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Aww, to have what they have. And on and on.
Dillon couldn’t help but wonder how different the feed would be if it was her in the photos instead of Carter.
Only she didn’t have to wonder. She knew exactly what they’d say. She’d seen it all with Kelsey.
Tell me its not trueeeeeee, Kelsey! Wasted on a dyke.
They just need a man to show them how to fill that void ha ha.
The wrath of God descend upon you and the man-vagina beside you.
Kelsey, I loved you as footballer, but this disgust me. It not natural, against laws of nature, what children will the two you make together?
Early in their relationship, Kelsey had learned to laugh at the hateful comments, with she and Dillon occasionally turning them into a drinking game. A sip for every time the wordhellappeared. A chug whenever one of them was called “a man.”
Of all the things Dillon was ashamed of in her life, being gay was not one of them. It was simply who she was.
She clicked out of the photo of Kam and Carter, and swiping to her text messages, found another link from Sam.Black Tie Duds for the Modern Queer.
She texted back.
David Beckham wore jeans to the Star Wars premiere.
There was an immediate reply.
Newsflash, Sinc:you’re not David Beckham. I’ll pick you up at ten. We’re going shopping. Any more lip from you and I’ll put you in heels.
Scene 37
Fifty feet ahead of me, I gazed with mounting envy at the sensibility of Margaret Gilles’ low kitten heels. One would have thought I’d have learned two days earlier in Hollywood that skyscraping stilettos made for a miserable stroll down the red carpet…
But no.
Here I was, twenty feet into the quarter-mile trek through Leicester Square, with my toes already threatening to file a formal complaint with the union.
“Kameryn!”
“Kameryn!”
“Miss Kingsbury!”
The clamor of my name in stereo from a sea of strangers’ lips still felt like I was waking in a dream. Thousands of people leaned against the railings, waving movie posters and memorabilia, begging for autographs as I walked by. I signed as many as I could get to, knowing most of these people had been waiting more than seventy-two hours to secure their place in line.
“Now, the burning question,” the red carpet host, Matt Siker, a charismatic London comedian, greeted as I reached the first stage of interviews on my way to the Empire Theatre. “How would you compare tonight’s event with that of Los Angeles?”
I wondered what he’d say if I leaned into his mic and saidI couldn’t really give you a fair comparison, Matt.I don’t remember much of the Hollywood premiere. I spent the majority of the evening trying not to lose my lunch on my borrowed Óscar de la Renta gown.
Somehow, I didn’t imagine my PR team would appreciate me admitting I’d been so nervous about my red carpet debut, that as soon as I’d made it through the doors of the Dolby Theatre, I’d stowed myself away in the backstage greenroom.
In my defense, I hadn’t been the only one overwhelmed by the enormity of the occasion. I’d been kept company by Grady Dunn, who’d sat at the private bar, his tie dangling loose around his neck, face perspiring, as he waited out the showing of the film. In one of my passing trips to the bathroom, he told me he couldn’t stand seeing himself on screen. And then tipped back another drink.
Those anecdotes, I was certain, weren’t the ones my English host was looking for.
I played it safe. “The reception has been incredible. Both cities have made us feel extraordinarily welcome.”
“And deservedly so,” he beamed, “but tell me honestly, Kameryn,” he lowered his voice conspiratorially, “no one can beat the way we do it here in London, don’t you think?”
An impulsive side of me wanted to tell him he was absolutely right, but not for the reasons he believed. Because despite the magnitude of the Hollywood premiere—the largest the world had ever seen—on a personal level, London had the clear advantage by a mile. There was nothing Hollywood could offer that could outweigh my growing anticipation, knowing by the time the night was over, it was Dillon who’d be unlacing the silk ties on this Versace gown.
