His face was on hers, her cheek to his. She could feel his breath. She assumed he could feel hers, but she wasn’t entirely sure she was breathing again.
She found her voice in a triumphant return to earth.
“I’ve had a C-section,” she said.
He didn’t respond. He had her up now, against the door. His face to hers.
“So there’s this scar. And my belly.” She tried to look down, grimacing toward her stomach as though it were an old friend who had recently let her down.
She sighed. “I didn’t shave today. I can’t get into that whole waxing thing, it’s just not me.”
SHUT UP, Gracie thought to herself. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, WOMAN, SHUT THE HELL UP!
“I’m getting gray hair, and if you want to know the truth, I haven’t slept with anyone in—”
Oh, Jesus, Gracie thought, he’s doing that thing, that thing he did when he carried her out of the water, and lifted her up
like she was Cleopatra and he was her slave—no, better yet, like that Lina Wertmüller film that Madonna and her cute husband completely screwed up but where her biceps looked amazing. But somehow scary, and yet she’s still fabulous, which is, of course, the mark of a great star. He picked her up like that Italian guy, like Marcello Mastroianni, and brought her inside the house, and somehow, Gracie was able to lift one limp, lifeless hand up to indicate “stairs” and “up”—and then he was holding her in his arms as he walked up the stairs, taking two at a time, not one, and Gracie became afraid, suddenly, for his health—after all, she was not Jaden’s size. We’re talking some weight here. I mean, I’m not a candidate for that new stomach surgery that the singer did—and she looks so great, but she always did have a beautiful face, let’s be real, Gracie thought, but I could lose, like, fifteen, twelve, seven pounds.
Gracie wondered why she always seemed to be revising everything, even life.Was this the burden of a frustrated writer?
He kicked open a door lightly (Gracie slightly worried about the scuff he would leave and how she would explain it to Joan) and carried her to the bed and set her down and looked at her. Gracie watched him looking at her and defined that look: He was looking at Gracie like she was a juicy piece of rib eye and he hadn’t eaten in weeks. But he was taking his time, enjoying that moment before you actually stick your fork in. That scintilla of anticipation—breathing in the aroma of the meat, appreciating its thickness, the cut, the color, he was appreciating the whole package. All the senses are alive in the penultimate, keyed up for the climactic moment. In other words, it was not a good time to hear the words “Gracie? Come out, come out, wherever you are!”
Followed by footsteps.
“Gracie?” Will was saying. “Are you playing hide-and-go-seek? Who sleeps at this hour?”
And then she heard him trip on the stairs.
“Blast!” she heard him say. “What a stupid place for stairs!”
Gracie looked at Clint (still her pet name for him) and he looked at her. She had no idea what to say, no idea what to do. She couldn’t stay there, and she couldn’t leave.
And then he smiled. His teeth were white but not that scary, bonded white, and the corners of his eyes were accented by a fan of wrinkles—
“Wow,” she said, “what a smile you have.”
He kissed her just as Will knocked on the door and peered in—
“Gracie?” he asked.
Gracie sat up on her elbows and looked over her shoulder while Clint stood by the bed.
She couldn’t help but notice all systems were go in his orange shorts.
Neither could Will as his eyes adjusted to the dark.
“Oh,
madre mia!”
Will said cheerily. “Did I interrupt something?”
“Not yet,” Gracie said, “but you could wait five minutes and come back. It could be even more interesting.”
“Hi, there,” Will said, looking Clint up and down and resting his eyes momentarily on the orange shorts. “I’m Will, and I’ll be your annoying intruder for the night.”
Clint shook his hand. Gracie could tell that Will was impressed by the whole package. He had to be—even Clint’s handshake belonged to that species of man who belonged on those old Marlboro billboards she’d loved as a child.
“And you are?” Will asked, flashing his most ingratiating,
space-between-his-front-teeth smile, the one most often reserved for potential clients.
“Sam,” the man said.“Sam Knight.”
“Like the Round Table or the hours between seven and midnight?” Will asked. “Actually ‘seven’ would be more like ‘evening’—but then ‘Sam Evening’ wouldn’t be a good name, now, would it?”
Gracie could tell Will’s excitement meter was off the charts; he could hardly keep his voice within a normal octave.
“Will,” Gracie admonished.
“I know, I know, but don’t you understand? It’s just too good, the whole thing, I have to know,” Will said.
“He’s drunk,” Gracie said, turning to the man whose name was to be deciphered. “You don’t have to answer him. Sam. Sam Knight.”
“Or, Sam Night?” Will asked. “And yes, I am drunk.”
“It’s like the Round Table,” Sam said, crossing his arms over his waist, but not because he felt defensive. He was trying not to reach out for Gracie. He knotted himself up to keep from grabbing her.
“Sam Knight,” Gracie said. “I like it.”
“It’s like a fairy tale,” Will said, “except the princess is going through a nasty divorce with a big fat loser who’s dating Britney Spears and living in the Colony.”
“It’s a Malibu fairy tale,” Gracie said.
Sam stood there, and Will stood there, and Gracie remained lying back on her elbows. For a moment the pause in the room became pregnant.
And then suddenly Will said, “Well, it was nice meeting you, Mr. Knight.”
“Sam’s fine. Or just Knight,” Sam said, shaking Will’s outstretched hand again.
“A thought just popped into my head,” Will said, looking Sam up and down. “A knight requires a sizable lance—”
“I don’t want you driving,” Gracie said.
“I have no intention of getting behind the wheel,” Will said. “I know what all these people have been doing in Malibu. You couldn’t force me to be out on PCH. Even though I know you’d like it …”
And now Sam was escorting Will out the door as he blathered on—
“And don’t worry about Cricket,” Will said. “Miss Parents Magazine is downstairs, passed out on the couch.”
And Sam closed the door.
He turned back to Gracie, who was about to apologize for her friend—
Sam moved toward her, put his finger on her mouth with as little weight as needed, and then he kissed her again.
“When you’re right, you’re right,” Gracie said as she came up for air and rolled on top of him and kissed him as though she had never kissed before in her life, had never lived before this moment.
G
RACIE HAD HEARD,
and believed, that life was made up of moments. She had believed this primarily after giving birth (being cut open) to Jaden. She could think of so many moments as a mother that made up her life—so many that they crowded out earlier moments—losing her virginity, getting married, the first time she had a book published.
But her first kiss with Sam would definitely make it into the top five.
The top five being:
▪ Jaden’s first smile, which happened to be at Gracie’s breast.
▪ Jaden’s first laugh.
▪ Jaden’s first step.
The first time Jaden said “Mama.”
▪ The first time Sam and Gracie kissed.
“But did you sleep with him?” Will asked, first thing in the morning. “Did you do the deed? Did you make the beast with two backs?”
“I didn’t,” Gracie said as she scooted around the kitchen, making coffee and generally floating somewhere two feet above the ground.
“Quel horror!
I don’t understand,” Will said. “As a gay man, your foot is always on the accelerator.”
“I liked it,” Gracie said. “I don’t think either of us were prepared for the first kiss,much less the feature presentation.”
“Strange,” Will said. “I will never understand the Way of the Breeder.”
“Well, thank God you don’t need to,” Gracie said.
Cricket walked into the kitchen, holding her head as though it were a vase that had been thrown on the floor—
“Since when does pot give you a hangover?” Cricket asked.
“Since it’s mixed with five shots of tequila and a tab of Ecstasy,” Will replied.
“I don’t do drugs!” Cricket said. “Please don’t tell my children!”
“Cricket, your kids can barely talk,” Will said.
Cricket looked at him, squinting her eyes against the bright sunlight. “The sun wants to kill me,” she said, pointing toward the kitchen windows.
“If you’re going to be an over-forty single mother, you’re going to have to get used to these kinds of things,” Will said. “Hangovers, drug talks with your three-year-old …”
“Who says you’re going to be a single mom?” Gracie asked. “What have you done?”
“You didn’t tell her?” Cricket asked Will.
Will shook his head as he went to take coffee mugs down from a cabinet. “Number one, it’s too personal, and I thought you should be the one to say something, and number two, it totally slipped my mind. How did that happen?”
“You’re off your game,” Gracie said.
“It’s all because I saw Brad Pitt last night,” Will admitted. “I’m off-kilter. My systems are down—it’s like I’m a fuse box—I saw his face, and BOOM! No more lights on in the house!”
“Did I see him?” Cricket asked.
“Not in the sense that your eyes could focus,” Will said. “But you bumped into him and he said ‘Excuse me,’ and you said, I’m paraphrasing, ‘Watch it, pretty boy’—”
Cricket covered her mouth with her hand and squealed. “I was rude to Brad Pitt?”
“She was rude to Brad Pitt?” Gracie asked.
“It was one of the proudest moments of my life—I’ll probably flash on it in my dying hours. It was that important.”
Cricket sat down on the floor and put her head in her hands.
“Can we talk about this ‘single mother’ insanity?” Gracie said. “I need to know what’s going on.”
“What’s going on is that Jorge and I are getting a divorce,” Cricket announced. “That’s why I was out all night, drinking and being rude to movie stars.” And then she burst into tears, wiping her nose with the back of her sleeve.
“Are those my pajamas?” Gracie asked.
“Well, they’re not mine,” Will said. “I don’t believe in flannel as concept or actuality.”
“Cricket, you don’t have to get divorced just because I’m getting divorced,” Gracie said, ignoring Will’s harangue against her beloved, defenseless flannel.
“It’s not about you. I can’t take the deception anymore,” Cricket said.
“Jorge does not cheat on you,” Gracie said.
“Not now,” Cricket said, “but someday!”
Will started pouring the coffee. “Far be it from me to say, but do you really believe in preemptive divorce? Isn’t that like not having sex so you don’t have sex?”
“This is crazy,” Gracie said. “Seriously, Cricket, you’re scaring me.”
“You wouldn’t understand,” Cricket said. “You were never really happy with Kenny—it’s not like you lost your best friend.”
“But I
was
happy with Kenny,” Gracie said.
Her friends looked at her.
“Well, I thought I was. For a while,” Gracie said. “Early on. The first few years.” She looked at them. “Days?”
Will yawned and shook his head.
“Hours?” Gracie amended. Always revising.
“Digging a hole you can stumble into?” Will asked.
“The truth is, we were good together,” Gracie said. “We were like a well-oiled machine.”
“That’s so exciting!” Will said. “Please, God, let me be a part of a well-oiled machine someday!”
“Jorge is younger than me,” Cricket suddenly said.
“So far so good,” Gracie said.
“He has more energy than I do, he has … needs,” Cricket said.
“Go on,” Will said. “But let me sit down and get a clearer picture.” Will had always had a mini-crush on Jorge, the kind
that only homosexual men have for straight men—rare, fleeting, but impactful.
He sat down on a Shabby Chic chair, put his feet up on the glass coffee table, and closed his eyes, with his hands at his temple.
“Ready,” he said.
“He wants sex,” Cricket said. “A lot. Sometimes twice a day.”
Gracie grabbed her heart and moaned.
Will stood up and applauded. “Finally, a straight man who speaks Homo.” And then sat down.
“It’s not funny,” Cricket said. “I can’t keep up with him. I have three kids under four and a half years. It’s impossible— Gracie, you understand.”
“You must get a divorce,” Gracie said. “There’s no other way. It’s a deal-breaker.”
Cricket looked at her, her long, beautiful face sinking.
“Really?”
“No!” Gracie said. “But maybe you can rent him out to friends?”
“Does he masturbate?” Will asked. His eyes were closed again.
Cricket wrinkled her unwrinkled forehead. “I don’t know,” she said. “I’ve never actually seen him …”
Will jumped up. “I’m a genius!” he yelled.
Gracie looked at him. “Yes, yes. The Madame Curie of decorators.”
“Not a bad moniker for a drag queen,” he said, “but wait—one patient at a time.”
He walked over to Cricket and placed his hand on her forehead in a dramatic manner, as though he were a healer and she that poor little girl onstage with braces around her legs.
“Repeat after me,” he said. “Masturbation …”
“What? I can’t—”Cricket replied.
“Do it!” he yelled. “Masturbation!”
“Masturbation!” Cricket yelled back.
“Is the key!” Will yelled again. Gracie was thankful Jaden had not awakened yet.
“Is the key!” Cricket yelled.
“To hap-piness!” Will yelled, accenting the second and third syllables so that the word came out like “ha-
penis!”
Cricket repeated the phrase, syllable for syllable. And finally, her face broke into a smile.
“My God, Professor Higgins,” Gracie said, “I think she’s got it.”
“Do you really think it’ll work?” Cricket said.
“Not only will it work,” Will said, “you may never actually have to have sex again.”
“Liar!” she said. Her face was beaming. Gracie was fearful she would burst into tears again—but this time, tears of happiness.