Thirty-Seven
Tait
Lucy helps Ava and I get ready, cajoling us with 90s pop and lemon drops to pull us out of our funks. I ask Ava how she feels enough times that she eventually snaps, tossing her drink at me.
“I feel like the man I thought I was getting to know as my dad is still the man I was getting to know as my dad, damnit!! I feel like I’m fine! I feel like our mom was a spiteful, but sad woman, but that she tucked us away because she didn’t want us to pay the consequences for her actions and have people call us sister-cousins our whole lives! I feel like I am still your fucking sister and I don’t care that there’s been a name change to the faceless man I’ve always thought of as Dad, anyway. I feel like I miss my son and my husband, and I feel like you’re being fucking annoying. Now stop it and let’s let ourselves enjoy a fun party for you and for Lucy, and for our grandmother!!! ”
I stare at her, my face full of makeup running down in rivulets, and say, “Okay.” And we all dissolve into laughter to the point that she pees herself and has to change her dress while I reapply.
The party is beautiful, and way too over the top. It’s the first real glimpse I get of Logan Range with its Hollywood glamour vignette. There are trailers everywhere behind the largest barn, the fanciest outdoor bathrooms (cannot be considered portable potties when they have stairs, mirrors, and actual flushing mechanisms), and lights strung up from the open barn across a blacktop dance floor, through the surrounding pines. There are great long banquet tables, small pub style ones dotting the areas between, a bar with a full cocktail menu blocking the entry to the barn, and a DJ booth operating from a stage in the far corner. The night is cool but dry despite the other night’s downpour, and Lucy even thought to set up multiple fire pit areas with Adirondack chairs, blankets slung over their backs.
“Lucy. This is incredible. You could do this for a living,” I say in awe.
“No, thank you. Party planning usually involves planning for other people. I only like to plan for my own,” she responds.
I meet the majority of the cast members, who all seem so much smaller in real life, but who also all seem surprisingly down to earth and kind. Duke Wade is handsome in a disarming kind of way. Big brown eyes the color of milk chocolate, tall and lean like you’d imagine an actor to be, with black hair that waves to his shoulders, and lips that would be feminine on anyone else, but that work with his sharp-boned face. Lucy may have feigned a brave interest in him before, but she loses her hold on the act the moment he greets us, and she sprints over to the bar.
Producer Jake is wheeling Emmaline dramatically in loops across the dance floor to Purple Rain, still wearing his cowboy hat with a three-piece suit.
I’m delighted to find out that the journalist for the entertainment article whom I’ll be working with for the next few days is Jessa, a woman I’ve worked with before and adore.
James flirts shamelessly with Jessa, convincing her to dance when she starts bobbing her head to “Shut Up and Dance,” shocking us all when he whips and swings her around with expertise. There are dips, there are swaying hips, swift spins in and out of his arms… Her face stays locked in permanent delight while Ava and I wear twin expressions of astonishment. “The Logans all love to dance. And are quite skilled,” Emmaline says at my side, pride and laughter thick in her voice.
“Hey—are you supposed to be out of the chair?” I ask her, and she waves me off.
“I won’t walk myself to death in ten yards, my girl.” Then, to my stern expression, she adds, “I promise I won’t go out on that floor unless I’m wheeled out there, though. Happy birthday, sweetheart.” She kisses my and Ava’s cheeks, exchanging compliments and exclamations when we spot Grady and Caleb dancing in the throng.
I see it in the distance when Duane intercepts Ava at the hors d’oeuvres, but she smiles brightly at him and they start talking, so I don’t rush over to rescue her.
I spot Duke making an attempt at talking to Lucy again before she darts away. LeighAnn and Grace are breaking it down to Snoop Dogg’s “Drop It Like It’s Hot,” each holding a wine glass high above their heads as they swing their hair back and forth.
Charlie and Jake are laughing at the bar, doing that man thing where they have an arm extended to the others’ shoulder at the same time, beers gripped in their free hands.
There’s chaos, bad dancing, the odd friendly argument, excellent dancing, delicious food, and copious amounts of booze. My senses are buzzing with the happiness around me, my heart feeling more hollow and somehow lonelier than ever.
“It’s your party, and you’ll cry if you want to, huh?” comes Henry’s deep voice from behind me.
I shut my eyes at the flood of happiness, at the throat thickening excitement.
“Hi,” I manage to say, which is an impressive feat when I turn around and take him in fully. Henry dressed up is… a lot to take. Black button down that’s pulled taut across his broad shoulders and chest, black tie, black slacks that mold to his powerful thighs.
“Hi,” he says, not without warmth, and crooks a smile. “You look beautiful, again. Always.” He sighs. And, when I don’t come up with a response, only managing to stare some more, he continues, “So, what do you think of a Logan party?”
“I think that the music choices rival the randomness of my playlists, and they seem very off-brand for the place so far.” Macklemore thumps out “Downtown,” and synchronized dancing begins in a circle as Caleb lip synchs every word from the center.
“There’s a broad demographic here. But don’ t you worry, they absolutely will be playing “Cotton Eye Joe” at one point or another, and they’ll go apeshit for it.”
“Thank you for coming.”
“Of course.”
The muscle in his jaw twitches again, and he slides the back of his hand down my arm before he asks, “Can we just enjoy the hell out of tonight? And worry about the rest tomorrow?” And when he says this, the feeling that fills me is equal parts love, gratitude, and mourning. Because Henry has always given me exactly what I’ve wanted, plus what I’ve needed. From that first night when he dropped the conversation and played card games, to each time he’s said what I’ve needed to hear without expectation, to the space he’s allowed for us to become friends—even after I drunkenly dry humped him in a pond. Here he is, even now, giving me this night, despite our earlier conversation, despite the fact that I can’t tell him anything with certainty. I can’t give up being me, again, just to hitch up my baggage to another person. And yet, here he remains, steady and strong, and insurmountably more mentally stable than I, offering me both a distraction and acceptance.
I feel the smile to my ears. “Hell, yes.”
Ladies and Gentlemen, Henry Marcus Marcum is a fun-dancing machine.
No one makes any surprised remarks or throws us any glances when, after barely a drink, he drags me onto the dance floor and tosses me around to Hot Chocolate’s “You Sexy Thing.” He finds ways to grind on me subtly, brushing his hands up my arms to wrap around the back of his neck when he presses quickly to my behind, before whipping me out of his embrace and letting me strut my way back in. We do a real-life country two-step and swing to “Boot Scootin’ Boogie,” his palm never leaving mine (even though he obviously knows real, proper, actual steps and I have no idea what my feet are doing to keep up with him). He yells into my ear to stay on my toes before he spins me around like a top to “Gimme! Gimme! Gimme!” (The Mamma Mia! version)—countless twirls before he tips me into a death-defying dip and plants a sweaty kiss on my face. We all laugh until we cry when he and Grady break down a pointedly on rhythm, overtly feminine, and dramatic rendition of BLACKPINK and Selena Gomez’s’ “Ice Cream.” His tie takes turns being around his forehead or draped around my neck, and when “Cotton Eye Joe” inevitably comes on, everyone does indeed go completely, 100 percent apeshit. Even Duane clogs his way through the song, spilling his drink and smiling maniacally—like a deranged, country leprechaun.
Henry disappears for a moment when we fall over to the bar for our millionth cup of water. I think we both must want to remain as lucid as possible this night, drunk enough on fun.
When he returns, his face is flushed, but serious—forehead tie nowhere to be found. He holds his palm out to me ceremoniously as the slow song starts to play, the gesture asking Will you dance with me?
I catch Ava’s eye from behind him, her sad smile that I return when she mouths “Twitterpated.”
I look at this beautiful man and tell him yes, and then I’m in his arms, one hand around the back of his neck and one dwarfed in his palm, his other on the base of my spine. I’m afraid to look away, to blink and to have the night be over.
We don’t say anything, but the more he stares into me, the more the panic in my chest climbs. I notice every twitch of his eyebrows, every time he swallows and I think he wants to speak. But neither of us does. The song’s words cut into our bubble… the lyrics beg for someone to tell him what their heart wants, declaring it as if it’s some simple thing.
When the song tapers to an end, he bends to whisper in my ear, “Come home with me?” And I know that I shouldn’t. I know that tonight will just make tomorrow harder, but I say yes. We fit as many mini cakes in our fists as we can on our way out, giggling like idiots the whole way home.
We tumble through his door, smearing frosting on each other’s faces and licking it off. I catch his thumb in my teeth and his eyes flash with heat, and he picks me up and tackles me to the couch.
A memory flashes before me of the first night I laid here, when he fed me grilled cheese with apples and a whiskey ginger ale. He cages me in with a laugh, shoving an impossibly huge bite of a raspberry white chocolate cake in my mouth, and as I attempt to close my mouth around it, his eyes grow huge and his laugh disappears .
“I love you, Tait,” he says, the words bursting from him like he couldn’t stop them.
“RiiRuhRooRoo,” I say around the cake, and then I laugh and cough cake into his face, but say with clarity, “I love you, too.”
Then we are kissing again, wiping cake from eyelashes and eyebrows, and I’m untucking his shirt as he peels down my dress and then he’s inside me and it feels like too much, like every time will feel like too much, too heartbreakingly good.
He tells me he loves me, even as I claw at him later that night, crying out his name, keening out nonsense. He just says, “I love you,” shaking his head occasionally, like he can’t believe how much.
I wake up to a silent house, to the smell of coffee the following morning. The tears spring faster to my eyes than I’d have thought possible, because I know that it’s over. Last night was our goodbye to us.
When I manage to haul my weary body down the stairs and to the coffee pot, I see the envelope with my name on it. I open it, finding a simple green card that says “Happy Birthday” on the front. The inside would be empty if not for his handwriting. Two slips of paper fall out onto the counter, but my eyes pore over the note, first.
Tait, you should know that if you choose to use this gift, I won’t be able to go with you. They found it “exceedingly strange” that I would want to buy a gift card. Apparently, that’s not something they typically sell there. They also didn’t like that I wouldn’t take any of the “merchandise”… I think you should nab, like, six of them, though. Don’t be afraid to commit to something, give this kind of love a home. (Even if it’s a little scary/aggressive/creepy when you refer to it as “not porn.”) (See photo.)
I pick up the picture. It’s the one he took of me with the llama. My smile is stretched to the limit, my eyes crinkled to the point of disappearance. I smile looking at the creature’s furry, ridiculous face, even still.
The gift certificate is for an animal shelter, local to here, in Idaho. He’s drawn an arrow indicating that I should look at the back, where he’s written,
I called the animal shelter that I think is closest to you back home, too, but I couldn’t get a physical gift certificate from them in time. Adopt as many animals as you want, wherever you want, Tait. In California, in Idaho, just grab any and every bit of happiness you deserve. Any living thing that has your love is the luckiest thing on the planet.
I want you to know that no matter where this goes with you and I, I am just happy to know you, and want you to do whatever it is that will make you as happy as you’ve made me, regardless of whether or not that includes us. I want you to know that you’ve made me want to be a better, happier man for ME. Thank you for having that kind of faith in me, for challenging me and pushing me as you have.
I meant what I said. I will be here, waiting, and ready whenever you are, however long you need. And here’s the thing… As much as you make me want to be a better man for myself, you’d be the main character in my life, Tait, whether you like it or not. I don’t think those things are mutually exclusive. I’d make sure you’d never forget how fascinating you are, always. If you’d let me, I’d cherish you. I love you.
-Henry
Tears splatter the paper before I have the chance to move it.
It takes Jessa and I four days to get enough material for the article spread. With Henry gone on the hunting trip that Emmaline insisted they still go on, I throw myself into work with something bordering violence. I retrieve my replacement camera, go back to filling my spare minutes with exercise and distraction, editing photos, and plotting the following shoots. I receive a checklist for the travel magazine’s article and send those photos off almost immediately, having already covered each item in the time that I’ve been here.
I get the autograph of the actress who plays Sadie Dollar for Fletcher. She tries to corner me into talking about Henry, no doubt having heard about us at the party, but I don’t even bother answering; I just smile and walk away.
I learn that Jake Lockhart might be a little cheesy on the surface, but it’s easy to see that his vision for the show is anything but a sellout. He highlights difficult, uncomfortable, relevant social issues, finding a way to tie those in with the plotline surrounding the Dollar family.
Ava spends the nights this week in her old room, but she spends the days getting to know Duane.
Charlie sends photos and texts from different spots on their trip, so I know they have at least intermittent service, despite not hearing from Henry. I know it’s for the best.
Emmaline remains stable, so when I finish up the majority of editing, I call Deacon and make arrangements to go home early. Dragging out another goodbye sounds like the last thing any of us need right now, and since Ava and I plan to come back in a few weeks for Thanksgiving, I decide to rip the Band-Aid off and head home.
Unlike traveling to Idaho, the flight home seems impossibly fast. Before I know it, I’m riding past Lake Tahoe, the blue somehow a little more dull, the terrain a little more tame. Then I’m walking through the door of my A-frame, greeted by my tastefully decorated, but pictureless walls, my too large, too cold bed, and the rootless life I built back here… a life that seems so unnervingly quiet and empty now.
I was brave for a moment there, though.
I was brave enough to love, to reach out to a family that could have easily only hurt me more. I was brave enough to be vulnerable again, and it paid off, even if it did invite in so much more heartbreak… After all, I have grown to love more people that I will absolutely lose at one point or another—one in particular much sooner than the others, and her loss will be permanent.
All love, at some point, is going to be devastating, isn’t it? We all just choose to be brave, to go after what we want, who we want… even if it means potentially losing a piece of ourselves. Even when it means being intensely vulnerable. I chose to let in my family, to let in friends again, to let in Henry.
Instead of losing a piece of myself, even with the pain… I found it there.
It only takes me that hour, in that house that used to hold the smallest pieces of me, to realize what a complete, utter, total fucking idiot I am.