Chapter Twenty-Five

Vix answered her phone immediately. "Where the hell have you been? Jesus, Des! I was picturing you dead on the side of the road for a week!"

"Uhh—"

"And then that son of a bitch Shelton told me to fire you, which I under no circumstances was going to do, plus they'd gone through my emails, and I don't know for sure who did it, but it's down to him and that other son of a bitch Morse that this whole thing turned into a complete clusterfuck, so to fire you on top of that , I told him he could shove it up his ass and find a new program manager." She inhaled harshly like she was in the middle of smoking a cigar and had done way too much talking.

"You quit?" I asked, grasping the only thing I was pretty sure I'd understood.

"Hell yes, I quit. Screw them and their bullshit. And fuck making the gays their fucking scapegoats for this absolute fiasco, which by the way, I've mentioned to every single client who elected to follow me to my new business."

"Wait, you told clients about this?"

"Des, not every corporation is run by monsters. Well, okay, most are, but not every corporation has a PR team run by monsters, and when I can get them onside, you better believe I do it."

I cleared my throat. It was getting a little warm in my car now that the sun was committed to being up and the fog was burning off, but if I went outside, I wouldn't be able to hear her with the wind blowing directly into my brain. "Hey, so, um, I'm fired."

"I know. I'm sorry I didn't think to call you, but at the time, I'd sent you so many messages I figured you'd text me the second it happened. If you weren't dead on the road—"

"—sorry—"

"—and I also was hoping that having one queer sacrifice would be enough for those fucking pricks, but clearly it wasn't."

"Uhh, no. I told him to die in a fire. In my defense, he told me if I came back to the office, he'd have me escorted out by security."

"Which is true, I can attest."

"They had security escort you out ?" I demanded, shocked and horrified.

"Oh, sweet boy, of course they did. They wanted to humiliate me." She laughed.

"I take it that didn't work."

"Hell no. Please. There is fucking nothing two boring old white men can possibly come up with that would be interesting enough to humiliate me, honey."

I'd never heard Vix go all Drag Race , and it was soothing to my frayed nerves. "I'm fired and I gave up my apartment and I have nowhere to go," I said in a rush before I could stop myself.

"That doesn't sound great, kiddo. You can stay with me, of course. I have a couch and a cat who loves houseguests but may show his affection by pissing on your sheets."

"Um, thank you for that ... kind offer." She laughed and I forged on. "But I'm actually in Conquistos." I cleared my throat again.

" Conquistos? Why the hell are you in Conquistos?"

"I'm not sure now. It made sense at the time. I grew up here."

A beat of silence while she processed that. "Hmm. Well, you can feel free to get your butt back to LA and stay with me, sonny boy. Or wait. Hang on. Conquistos?" This time it didn't sound as much like a question as it was a thing she was considering.

"Yeah," I said, when she didn't continue talking.

"Are you planning to stay in Conquistos?"

"I ..." The ocean stretched out in front of my windshield forever, and it filled me not with the desire to walk in and not come out now, but with ... something I very much didn't want to think of as hope . "Yeah, I think I want to stay here."

"Interesting." She paused. "You know, Des, I might have just the thing. Give me a couple of hours."

"Uhh—"

"How was he, by the way? Orion Broderick? I take it you got to know him fairly well in a very short period of time."

I cringed. "Did you see the picture of me looking insane, trying to close the kitchen blinds?"

"I downloaded the GIF so I could watch it again and again."

"Vix, come on."

"What? You have no idea how happy I was to see that, young man. At least I knew you weren't dead."

"I guess so." Though really maybe that would have been a mercy.

"Well? How was he?"

"He is ... I think a genuinely good human being. And I've dropped him in it all over again." I slumped against my seat. "Am I literally a monster? You'd tell me, wouldn't you?"

" You didn't do this, son. This is other people's fuckups that just landed on your head, and you can tell because they immediately turned around and threw you directly under the bus for it. That's your proof they not only knew it was wrong, but they knew it was their fault. But anyway, back to you and Orion Broderick."

"There is no me and Orion." Except in my silly little dreams.

"Oh dear. That sounds like you wish there was a you and Orion."

How many times could I clear my throat in one conversation? But I didn't know what to say.

"All right. If you say he's a good guy, I believe you. And I'm glad to know it, because I'm in touch with his publicist, who tells me he's considering doing the campaign."

I sat up so fast I banged my face into the sun visor. "Wait, what? He is? Since when? Are you sure?"

She laughed. "We'll see, kiddo, we'll see. But I wasn't about to leave that program with those assholes Shelton and Morse, was I? Without us there it's all straight people, and they'd probably screw it to hell. It'd be gray Skittles all over again."

"He's really thinking about it?" Shit. Not that I should really care anymore, except I still did.

"That's what I hear. Now, I'm going to make some phone calls. And you, chickadee, are going to eat a good breakfast because you're a growing boy—"

"—I'm really not—"

"—and then you're going to do some writing for me. Anything you like. I want a fresh writing sample from you by—we'll say five p.m. Got it?"

"Are you paying me, boss?"

She laughed again, and the sound of it made me smile. "Maybe I am, in a roundabout sort of way. Why? You got something better to do?"

I thought about the words I'd felt burning through my bloodstream earlier and wondered if it was possible to pull the personal stuff and write something good about Orion. Or no, he'd hate that. Maybe it was the opposite move: pull the stuff about Orion and make it something personal. Deeply personal. An essay that took subjectivity as its main character, and me as its object.

There was no way I could pull that off. Plus, I had other priorities. "I should probably find somewhere to stay. Sleeping in the car is painful."

If I'd expected her to exclaim in horror, I'd have been disappointed. "Okay, then, go find a motel room. But check-in time isn't until three, so you can get me my sample before then."

"Oh, sure, yeah, I'll just write something spectacular in the next five hours, Vix, no biggie."

Another laugh. "Suck it up, buttercup. Talk soon." She hung up.

I didn't know what mischief she was about, and I realized I didn't really care.

Orion might do the campaign. He was at least thinking about it.

I hadn't fucked up everything after all. Almost everything, but it was a distinction with a difference, and I'd take it. I dug my car lighter plug adapter thing out from under the passenger seat, rolled down the windows, pulled out my computer, and went back to work.

It took me longer than five hours. First, I apparently had to tease out every single memory, every resonance, every flashback that somehow explained why I'd ended up in that newspaper room looking at proofs of the article and still thinking it was a good idea.

Only after I'd vomited up all those thoughts and feelings and reasons and guilty confessions could I then find a writing sample for Vix. I shifted myself to a café where I could plug into a wall outlet instead of burning through my gas and read the entire thing from start to finish. I'd thought it might take another entire day of cobbling bits together and carving out other bits, but actually, with a few edits, it was all right there: a brutally honest excavation of twenty-two-year-old me, with good intentions, and complex motivations, and an incredibly naive notion of the world.

I sent Vix a thousand words, which wasn't even a quarter of the complete document. It didn't mention Orion by name, but anyone who googled my name would put the pieces together. Which I decided I was okay with. This was just Vix, and if she showed it to anyone, it would be someone she trusted not to hate me for having been dumb and idealistic and careless.

The I just sent a vulnerable piece of writing to someone I respect nausea hit the second Gmail's helpful "Undo" message disappeared.

This could not be undone.

It was about seven thirty p.m., and I'd only taken a break to eat a burger earlier and refill my coffee a few times. Thankfully, I'd landed at a little bistro-type place in Canaltown, which was Conquistos's blink-and-you'll-miss-it gay neighborhood, where they let me occupy an outside table all day and use the closest outlet for my laptop.

"You finally done working, sugar?" asked the miniskirted, pigtailed woman on skates who had been bringing me my coffees. Her crop top, stretched across her chest, read T- GIRLS DO IT WITH D *** S .

I smiled up at her. "Just sent it in to my boss."

She patted my shoulder. "Good boy. Now, I switched you over to decaf about two hours ago—you're welcome—but now I recommend you eat some food, hmm?" She handed me their menu and winked. "I'll be back in five."

So naturally I ordered a second burger (in my head Orion was approving of this protein-and-fats plan) and started looking up motels. The cheapest run-down joints near the beach were right around a hundred and twenty bucks a night, but to get even cheaper I had to drive to the outskirts on the north side of the city, which wasn't necessarily somewhere I looked forward to staying. And the rooms weren't that much cheaper.

I mentioned the price of motels to my server, who pointed me in the direction of the bulletin board. If someone was advertising their room to let in the gay neighborhood, they were probably pretty okay (or, alternately, a massive creep), so I copied down some phone numbers and email addresses for later and opted for one of the scrappy little places by the beach. I'd always wanted to stay in the brightly colored little single-story strip mall–style motels in the lowlands by the shore. I was charging it anyway, right?

Cue more nausea, but I found a place and checked in (for two nights, finances-related vomit ), then parked my loaded-down car as close to the room as possible and brought my computer and a bag of clothes inside, along with the sandwich I'd also ordered at the café to eat later.

My inbox held an email from Vix.

Expect a phone call from a woman called Marlo Ramos. No promises, but if she offers you a job, say yes, no matter what it is. TRUST ME.

PS: I could tan your skinny ass for handing me bullshit the last two years when you could have been writing like this, but I'm sure I'll forgive you. Eventually.

Kisses,

Vix

I inhaled slowly and read it again. Then again. What job? But it didn't matter. Wouldn't have even if Vix hadn't said to take it. I had no job; ergo (or was it therefore?) I would take any job.

Maybe, just maybe, I would get through this. I could clean toilets, or serve drinks, or I could even answer phones, if I absolutely had to, though I'd much rather clean toilets.

Please be real, I thought to Vix's imaginary friend with her imaginary ( no promises ) job offer.

Then I thought about telling Orion that I was cleaning toilets and laughed. A lot of guys who'd seen the kind of income he'd seen would probably look down on cleaning toilets, but I bet he wouldn't. He'd congratulate me and ask if I needed a hand.

The realization that I wouldn't get to have that conversation with him deflated my hope-balloon a little but didn't flatten it entirely. I had a sandwich to eat, and a bed to sleep in, and maybe, just maybe, a job doing some unnamed thing for someone I'd never met.

And electricity, and the internet, and I could take a walk on the beach before bed. Didn't Orion say being cold was good for sleep or something? Add this to the list of things I'd never tell him: I took a freezing walk on the beach because you told me that freezing my balls off would help with ...