55. Silas
55
SILAS
I wake up next to Gil who’s still sleeping quietly, his back to me. I spent the majority of last night preparing for my mediation with the Capshaws, and Gil must have felt sorry for me. He invited me to stay over, as a friend.
The rejection stung at first, but he explained as I spooned him, stroking his bare arm. His online friend—Z whatever—has a name now. Zach. A sommelier, supposedly, who lives in Brooklyn. Gil is even considering going out with me and Lilah to casually meet up with him. For Gil, it feels like something—he has fantasies about him. Their conversations have taken on a new intimacy. So it’s got nothing to do with me not being a legit escort anymore.
I’m not being paid for my time here, and I don’t really care about that. It’s enough to share a bed with a man who cares about me in whatever small way Gil does.
That doesn’t mean I didn’t want more than spooning last night. The memories of my last encounter with Graham are slowly consuming me. Nothing’s ever hurt the way that kiss did. It was beyond devastating. There’s no way to describe it except maybe to say that the kiss was like offering a man on the brink of death by starvation a wax apple.
I didn’t realize how hungry I was until I was reminded I have an appetite, and then I was able to feel every bit of starved anguish.
And yet, it was worse than that, because it wasn’t only physical.
I drank myself to unconsciousness after Graham left, trying to numb the pain back into non-existence. Trying to erase all the words he’d said.
But I woke the next day—sometime in the afternoon—and relived the entire experience in full vivid color. The push and pull of love and hate. Want and repulsion. Desire and disgust. The immense disappointment.
The only way I’ve gotten through the past few weeks is work—Gibson Hayes gave me full-time hours—and the lawsuit. But the closer we’ve gotten to today, the more impossible it feels to win.
My lawyer hasn’t said I should drop the suit, but he’s asked me to come up with a lower dollar figure I can live with. A much lower figure.
Lilah remains belligerently optimistic while I’m ready to fold for a month’s rent.
The mediation is scheduled for one o’clock this afternoon. I need to get home, shower, put on a suit, and brace myself. Slipping out of bed so as not to wake Gil, I pick up my clothes from where I folded and stacked them on a chair and go into the bathroom to get dressed.
My reflection in the mirror makes me wince. I look like shit. Exactly like I haven’t had proper meal or a good night’s sleep in weeks. I’ve been drinking too much, which means my appetite’s been shit, and last night was the first time I slept through until morning.
Trixie’s been encouraging me to join a dating app to meet new people. She’s been enjoying dating in Florida—thinks it’s a blast. She’s gone out with both men and women, which blew my mind, especially when she said she’s leaning toward settling down with a woman eventually—if she finds the right one.
I couldn’t help but ask if there was a sexual component to her interest, or if she was just looking for companionship. She’d told me it was none of my business but also added she still has “needs,” and that I might want to take another look at women, too. I changed the subject after that. She and Lilah are all the women I need in my life.
It’s not just my utter lack of sexual attraction to the opposite sex, but their never-ending emphasis on my emotional well-being. They all seem to want me to be more complex than I actually am. No one needs to examine themselves that closely. I should get in touch with Drew again. He knows how to keep a conversation simple.
But I’m too busy obsessing over Graham and the lawsuit to make time for reconnecting with old friends. I’ve been watching cable news like it’s another full-time job, listening to the analysis of pundits in the context of what I learned from Lilah—who does this benefit? Who does it hurt? Money and power.
Graham’s father has made it into the discourse—well—him and Catholics. People much smarter than me are pointing at how much money a certain political action committee is pouring into advertising in the states with senators who may be wary of the human trafficking bill. Some say the bill doesn’t go far enough to address the root of the problem, and that it’s a massive overreach that risks punishing the victims—even stands to profit off them.
It’s all disgusting, and Lilah is right. The religious ideology driving the legislation is unsettling, and I could easily see it leading to the infringement of gay rights specifically. If there’s anything Christians hate more than hookers it’s queers.
If they manage to gain this inch—they’re likely to run with it and take a mile. Lilah’s been joining every protest she can find. The culture war is in full swing.
I wonder how Gibson is dealing with the churn. He hires sex workers for his club. But something tells me he’s rich, powerful, white, and male enough to buy his way out of any consequences.
I’m determined to stay angry. It’s the only emotion that has a chance of competing with the fresh onslaught of grief.
Lilah’s hand closes over my clenched fist on top of the conference room table. Avery’s clear blue eyes flicker to take in the gesture before she meets my gaze. Maybe there’s sympathy there? If there is, it’s got a condition attached. I’m sorry, but…
I’m sorry, but I’m rich and you’re not.
I’ m sorry, but you should have known better.
I’m sorry, but Graham made this not my problem.
I’m sorry, but I win. You lose.
They file out of the conference room leaving me, Lilah, and my attorney with the paperwork I need to sign to dismiss my claim for which I have no proof of Avery’s involvement. Since the video was supposedly altered with AI, there’s also no proof it took place in the Chelsea apartment Graham owned. Avery further contends she was never in possession of the recording.
“You don’t have to sign it,” Lilah says softly.
“Why did I think this would work?” I wonder aloud.
“Because I told you it would. This is on me.”
“You were drunk.”
“I didn’t realize Dr. Roger would be such a dick. I think Avery actually wanted you to get something. She looked like she felt terrible.”
“Not terrible enough.” I pick up the pen, wanting this over with .
“I’ll waive my fees,” my lawyer Jerry says. Lilah knows him from her pre-law days. He’s a nice guy—too nice, maybe. He’s about my age with ebony skin, horn-rimmed glasses, and a heavy Nigerian accent.
“That’s not necessary,” Lilah says. “You mentioned this could happen.”
Jerry says, “My wife’s sister had something similar happen to her—she had to leave our city. Change her name. All because she fell for a rich, married man who took advantage of her innocence.”
Lilah is captured by this. “How old was she?”
“Only twenty.”
“Where did she go?”
I’m signing and initialing, vaguely paying attention to their conversation.
“London,” Jerry says.
“Is she doing okay?”
“She’s married now. A baby on the way.”
“Congratulations.”
Done with the paperwork, I slam down the pen and shove away from the table in my rolling chair. “Leaving the country sounds like a great idea,” I say.
“Don’t you dare,” Lilah says.
“Yeah,” I concede. “You’re right. It’s gonna be Florida.”
The three of us stand. Jerry gathers the paperwork, and I start for the door. Lilah is hot on my heels. “You’re not serious.”
“I don’t want to be here anymore,” I say. My decision is made and it’s final.
“And you think you’ll have a better time of it in Florida?”
“Rent will be cheaper. They might even give me a room at the retirement home in exchange for work.”
“Silas, no. You don’t really want to leave New York, do you?”
I do. I can barely stand being in my apartment. I hate seeing Holden and Blake Lawther coming and going at The Eastmoor. My money is running out despite the increase in my doorman salary, and I’ve lost touch with almost everyone I once called a friend.
I’ve never lived anywhere else, but maybe it’s time. God knows I could use a fresh start. Trixie’s been practically begging me to move, and she’s my only family—my only home.
“Let’s go get a drink and talk,” Lilah says.
“Not now,” I tell her, pressing the down button at the elevator.
“What are you gonna do? Where are you going?”
“If you need to know, I’m going to my apartment. No offense, I just don’t want company.”
“If you change your mind…”
“I’ll text you.”
She gives me a hug on the sidewalk after a quiet elevator ride. “I love you,” she says quietly.
I swallow hard, tears way too close to the surface. She’s been amazing through everything, but this feels like another ending. Another loss. An anti-climactic one at that.
Jesus, I really need to get my life together. Maybe it’s good this lawsuit came to a swift, bitter end. It’s a sign from the universe to get the fuck on with my life and stop dwelling on a past I can’t change. “You’re the best,” I tell her, all out of love to give away. “Thanks for being a great running partner.”
I walk the thirty-six blocks back to my apartment. I’ve got nothing better to do than move and think. It takes me an hour to get home. When I do, I take a shower, put on something comfortable, and sit at my computer, the news off, while I look at apartments and jobs near Trixie.
I’d stupidly allowed myself to count on the money Avery would give me. Not necessarily two point five million, but even a tenth of that could have gotten me started. I could have started some college courses, pursued a goal, taken a step toward a life I wouldn’t have to hide from anyone.
I realize I can still do that. Student loans exist, but I’ve never had debt before, let alone massive amounts of it. Becoming a physical therapist takes years—a graduate degree. I’ve looked at nursing, too, but not only does it not appeal to me as much, it’s just as competitive, though it only takes a bachelor’s.
Eventually, I move away from the computer and onto my couch with a bottle of tequila and the third season of “The Handmaid’s Tale.” I don’t feel like feeling good today.
Lilah texts me, and I respond to let her know all is well. But after that, my phone is silent, the show moves slowly, and I miss my mom.
I’m alone, and I don’t want to be alone anymore.