Adam
ADAM
Epilogue
I nspector David Harrington is circling his prime suspect: the victim’s husband. He has everything he needs to put the man away: the phone records, the eyewitness testimony, and the damning time-stamped receipt that shows Alexander went partying at Heart in WeHo mere minutes after the police told him Kristof’s body had been found in the flood control channel.
In the section I’m reading aloud now from The Case of the Missing Twink , Harrington is slowly putting on the squeeze. “Los Angeles,” Harrington says in the scene, gazing out Alexander’s window at the smoggy skyscape below. “There’s something for everyone down there. The Bullet is more my speed. A North Hollywood holdout, just like me. But I decided to check out Heart anyway. It’s quite the happening place. Very exuberant. This old leather bear didn’t fit in with that scene. But I can see how someone as fit as yourself might have a good time there.”
There’s a modest crowd assembled at Village Well bookstore in Culver City, not including Paul, whose flight into LAX was delayed several hours. But he’s been to plenty of Twink readings before. I’d be madder if he were missing the main event: tonight is the launch party for Roland’s book.
I used a chunk of the money Roland paid me to support myself while I overhauled my detective novel, which I’m hoping can be the start of a series. This first installment is basically an episode of Columbo except Harrington collects his clues at drag brunches and pup play parties. I took Roland’s advice: It had no grand overarching point. It was just a story. And that was enough. Eventually. It was hard to pivot at first. No one expected this from me given my past work. But after fielding a pile of polite rejections, Paul ended up selling it to a young editor at a buzzy indie publisher who connected with the premise. Sales have been strong, but not earth-shattering. Nonetheless, there’s talk of a film option.
“Oh, honey,” I read, in my best David Harrington voice as I reach the end of the excerpt. “The bouncer at Heart didn’t talk. He sang . And I don’t think you’ll like the tune.”
After some polite applause, I field a few questions. Today, it doesn’t take long for someone to ask the one I get at most readings, and it’s not even a question, really: “This book is really different from the last one,” and even though I’ve written several, I know they’re referring to Sodomite . The first time someone pointed out the disparity, I said, “It sure is different!” but by now I’ve workshopped a more practiced response. So I tell the questioner that I realized I didn’t have to be the same person for the rest of my life. That I hope everyone lives long enough to change.
My agent ends up being the last person in line to get a book signed.
“Can you make it out to Paul?” he says, dropping a mass-market Crichton paperback onto the table. “I was hoping to read this on the plane, but I ended up finishing it in LaGuardia.”
“Want to get out of here?” I ask him, handing the book back. “I’m hungry.”
“What did you have in mind?”
I can tell Paul isn’t thrilled I asked him to drive us to the Winchell’s down the street from my new apartment. He looks disappointed as he emerges from the rented sedan, toting his backpack with his free hand. Jammed between dollar stores, the unassuming donut shop is a step down from the steakhouse where he took me when we first got word about the Roland project. But it’s the ideal place to celebrate its conclusion.
“You’re taking me to Winchell’s ?” Paul asks. “You’re lucky I already hit up In-N-Out on the way here.”
“You were delayed and you still stopped somewhere before coming to my reading?”
“I needed the sustenance. Besides, I’m sure you crushed it.”
I never did actually thank Paul for facilitating what turned out to be a life-changing opportunity. He doesn’t know what really happened in Malibu, but he’ll always be the reason it did. I like the thought of him eating terrible tofu dishes with Jess, completely oblivious to the fact that he once sent me to a haunted house where I fell in love.
“This one’s on me, buddy,” I tell him. “Don’t even think about offering to expense it.”
Paul glances through the Winchell’s windows. “Oh, that’s so kind,” he jokes back. “You’re really breaking the bank for me.”
It’s been two years since my time in Malibu with Roland. I thought maybe one day it would make sense to me. But the further I get from that experience, the more unbelievable it becomes. If I hadn’t received that posthumous prologue—which came just in time for the publisher to add to the book after I “discovered it in my notes”—I probably would have convinced myself I had imagined the whole thing. Even when I go back and read our old interview transcripts, it’s easier to picture Roland sitting across from me, body and all, than it is to accept the truth. The dead spoke, I listened, and I’ll spend the rest of my life wondering how and why we were allowed to love each other across that divide.
We gave Zoya time before the memoir got published, just as we agreed. She and I haven’t spoken since the day we did that last interview. I cried through our entire conversation about the logistics of me going to Alta, and we uttered a few semicomforting platitudes to each other, but it was clear we were never destined to be friends. Her throwing my notebook off a cliff wasn’t the best way to kick off our relationship. We said a cordial goodbye, and nodded, sealing our agreement that neither of us would ever divulge the details of our last days with Roland. I can only imagine how she’s processing that time. Though, from my googling, she’s doing well, launching a lifestyle brand off the success of The Z. One of the guys I met off Grindr recently even had a green one—a Z, that is—and I wanted to blurt out, “I once lived with her and her dead ex-boyfriend,” but decided that might be a mood killer.
I’m not sure whether she’ll be at the launch tonight. I hope she comes. Roland would want her to be there.
“So, what’s good here?” Paul asks as I open the door for him.
“Might I recommend the fried dough? Perhaps a coffee.”
He consults the donut case as a bored cashier offers us a flat welcome, setting her phone down on the counter. “Those maple bars are looking mighty tempting,” Paul muses.
“Can we start off with two maple bars?” I ask, prompting the cashier to open up a flattened box that I plan to fill up. I can always take home any leftovers—and I am, in fact, hungry. Who knows what kind of dainty canapés they’ll be serving at the party tonight? Since I moved here, my major takeaway is that the people in this city don’t eat nearly enough despite constantly going to restaurants.
Paul did all the angry emailing and phone calling he could when he found out the memoir was getting delayed, but Roland’s team never budged on the release date, nor did the publisher, who wanted to maintain a good relationship with his talent agency. Details started to leak anyway. Once People got ahold of an ARC earlier this year, the news of Roland being gay got into the press, but that only heightened anticipation for the release. GLAAD is doing a big push around it. I’m sure a documentary will follow.
In the meantime, I’m ghosting again. For another actor. Paul quietly notified a few talent agents whose book I had written and before long, I was approached by representatives for . At that point, I thought it’d be better to move out here for a while to have easier access to my subject. This city isn’t perfect. I don’t go to the beach much, so to me, it might as well be New Jersey with more sunshine and worse pizza. But I needed a fresh start. Roland showed me that.
“And what else?” the employee prompts.
“One of those frosted pink donuts,” I tell her. “With the sprinkles.”
She adds one to the box but, without thinking, I add, “Actually, let’s make it three.”
Paul gives me a side-eye, like he can’t believe I’m daring to eat like this in Los Angeles. But I don’t care. After the Winchell’s girl rings us up, I offer Paul his maple bar, then pluck a pink donut straight out of the box and take a bite. It is a perfect symphony of sugar and fat. I only wish Roland were here to feel it with me.