2. Bryce
TWO
brYCE
Pressure builds in my chest as my limbs go weak.
I clutch the letter to my chest, trying to numb the pain pounding inside.
Tears press at the corners of my eyes, but they don’t flow.
I’m unable to move or breathe. I just stand frozen, like a tourist on the subway trying to figure out how to use the damn turnstile.
Bobo creeps his front paws onto my feet and stares at me with his giant brown eyes.
“He’s gone.”
Bobo cocks his head.
I read the ending aloud again for him, hoping he grasps its severity.
“We had a good run.”
The tears fall.
“Two years and now …” I hold the paper up, the writing already smudged by my crying. “… this?”
The numbness in my chest expands to the rest of my torso, quickly fanning out over my entire body.
“I mean, two years for gays is like twenty for the straights.”
I sit on the sofa, and Bobo immediately attempts to crawl into my lap. He can only get about a third of his legs on me, but damn, he’s trying. I lean over and kiss his head, recalling Anthony’s request. And then it hits me—he might walk out on me, but he’d never abandon Bobo.
A jolt of hope rushes through my body. “He couldn’t.”
Clutching the note, I rush into the bedroom and check Anthony’s side of the closet.
Empty. With a yank, I open the drawer on his bedside table—bare as a drag queen’s bank account after a Sephora shopping spree.
His mega pack of Costco condoms is all that remains.
How fucking thoughtful. That’s when I know it’s real. Anthony’s gone.
A sound escapes me—something between a cry and a whimper—and I throw myself onto the bed, face down.
How could this happen? Again. After Logan.
Bruce. Derek. Fernando. I mean, none of them lasted as long as Anthony.
I thought this time would be different—he was different.
Why does it always end the same? Why do men always have no problem leaving me?
Am I too much? Too little? What about Bryce Derrickson makes it so easy for them to just walk away?
It’s like I’m some temporary fix, something to pass the time until someone better comes along.
The room spins around me, the weight of my emotions crashing down as hot tears spill onto the plush West Elm comforter.
Washing it is going to be a bitch—it barely fits in the machine in the basement, and frankly, I’m not sure what’s more exhausting: dragging that thing down six flights of stairs or dealing with the emotional wreckage of my life.
Either way, I’m going to need a Xanax with a bottle of wine chaser after this.
I’m alone. Again.
The clack of Bobo’s nails on the hardwood floor as he crosses the nine feet from the living room rug to the bedroom alerts me to his presence. I lift my teary gaze. His enormous head rests on the edge of the bed .
“I know, buddy. It’s just us now.”
I pat the blanket, and he jumps up and lies next to me. I wrap my arm around Bobo’s body, holding him close as more tears fall. A soreness in my throat takes over as I attempt to swallow, and he bumps his cool nose against mine.
“Oh, Bobo.”
He licks my face, and honestly, between the tears and dog slobber, I’ve got a full-on skincare routine happening.
“We’ll be okay. We have the apartment. I can try to pick up another shift at the Met.
Maybe Anthony’s right, and my big break is around the corner.
Don’t worry.” I run my hand over his face, his deep eyes reassuring me.
“The sun will come out tomorrow. Don’t stop believing.
What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger.”
After washing my face, I head back to the living room to console myself with the buns. I pinch off two pieces and toss them Bobo’s way then gobble the rest down myself.
“Yeah, doesn’t feel like enough, boy.”
I hop over to the refrigerator and open the tiny freezer on top.
“Now, a bun followed by a pint of Procrastination Swirl might do the trick.”
Back on the sofa, with ice cream and pretzels piled into a giant bowl that was probably meant for salad (but since we never actually eat salad, it has become our ice cream and mix-ins bowl), I grab my phone. Right now, only one person can offer me any solace.
I fire up my playlist, and synths dot the room before a beautiful, soft alto joins the music. The beat kicks in, and I take a perfect bite—equal parts salty pretzel and sweet swirl—then thrust my shoulders back, ready to get my groove on to “Party for One” by my queen. Carly Rae Jepsen.
When she commands me to dance, I place the bowl on the table, stand up, and without missing a beat, step into the rhythm.
My body flows effortlessly as I glide across the cramped living room, every move smooth and precise.
You might think I’ve studied the choreo from the video—and you might be right.
The ice cream and buns fade from my mind as I immerse myself in the music, spinning and twirling with confidence, the driving beat fueling my adrenaline.
I truly don’t know how I survived the horrors of the world before Carly Rae Jepsen came into my life.
Sure, there was Kelly and Gaga and Madonna.
But none had the right kind of unabashed JOY.
Carly’s music is pure sunshine, lifting me up, whether I lose out on another audition, or another boyfriend.
Bobo watches, wide-eyed, and I can’t help but smirk.
“Fuck that asshole!”
Hearing this, Bobo huffs, takes his usual spot on the sofa, and lowers his head, a sure sign he agrees.
As Carly breaks into the last chorus, I scream the words, stamping my feet when the music drops out and only leaves her voice and the pounding bass drum. This is my party for one. Well, two, if you count Bobo. Which I do.
When the song ends, I collapse on the couch next to Bobo, my breath coming in short, shallow bursts.
The high from dancing fades quickly, replaced by a creeping sense of doubt.
Before the next song begins, I press stop on my phone, the sudden silence like a siren in my ears. One song is all I’ve got in me.
Bobo looks up at me, his eyes big brown pools, as if asking why I stopped. I don’t have an answer. The music always makes it easier to pretend, but when it’s over, it’s just me—and even with my canine bestie here, I’m feeling more lonely than ever.
As a gorgeous day turns to rainy night, I try to block out thoughts of Anthony and crushing loneliness with food, wine, and bad television.
Marsh and Data are away at their cabin this week, so they can’t come over to cheer me up.
I text my bestie Portia, but she messages back Stuck on a yacht and she’s not even being sarcastic.
My thoughts wander back to the last time I was single—the two months between Derek and Anthony when I experienced a similar loneliness. Feeling the need for some connection, and exhausting all other possibilities, I return to my old foe.
Grindr.
Like all gay men, I detest it yet can’t permanently remove it from my life. When Jake Gyllenhaal proclaimed, “I wish I knew how to quit you,” he wasn’t talking about hottie Heath Ledger. He was talking about modern dating apps.
On the home screen, I’m instantly met with a grid of blurry torso shots and vague taglines. Despite the bevy of potential paramours, once I block all the guys who proudly proclaim they’re not into femmes or fatties, I’m left with a scant few choices.
I manage to find a guy with a passable ability to string together a sentence. After some requisite flirting, I tell him to come over and down another glass of wine.
I know I’ll hate myself in the morning, but whatever.
At my core, I’m not a random-hookup kind of guy. But apparently, all guys like to do is say goodbye to me. I’m the person you leave. For hotter guys. For richer boyfriends. For kangaroos in the outback.
The giddy ding of the notification alerts me.
On my way. See you in 15 .
Not tonight.
Tonight, I will have meaningless sex and kindly ask the guy to leave when it’s over. I will be the one who says goodbye.