him and the mayor.”

I stopped walking. “Oh my God. A hate crime?”

“By another commissioner.”

“That’s awful.”

“The trial was even worse. The police sympathized. The jury believed he was temporarily insane. He got off serving only five years.”

“He killed two people and served five years?”

Bradford laid his fingers lightly on my arm and moved us forward again. “He did.”

“That’s just wrong!”

“It was a very sore point in the city, and the state, for a long time. But it became one of those moments that changed things.”

I hoped he would keep his hand on my elbow, but he let go. Operation hand hold was failing. But I could keep him talking. “California keeps changing its mind. Gay marriage was legal, then it wasn’t. Now it is, but next week it might not be again.”

“The religious right is a powerful force. The Mormons got involved in this one. They paid for all those commercials.”

“But they aren’t even here!”

Bradford shrugged. “There’s plenty of people who think that other states will follow California if gay marriage is allowed to stand.”

“Who started this amendment? Who put it up for a vote?”

“An organization called Protect Marriage got the signatures needed to put it on the ballot. It harkens back to the days of Anita Bryant, who first started a group called Save Our Children in the ‘70s.”

I knew that name. “Wasn’t she a singer?”

“She used her popularity for the cause, but it ultimately cost her career.”

“Good.”

“Yeah, there isn’t a lot of love for Anita in the community. Hate crimes flourished in the wake of all that vitriol.”

I sighed. “I just don’t get it.”

“Get what?”

“What is there to hate? So two guys get it on. So what.”

“Religion. Children. Survival of the human race.”

I kicked at the sand. My strappy shoes were already caked with it. “I think we’re overpopulating the world already.”

“The gay community crosses over with a lot of already unusual populations—artists, activists, people who say what they think, act the way they want.”

“Most everybody I’ve met are just normal people.”

“Yes, but the more colorful ones get the attention. People just aren’t comfortable.”

“I’m comfortable.”

“How comfortable were you a week ago?”

The first meeting with Jenna and Mary. A lifetime ago. “Got me there.”

“I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m just saying, you’ve changed in these few days.”

“I have. A little.”

“Would you have taken up the cause last Saturday compared to this one?”

“No. It wouldn’t have applied to me.”

“And yet today you’re uploading dozens of photos with the purpose of raising awareness on Prop 8.”

“Okay. I’ve really changed.”

“And what about your dad? Did he ever think about gay issues?”

“Not likely.”

“But now he will.”

“He’ll back anything I do.”

“So you’ve changed one other person. This is how social progress happens.”

We approached another burning drum, several people sitting beside it. The same beautiful boy from the night before played his guitar, his face burnished in the orange glow. My heart slid a little toward my stomach. I had gotten Bradford’s attention, and now I would lose it again.

The boy sang a different tune this time, but equally melancholy. My eyes started to burn when I recognized it. When a man loves a woman.

This man didn’t love any women. My nose started to run. I was going to cry.

Hell no. Hello, snark. I wanted to kick the guitar suddenly, throw sand in the boy’s eyes. Eliminate the competition.

Of course, Bradford wouldn’t want me if I was the last girl on earth. I was still a girl.

I made myself stop. The nastiness was going to ruin the moment.  I had a mission, and I needed to focus. I led us straight to the singer and halted.

Bradford waited, his head tilted in curiosity, eyes never straying once to the boy. He wasn’t looking! I felt empowered, and I took his hand. Success! “You can dance, right?”

He nodded.

“Well, I can’t. So you’ll have to take charge.”

“You did pretty well at Rainbow.” He pulled me closer to him, his arm reaching around my waist.

“You calling me out on a lie? You think I’m a secret ballroom queen?”

He smiled at me. We were almost the same height, so his mouth was ever so close. The humiliating moment in the bathroom tried to force itself forward, but I shoved it back.

“I wouldn’t dare call you a liar,” he said.

“Please tell me I don’t have to lead.”

“You don’t have to lead.”

The guitar player clearly appreciated having extra fans, singing louder, with more expression.

We circled slowly, not going very far, our shoes dragging in the sand. I could feel every imprint of every button on his jacket, the stitch of the pockets, the bulge of his…cell phone.

The boy kept singing although we edged away, toward the waves, the roar starting to overtake the guitar, the air smelling of sea salt and wet weeds. I didn’t want him to pull away, for this part of the night to end, but my traitorous body shivered in the chill.

“We should get you back.” He let go of my hand and steered us toward the streets. “The nights get pretty cold here.”

Yes, yes, they do.

***

He walked me down the hall, as familiar now as home. “It’s our last night here,” I said without thinking.

“It is.” He took my key card to open the door, such an old-fashioned gesture that it was hard to imagine that he was really a very modern, ultra metro, fashionable gay man on the front edge of social change.

I didn’t want the evening to end, the trip to end. “We still have the game tomorrow, though.”

He slid the card through the lock. “That should be a good time.”

“And the plane ride back.”

He tilted his head quizzically at me. I was gushing, I knew, embarrassing myself. Getting sentimental. But I might not even seem him again after tomorrow. Tonight was definitely the last time I’d get him alone.

Maybe I should kiss him. Just do it. I’d managed the hand hold.

But dancing was an excuse. He probably didn’t want to kiss girls.

Or maybe it was like Marvin said, beauty knew no sexual orientation.

Except I wasn’t beautiful. Not even close.

“I’m still really sorry about the car ride,” Bradford said.

“It’s okay. Really.” And it was.

“My past is not my strong suit. I stay away from it.”

“Mine is getting that way.”

“Right. The ex-husband.”

“I’ve got that to look forward to when we get back.” And homelessness. My stomach hardened over again, steeling itself for upset.

And here I was, lingering, making a fool of myself—again! I remembered my closed-eye moment the night before, thinking Bradford would kiss me. Oh, the humiliation.

And there HE was again, leaning forward, just like before.

I could not be that stupid again. I would not let him think I was some silly little hetero who couldn’t keep a husband OR a best friend, and fawned over someone out of my reach.

My head banged the wall as I pulled back. I turned and my shoulder pushed the unlocked door open and I stumbled through. Bradford still stood, paralyzed somehow, confused and a bit startled.

“See you tomorrow!” I waved and closed the door, leaning on it.

At least I hadn’t made a fool of myself again.

Chapter 32: Throwing in the Towel

They were painting Jenna’s dog pink.

“She’s going to be soooo mad!” Horatio said. I almost didn’t recognize him without the veil, but then when he squatted down to watch the skinny man in a pink cheerleading outfit run a wand of non-toxic finger paint through Butch’s fur, I recognized the thighs.

Another man bearing pom pons loomed over them. “I don’t want to be around when that girl sees what you’ve done.”

“Won’t that make the pooch puke?”

Butch turned to investigate his new color, sniffed at the paint, and turned away.

“See, she’s a smart puppy!” the pom pon man said.

The effect was actually pretty cute. Butch remained white at the roots, pink on the fluffy ends of his coat.

I snapped a shot of the slender brush flowing through his fur.

I had ridden with the girls over to the softball field in a van, our suitcases now piled up along the dugout wall for our journey home. I wasn’t sure if I was sad or what, but it had certainly been a trip.

I glanced around for Bradford, who had come over separately with Horatio. I wondered if they were rekindling something.

I spotted him on the far end of the bleachers, leaning against a tree with several Ball Breakers. They were trying to keep Jenna busy while this new crew, all men dressed as cheerleaders, dealt with Butch. Horatio stood, wiping his hands on a towel. “My work here is done.” He busted out laughing as the Pomeranian suddenly shook herself, spraying pink droplets. I raised my camera just in time to catch the tail end of the moment, the cheerleaders shielding their eyes with their hands, Butch a puffball in pink and white.

Horatio shook his head. “Jenna’s gonna be one displeased dyke.”

More pigtailed and pleated-skirt men dashed over now that the deed was done.

“What a dog!” said one in a gravelly voice. He had more mascara than Tammy Faye Baker and two day’s growth of a beard. I shook my head and lifted my camera. He became energetic then, striking a saucy pose, one pom pon in the air, mouth open in a big girly smile.

“So are you guys a team, or just a fan club?” I asked.

The man with the stubble said, “I’m the fabulous Martin(a)—that’s with parenthesis around the a—you get that right on the Google search. We’re the un-official cheerleading squad of the Gay Athletic Alliance teams.”

A chubby cheerleader with several inches of belly between his top and his skirt pushed forward. “I want to talk to you. Zest, right? I’m Harold.” He shook my hand. “I saw your pictures on the internet.”

“Dirty pictures?” asked Martin(a).

“You wish,” said Harold. “From the protest. Girlfriend, they’re everywhere.”

“Did we look good?” Horatio asked.

“Uggh,” said Martin(a). “You boys should not do drag in public. Sloppy, sloppy work.” She wagged a finger at Horatio. “I saw your junk.”

“You did not.”

“Did too.”

“Ladies!” I said, before I realized what I’d said, and my face flushed. “I mean, gentlemen.”

They all laughed. “Poor little straight girl,” Martin(a) said. “It’s all right.”

“I got someone who wants to meet you,” Harold said. “Owns a gallery here in town. Wants to display your pictures.”

“Really?” I absently reached down to pet the dog, grimacing when I got a handful of pink, sending the cheerleaders into a fit of giggles.

Harold acted like he didn’t notice. “Come with me. I’ll introduce you.”

***

I felt like skipping across the field as the players lined up for the coin toss. A certain Vincent Amagordo, owner of not one, but two galleries in L.A. and San Diego, wanted limited edition prints of my pictures, immediately, to hang in his gallery for an Election Night Party. I already had a check for five figures and an invitation to attend my own opening if I wanted to stay in California a few more days.

I hugged my Canon 5D. “It’s you and me baby,” I whispered. “We’re going all the way.”

A whistle blew, and the players headed out to the center of the field for the coin toss.

I slipped back into the dugout, where the cheerleaders were arranging their pom pons across pleated skirts and bare knees. “You boys look lovely,” I said. Fern’s fashion sense would have been right at home with this crew. I shook the thought loose. I had to stop thinking of her as a friend.

“Now who’s THAT morose figure the cat’s dragging in?” asked Martin(a).

I followed his gaze toward the parking lot. A man with hunched shoulders, head bent, crossed the grass to the bleachers. He looked familiar, then as he got just a little closer, I saw it.

Cade.

Unbelievable.

I exhaled long and slow, trying to control my anger, but my hands were shaking.

“Uh oh,” Martin(a) said, putting an arm around me. “The diva awakes. Raaawwr.”

I let him approach, needing the proximity of witnesses to stop me from snatching up a nearby Louisville Slugger and popping him upside the head.

He saw me when he was about ten yards away and slowed down even more.

I forced my voice to remain at a normal decibel, but I had a sinking feeling the words weren’t going to come out exactly as I might plan them. I could just shut up, but that was about as likely as Rupaul becoming a lumberjack.

“What the FUCK are you doing in San Diego?” I didn’t have to ask how he knew where to go. Freaking GPS. I had forgotten about it in the melee yesterday. Should have thrown it in the Pacific last night. But it did mean he’d talked to Fern, to get my whereabouts. I bet that went well.

“I had to find Fern.”

“You do that?”

“No. I left a message telling her I was on a plane and she flipped out, saying she was going to have an abortion.”

Whew. “Not possible.”

“I knew she wouldn’t go through with it.”

“That’s not what I meant. She isn’t pregnant.”

“She’s not?”

“Good God, Cade. You know the story of how she and I met.”

“What?”

“Home pregnancy tests. Magic markers. Not rocket science to fake that. One line not pregnant, two lines, pregnant.”

Silence.

“Did you really think Fern was the sort of girl who would get trapped like that? She’d have told the Virgin Mary to abort.”

He wavered for a second and Martin(a) rushed forward with a lawn chair, pushing him down into it. “This is better than Jerry Springer!” he said.

Cade pulled out his phone, checked it, and put it back away. Probably an automatic act by now, waiting for Fern. “Why would she lie?”

Why had she? I tried to find a midpoint between what she had said earlier and what I already understood about her. “My first impulse is to say because she’s a manipulating hedonistic bitch. But to be kind, maybe just to test herself on someone who knew how to commit. To see if it was her fault no one ever had stuck by her. I helped clarify that it was most definitely her problem.”

Cade cleared his throat. “Will you take me back?”

“Now that’s a segue.”

“I knew it was wrong to leave you like that. You don’t have any way to make it on your own.”

“Oh no he DIDN’T just say that,” Martin(a) said. The cheerleaders were piled together, pushing against the rail of the dugout, to listen in.

“I’m doing okay,” I said.

“You won’t forgive me?’

God, in this light it was like he didn’t have any hair at all. Ha, I could still snark. I wasn’t falling for it. “Cade, you said yourself there was no love lost.”

“I was wrong.”

“No, you were right.” I choked a little on that, remembering the locket.

Ivy threw the opening pitch. Blitz was first up. The bat cracked, wild and to the left. Foul ball. I should be shooting. I slid the strap off my shoulder and held the camera in my hands, flipping off the lens cap. “Cade, I gotta go. I’m doing this gig.”

“Will you think about it?”

“There’s nothing to think about.”

“But we had five years.”

“I’d say about four, since you started banging the bimbo a year ago. This is not my problem.”

“You won’t get anything.”

I remembered the check. Good thing he made more than me, so he wouldn’t get any of it. “I don’t need anything.”

“You can’t even keep enough clients to pay for your equipment.”

“And that’s MY problem, not yours.”

“You’ll fail.”

The bat lay on the ground, too tempting, painted black with the word “Vicious” stretching across its slender length in huge white type. Martin(a) was way ahead of me. He scooped it up and passed it to me.

I aimed it at Cade. “Get out.”

“You threatening me?”

“Go.”

“That’s going to look bad in court.”

“You see anything?” Martin(a) asked. The cheerleaders shook their heads. “We don’t see anything at all. And I am ready to testify.”

I stepped forward. Cade leaped from the chair and took several steps away. “You’ve gone crazy. You’ve come to California with a bunch of weirdos and it’s messed you up.”

I ran my hand along the end of the bat.

“Actually,” Martin(a) said, “I see you threatening HER. And you’re the big strong man. We’re nothing but helpless girls.” He put his elbow up on another cheerleader’s shoulder. “Poor and defenseless.”

“You people are sick,” he said, walking backward across the grass.

I tossed the bat on the dugout floor and sat at the end of the bench, fiddling with my camera settings, hoping to avoid anyone’s eyes. The cheerleaders passed a flask down the line, and I took a grateful swig.

“He’s a pig,” Martin(a) said. “I don’t even know him, but I can tell.”

Blitz was on second base. Nikki was up to bat. I concentrated on the game, the warmth of the afternoon, and the smell of hair spray and sweat coming from the cheerleaders. Anything but my life.

Bradford crossed in front of us, and I couldn’t help but stare at the perfectly fitted denim shorts and a blue tank shirt as he paused to high-five a Hoebag who was waiting for her turn at bat. He and the team had no idea what had just happened.

I stood up, ready to take pictures again, quickly zooming in on Blitz, Nikki, and the Hoebags in their dugout across the field. I trained my camera on Bradford, then lowered it again.

“That’s quite a man,” Martin(a) said, leaning on my shoulder.

“I bet he makes you all twitchy,” I said to him and the other men, who were preparing to head out for a cheer. “Anybody trying to call dibs?”

Martin(a) pulled back abruptly, his twin ponytails bouncing in two perfect curls. “Girlfriend, are you saying Bradford is gay?”

“Well, I—” Of course he was gay. He owned a boutique. Dressed right out of Queer Eye for the Straight Guy. He arranged hair, for Pete’s sake, and got stood up for his own wedding right as gay marriages were revoked in 2004. And Fern had said so—oh, right, Fern…

Harry slapped his knee, sending his pom pon shaking. “Girl, you’ve got the gaydar of a republican in a bathroom stall.”

Across the field, Bradford clapped his hands. “Bring her home!” he shouted.

He turned to the dugout then, and our eyes met. Suddenly I knew, without a doubt, it was true. All the glances, the hand holds, the easy laughs about relationships. Then the confusion last night, when I pulled away by the door. He thought I wasn’t interested. He really truly wasn’t gay!

I must have appeared visibly in shock, because he started walking toward me, a quizzical look on his face.

“Don’t just stand there, go get him!” Harry said, giving me a hefty push.

Martin(a) snatched up a megaphone. “Time out!” he shouted, jumping crazily outside the dugout door. “Time out for love!”

Nikki paused, setting her bat back on the plate. Everyone in the outfield, and the Hoebags, and the fans within earshot all turned to the cage.

I strode toward him, starting slow but rapidly picking up speed. He seemed to understand what was happening, maybe he realized I’d never come at him quite this way before. I felt like was walking away from as many things as I was walking toward, away from Cade, whose rental car was pulling out of the parking lot, away from those five dry years of marriage, away from my silly notion of what constituted commitment both from a partner and from a best friend. I moved toward something else, a boy, a scary beautiful boy, and a whole set of friends and circumstances I’d never even imagined just a week ago.

But as we neared each other, I remembered my own wedding day, the awkward dance with my groom. The lilies in the hotel room.

I stopped walking at the memory of Cade telling me, “She’s pregnant.” And of Fern, holding up the orange condoms. The hillbilly on the red matchbook laughed at me as I closed my eyes. I had told Cade he couldn’t file yet, he had dirty laundry to deal with. So did I.

I could feel him, inches away. He didn’t touch me, and I opened my eyes. “I thought you were gay,” I said. “Fern told me you were gay.”

His expression was grim. “I realize that now. Just now.”

“But you’re not.”

“I’m not.”

“What happened at the Plantation? Exactly?”

“My bride ditched me. Called me back to her dressing room about an hour before the ceremony. Said she’d found someone else, a more ‘manly man,’ she called it. Thought it would burn out before the wedding day, that maybe it had all been nerves, but it hadn’t. Apparently she spent the night before with him.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m okay.”

“Are you really?”

“I am. Maybe just now.”

He moved for me, and this time I didn’t have to worry about whether he’d kiss me or not, whether he liked girls or not, whether he cared or not. I could see that he did.

But I took a step back.

“I don’t think that I’m okay.”

The crowd had settled down, the field waited in perfect silence, as if they had been anticipating some great finale, and now had only to be patient until the moment happened.

Bradford nodded. “I understand that.”

“I—I have to think this through.”

“Makes total sense.”

“I still have a long way to go before I’m even single.”

“You do.”

“So I—should go.” He nodded and I turned around, crossing the field in the silence, feeling everyone’s eyes on me. The cheerleaders moved aside as I passed. I knelt down by my bag to put the camera away.

Martin(a) sat beside me in the dirt. “What are you going to do?”

I snapped the bag closed. “I’ll do what anyone would do if they had no home and no real ties. Start over.”

Martin(a) hugged me fiercely. “You go girl. I’ll be at your big debut Tuesday night. You should come. Hang out in this strange little town for a bit.”

“I think I might just do that.” We stood and I purposefully kept my back to the field as I walked through the gate. The bat connected with a ball and the crowd cheered. The game had restarted.

I had gotten only maybe ten yards away when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned, facing the sun, and had to squint to see who it was.

Bradford.

“You heading back to Texas now?” he asked.

I shook my head. “Actually I think I might hang around here. My first gallery show, you know.” I looked around. “I’ve got enough money to photograph palm trees until I can get a client base here.”

“I’m going back with the others.”

Of course. I tried not to acknowledge the pinch of regret. “Tell the Hoebags I’ll send them their prints.”

“I will.”

I adjusted the bags on my arms. “Well, see you around.”

He reached out for my arm. “Wait. Zest?”

“Yeah?”

“In April I come up for a spring cosmetics show. Here in San Diego.”

“In six months?”

He nodded.

The blue of his eyes exactly matched the sky. I could look forward to photographing them in a thousand different ways. “Then I guess I’ll see you in six months.”

Epilogue: The Happy Freaking Ending Everybody Insists On. Which Happened.

Okay, so it wasn’t exactly six months.

It wasn’t, actually, even six days.

I called him at midnight on Tuesday, so upset that Prop 8 had passed, banning gay marriage in California. I couldn’t believe it. None of us could believe it.

I was surrounded by strangers, almost all gay men, drinking and laughing and hugging me congratulations for a successful show. All the rush prints had been enlarged to life size, hanging in the gallery with little lights shining on them like they were the Mona Lisa. People called me brave, brilliant, gifted. Almost a third of the images had sold. A girl could swoon with all the attention. I knew it was the hair.

The room was a circus. Men in over-the-top drag, red spangles, feathers, platform boots. Others in top hats, tails, face makeup from glamorous to mime. Music blared from hidden speakers, changing drastically from punk to Judy Garland, depending on who had control of the playlist. The laughter was low, bellowing, and from the gut. If you closed your eyes you would picture something entirely different, a bar full of straight men, half-drunk, telling ribald jokes. But when you focused in, you could detect it, a few higher voices that surprised you, not female, but feminine. And then you’d catch a random line, “wiped his dick on the curtains.” Or a phrase out of context, “daisy-chaining bitch-whore.” And you knew you weren’t in Texas anymore.

My outfit was killing me. Martin(a) had stopped by the gallery yesterday, as I’d been spending all my time with Vincent making sure the Giclée prints were coming out perfectly, to ask about my opening night couture.

“Makeoverrrrr!” he’d sung with an operatic zeal, hauling me out of the gallery and shoving me into a tiny black Smart Car.

We drove to a part of town called Hillcrest, shopping at strange hole-in-the-wall second-hand stores with names like Flashback until he found “the perfect little vintage dress.”

Normally I didn’t wear pink any more than Butch, Jenna’s Pomeranian. But the pale sheath, falling straight from my shoulders to a hint of ruffle at the knee-length hem, was subtle. Except now the strictures of the style prevented me from sitting easily, and I kept sucking in my stomach to avoid pooching the dress out of alignment.

“You look totally fab,” Martin(a) said, handing my my third glass of champagne. “Did you see the exit polls? It’s a lock. The amendment is fading out like the straights in San Francisco.”

The numbers filled the screen. Fifty-two percent were against the gay marriage ban. “Thank God,” I said. “I’d love to see Jacob Haverty when the official numbers start rolling in.”

“Now that’d be a picture,” Martin(a) said, taking a long swill of champagne and leaving a scarlet print on his glass. The makeup was his only concession to girliness; however, as otherwise he had dressed as a man in an elaborate get up resembling a circus announcer, with a large black hat and red tails.

The stats shifted to the presidential race. The early states were showing a landslide win for Obama. All seemed right in the world.

The door swung open, revealing Marvin and Gary! Marvin marched right into the room and searched until he spotted me. “There she is!” he squealed.

He hurried over, his tweedy jacket making him look like a professor. No eye liner today. He grasped my hand. “The doll is back!”

“I never left,” I said. “How did you find me?”

Marvin tugged a poster from his pocket and unfolded it. “Took this right off the wall.” He waved it at me, Horatio’s near-naked form covering the majority of the page. “I told Gary, ‘Gary, that’s the work of that doll we met on our wedding day.’”

He plopped right down onto the stool next to me. “I’ve been dying to know. Did you figure out that lover boy was a not a penis boy?”

I suddenly realized what they had been trying to tell me with their crazy gestures as we had left the bar. I had the Charades talent of a porcupine. “I did.”

Marvin reached for Gary, who moved in close. “And how did that work out?”

“Um, pretty well.” I suddenly shot through with longing for Bradford. Six months seemed endlessly far away.

“Spill it, doll,” Marvin said. “Leave out no detail.”

“We went to dinner. And the beach.”

“Sex on the beach? You tramp!” Marvin fanned himself.

“Hardly. He’s back in Texas now.”

“What’s he doing there?”

Gary squeezed Marvin’s shoulder and said, “Waiting for Zest.”

I sighed. “I hope so.”

“The doll’s got it bad.” Marvin patted my hand.

The music suddenly cut off.

Vincent, tall and broad in a black tuxedo and electric blue shirt, stood on a chair. “McCain has conceded the race. Obama is about to come on with his speech!”

The room erupted in cheers. Vincent released a tarp full of balloons hanging from the side wall, and the room filled with pink and purple latex.

I grabbed one, realizing too late that it had a funny bump on the end. Condoms. I shook my head, tapping the side to send it toward Marvin and Gary. “Rubbers, anyone?”

“We’re clean!” Marvin said. “All checked and tested and passed with flying colors. Monogamy needs no accessorizing.”

I bounced another one at his face.

“Bee-otch!” he yelled, batting several back at me.

The music began again, but abruptly cut off once more. We turned back to the monitor, expecting to see Obama arriving at the podium.

What we saw instead silenced the crowd. The balloons fell listlessly to our feet.

The numbers flashed on screen, the measure to ban gay marriage passing with fifty-three percent of the vote.

Marvin slammed his hand on the table behind us, setting the glasses to rattling. This set the revelers to whispering, low and angry and shocked.

“It’s the fucking Bradley effect,” he said. “No one wants to admit they’re closet homophobes. They say one thing, then vote on another.”

Gary squeezed his shoulder. “It’s just the margin of error in the polls.”

“Margin of error my ass.” A gorgeous man in a red sequined evening gown jingled his bangle bracelets, his gold lips pinched together. “Those stats are off way more than that.”

“These are early numbers,” Martin(a) said. “It’ll turn around.”

“LA is already in. So is San Fran,” Marvin said. “It’s not going to turn around.”

And it didn’t. In the half hour we waited for Obama’s speech, the numbers only got worse. When the newly elected president finally arrived on screen, the crowd gave a half-hearted cheer, but I couldn’t even muster a fake smile. I didn’t really care who was president, honestly. He’d be effective or ineffective based on what congress let him do.

But Prop 8. That affected people.

Martin(a) cuffed me on the arm. “Don’t be blue, Zest. We’ll fight it still. There’s a whole army ready to challenge this to the Supreme Court.”

His black bowling shoes were shined to a high gloss, and I could only stare them, refusing to look up. “But will they revoke all the marriage licenses? Will the Hoebags lose their married status?”

Martin(a) shoved another glass of champagne at me. “The attorney general will fight that. He’s on our side on this.”

By the time we left, the numbers were awful. 52 percent voting yes to ban. We left the gallery feeling morose and I wanted to talk to someone.

Even though it was 2 a.m. in Texas, I opened the door to my hotel room and flopped on the bed, turning to the speed dial on my cell phone. Bradford was number three, behind my dad and…Fern. I needed to delete her.

I sat by the bathroom counter, running my hands along the cold surface. After deciding to stay in San Diego, I had returned to the same hotel and asked for Bradford’s room. Sentimental foolishness, I knew, but it made me feel less lonely to know I had sat there with him. I faced the mirror as I peeled off the pink dress. My hair was beautiful still, straight to my shoulders. The underslip was loose and flattering, satiny and smooth.

I leaned against the wall and poised my finger over his name, nervous to call. He was probably sleeping. And it could be that he wasn’t alone.

The thought stopped me cold, and I set the phone down. We’d set the six months for a reason, so I could get divorced, and stop reeling from all the changes in my life.

But he was probably as upset as me. He might have even thought of me, hanging out with the Hoebags at Nikki’s, where they had planned to watch the returns.

I picked up the phone again and before I could stop myself, scrolled down to his name and pushed “call.”

Mary Beth’s favorite gay marriage links.

Prop 8: The Musical

Best Protest Signs EVAH

Daily Show with Jon Stewart

Ellen Degeneres on Prop 8

Get involved.

Join the Impact

National Center for Lesbian Rights

National Gay and Lesbian Task Force

The Human Rights Campaign

Freedom to Marry

Table of Contents

Chapter 1: Wedded Bliss

Chapter 2: The Dolt Bolts

Chapter 3: Presidential Debate

Chapter 4: Cheating Cheaters and the Two-Bit Hussies They Cheat With

Chapter 5: The Wicked Women Sisterhood

Chapter 6: Pack, Rats

Chapter 7: Get Your Game Face On

Chapter 8: Bottoms Up

Chapter 9: There’ll Be Sad Songs, to Make You …Trash Your CD Collection

Chapter 10: Sweet Destitution

Chapter 11: 24-Karat Hearts

Chapter 12: Emergency Paps

Chapter 13: Dating at the Speed of Flight

Chapter 14: Rainbows & Cadillacs, and Heterobashing Music

Chapter 15: Elevator Trolls

Chapter 16: Thirsty Birds and Nodding Donkeys

Chapter 17: Good Things Come to Those Who Bait

Chapter 18: Deep in the Heart of Testes

Chapter 19: The Ghost of Bitches Past

Chapter 20: All Hallow’s Evil

Chapter 21: Party on the Plane

Chapter 22: Signs, Signs, Everywhere Are Signs

Chapter 23: Hottiefication

Chapter 24: By the Light of Nikki’s Silvery Moon

Chapter 25: Here Come the Brides

Chapter 26: Road Rally

Chapter 27: Patty-Cakes

Chapter 28: Send in the Cavalry

Chapter 29: Hell’s Belles

Chapter 30: When Gary Wed Marvin

Chapter 31: Moon River. Sans Nikki’s Moon.

Chapter 32: Throwing in the Towel

Epilogue: The Happy Freaking Ending Everybody Insists On. Which Happened.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1: Wedded Bliss

Chapter 2: The Dolt Bolts

Chapter 3: Presidential Debate

Chapter 4: Cheating Cheaters and the Two-Bit Hussies They Cheat With

Chapter 5: The Wicked Women Sisterhood

Chapter 6: Pack, Rats

Chapter 7: Get Your Game Face On

Chapter 8: Bottoms Up

Chapter 9: There’ll Be Sad Songs, to Make You …Trash Your CD Collection

Chapter 10: Sweet Destitution

Chapter 11: 24-Karat Hearts

Chapter 12: Emergency Paps

Chapter 13: Dating at the Speed of Flight

Chapter 14: Rainbows & Cadillacs, and Heterobashing Music

Chapter 15: Elevator Trolls

Chapter 16: Thirsty Birds and Nodding Donkeys

Chapter 17: Good Things Come to Those Who Bait

Chapter 18: Deep in the Heart of Testes

Chapter 19: The Ghost of Bitches Past

Chapter 20: All Hallow’s Evil

Chapter 21: Party on the Plane

Chapter 22: Signs, Signs, Everywhere Are Signs

Chapter 23: Hottiefication

Chapter 24: By the Light of Nikki’s Silvery Moon

Chapter 25: Here Come the Brides

Chapter 26: Road Rally

Chapter 27: Patty-Cakes

Chapter 28: Send in the Cavalry

Chapter 29: Hell’s Belles

Chapter 30: When Gary Wed Marvin

Chapter 31: Moon River. Sans Nikki’s Moon.

Chapter 32: Throwing in the Towel

Epilogue: The Happy Freaking Ending Everybody Insists On. Which Happened.