9. Miguel
MIGUEL
NOW
The needle hammers as I guide the fabric beneath the presser foot, placing the stitches evenly apart.
Ever since I was a kid, the rhythmic whir of a sewing machine has soothed me.
Not tonight. The televised interview playing in the background has replaced my top-secret playlist of classic bolero songs that bring me peace.
The Starlight Show, hosted by Angie Kent, airs daily with prerecorded and live segments filled with celebrity interviews and gossip.
At one point, entertainment news simply existed in the same timeline as me.
Now, my phone pings with a notification any time the media mentions Graham’s name.
Keeping tabs on the progress of his movie is an obsession and a punishment.
“…rooting for Hollywood’s favorite leading man as he takes on a new role.
Graham Kingston has joined us, live from Texas, to talk about his transition from actor to director.
Graham, thank you for taking time out of your busy schedule, and congratulations.
You start filming in Austin next week, but all the details have been hush-hush.
What’s the movie about, who will star in it, and how excited are you for this new endeavor? ”
“Thanks for having me, Angie. Which question would you like me to answer first?”
I hear the smile in Graham’s voice but keep my back to the TV.
My socked foot adds pressure to the pedal, speeding up the needle and drowning out the interview.
My chosen form of therapy also satisfies my need to design and construct.
I inherited my passion for sewing from my abuela, a talented seamstress who altered fine clothes for the rich.
Her mother taught her to sew, and she passed the skill to me.
I’d sit beside her for hours while she worked. She told stories about her childhood in Mexico while 1960s bolero hits poured from her old cassette player. The romantic music was her guilty pleasure, so it naturally became one of mine.
Once I got older, she promoted me to the role of apprentice. Cutting and joining shapes sparked my interest in geometry, which led to my career in architecture. I have a lot to thank her for.
She also encouraged me to be myself and never let anyone diminish my spirit.
Her favorite saying was “En la vida, no se trata de cuántas veces caes, pero cuántas veces te levantas.” Since her death, I often hear her voice telling me to get back up when life knocks me down.
Abue Valentina would be extremely disappointed if she knew I’d fallen so hard I’ve been writhing on the ground for a year.
I ease my foot off the pedal, slowing the needle before the speedy pace goes haywire and ruins the stitching. Unfortunately, the interview continues hounding me like a self-inflicted torture session.
“Your friends and family must be proud of you,” Angie says.
When Graham hesitates, I hold my breath.
“I’m lucky to have many people who support me, even from a thousand miles away.”
Angie pounces, her tone rife with delight. “Is there a special someone close by offering you support?”
My lips tighten in annoyance. The leading, invasive questions irritate me as much as they do him, but he’s mastered the art of redirection and never takes the bait.
“Not at the moment, no. But I’m hoping that changes soon.”
“What?” I whisper, craning my neck to see the TV.
He stares into the camera with an impish little grin, like he knew I’d be watching.
Like he’s daring me to look away as he issues a bold warning that he’s only getting started.
Everything fades from view except for him and the faded brown T-shirt he’s wearing on live television.
The one with the hole in the armpit that, thankfully, no one can see.
I wanted to burn the shirt years ago, but it’s his favorite. So we compromised, agreeing he would only wear it while hiking, out of my sight. Yet I’m sitting here in my pajamas, half a continent away, with my twitchy eyes glued to his fashion disaster, until a grinding noise severs the connection.
“Damn it!” I yell, jerking my foot off the pedal.
The needle stops, but the damage has been done. The bunched thread in the seam resembles a bird’s nest, and I’m in no mood to deal with it tonight. I abandon the waistcoat and grab the remote, stabbing the power button to shut off the TV.
Despite everything, I’m proud of Graham for accomplishing what he set out to do from a young age. His endless well of confidence fed my own for years. It’s too bad his audacity never stuck to my bones. I’m expressive and outspoken on occasion, but contrary to what people believe, I’m not brave.
My whole life, I’ve relied on others to shield me from the worst of the world.
I had my parents, older brother, and Carmen to coddle my naive, little soul.
Then my college boyfriend proved how easily a soul could be destroyed.
By the time Graham came along, I’d been drained of naivety and confidence. Anxiety took their place.
I double check the locks on the door and kill the lights. The darkness is short-lived as my nightlights activate a glowing path leading to my bedroom. As I climb into bed two hours earlier than usual, the question of whether other grown men are scared of the dark crosses my mind. Not likely.
I can’t go on like this, trapped inside the comfort zone of my making. Maybe I should follow Carmen’s advice and meet new people. Nothing screams bravery louder than opening myself up to criticism. Perhaps one day, I’ll even be brave enough to love Graham without fearing the fallout.
Saturday, January 7th
The jazz-fusion playlist cycling through the speakers grates on my nerves. What’s worse, the person pretending to be a DJ set the volume at midrange. The music should be loud enough for dancing or quiet enough for mingling. It’s not that hard.
Film industry mixers are all the same. Anyone who knows someone with an invite can get through the door. Carmen translates scripts from English to Spanish, and she drags me to these events as her plus-one.
In the past, I would come willingly. Earlier this evening, however, we argued when she refused to let me spend another weekend holed up in my apartment.
Once I remembered my new goal of meeting people, she gave me a choice between a house party or a club.
And since I’d rather gouge my eyeballs out than get knocked around in a horde of sweaty bodies, I chose the lesser of two evils.
As soon as we arrived at the mini mansion, Carmen flitted off to do god knows what, besides find me a drink. I’ve claimed a chair in the corner farthest from the foot traffic while texting Maisy. Now that she and Graham are temporary roommates in Texas, her proximity to him gives me peace of mind.
Me
Did you get the chamomile tea? It helps him sleep.
Angel
Yes.
Me
And the chocolate puffs cereal? Not the generic brand.
Angel
I’m his roommate, not his personal shopper.
Me
Is he with you? Send me a pic.
Angel
CALL HIM!
Me
One pic, Maisy!
Angel
No.
Me
Fine. Send me the address for your rental house.
Angel
Why?
Me
I’m ordering a DNA test to prove you’re the devil’s crotchety grandma.
“Drink up.” Carmen shoves a blackberry mojito in my face and sits on the arm of my chair.
I take the glass and catch the straw between my lips. The mint and berry flavors are a refreshing combo, and the rum will make the music more tolerable. “You should’ve brought me two if you plan on staying longer than an hour.”
One strap of her sparkly gold dress has gone rogue, and she slides it in place on her shoulder. “You had a frown on your face. Who were you texting?”
I slip the phone into my blazer pocket. “Maisy. She had nothing interesting to say.”
Carmen hums and sips her cocktail, no doubt spotting my lie. I wouldn’t be surprised if she reads my text messages whenever I’m in the bathroom or taking a nap. Nosy relatives.
Her pointy fingernails nearly stab me in the eye when she thrusts an arm out and waves. “Yuri!”
A tall, slim white guy in a charcoal-colored suit saunters toward us like he found his sole reason for coming tonight.
Long strands of brown hair fall into his eyes while the rest is trapped in a bun.
His skin is ghostly pale, except for the irritated pink patch around his lip piercing.
A signet ring on the hand gripping his beer bottle explains everything I need to know. He has Bratva connections.
“Hey, gorgeous.” He bends down to give Carmen a hug, which means he’s all up in my space because my cousin’s draped along the side of my chair like a glittery blanket.
“Glad you made it,” she says, though she’s grinning at me, and I don’t like the conspiring wink she throws into the mix. “Miguel, this is Yuri Gonzalez. He’s a screenwriter.”
My eyebrows hit my hairline. “Gonzalez?”
His laugh is practiced and fake as fuck, like he’s tired of explaining his family tree to people at this party. “My dad’s from Spain, and my mother is from Ukraine.”
Carmen cuts in before I have a chance to comment on the rhyming countries. “Yuri, this is Miguel, the cousin I told you about.”
“Nice to meet you, Miguel. Carmen sings your praises often.” His murky, green gaze makes a slow pass over my body before shifting to my half-empty glass. “Should I grab us another round?”
“Another round” is code for I’m about to glue myself to your ass like a barnacle whether you want me there or not.
My plotting cousin plasters an innocent grin on her red lips. “We’d love another.”
As he wanders off, I feel a twinge of embarrassment for making assumptions when I know what it’s like to be on the receiving end.
People have assumed I’m knowledgeable about fashion because I’m gay and like to sew.
Instead of getting mad, I smile and tell them having good style is a sign of intelligence, then ask if they want any tips.
In truth, styling clothes doesn’t come naturally to me. I’m just a sucker for construction and luxurious fabrics. Like others, I look online for inspiration when putting a trendy outfit together. That’s a secret I’ll take to my grave.
Once Yuri is out of earshot, I poke Carmen’s thigh. “What are you up to?”
“You agreed to put yourself out there.”
“With that guy? Seriously?” I point to my mouth.
She knows how I feel about piercings and tattoos. My mind skips past the beauty in art or self-expression, and I imagine a sharp needle puncturing the skin, over and over, like it’s fabric. Fabric that bleeds. Even the thought of blood makes me lightheaded.
At least her grimace tells me we’re on the same page. It also tells me she’s playing a sneaky game because she knows this Yuri character is not my type. At all.
“The piercing is new. Maybe it’s healing.”
“A warning would’ve been nice,” I mutter.
She’s like a meddling aunt who springs her friend’s single nephew out of the bushes at a wedding. The thought takes me back to our argument earlier this evening.
“You knew I’d choose the party over the club.”
“Of course, I did. You’re predictable.” Her elbow jabs me in the neck before all her bright teeth make an appearance. “Smile. Yuri’s on his way back with our beers.”
“I’m sorry. Did you say beer?”
If I had imagined this night couldn’t get any worse, I was wrong.
As Yuri weaves between bodies, heading our way, I can’t keep the disgust off my face.
Graham wouldn’t deign to order me a beer.
In our four years together, he never even offered, like he knew the flavor repulsed me without having to ask.
Because he could read me, inside and out.
Ugh. I can’t go more than a few minutes without him invading my head, and now I’ll think of nothing else. The morsel of a social mood I’ve conjured vanishes, because this night has officially gone from worse to shit.