Page 59 of Life, Love, and Other Messes

“Jesus Christ.” We both burst into nervous laughter. I could feel her shivering, and Tracy Chapman was asking us to give her one reason to stay here. I pulled up my jeans and she handed me my shirt and bra. “Sorry. I guess it’s kind of cold. Maybe not the best idea.”

“It was brilliance. I know you need to let Ollie out, but do you have time for a quick shower first? You can wear my sweats home.”

I wasn’t so sure about quick. I managed to remember to turn my car off, then followed her into the back door of her house, fingers entwined. I think I love you wanted to spill past my lips, but I kept my mouth shut tight, at least until we shared kisses again. I was pretty sure of it, but I knew I shouldn’t say it out loud this early in the relationship. I could feel it, I could linger on it all by myself, my sweet secret, and it would be okay.

Chapter Fourteen

The next couple of weeks were amazing. We went to the movies and a fancy dinner and Lisa even invited me to her students’ fall program. I sat in a tiny chair with my knees around my ears with a bunch of parents and faculty while four-year-olds recited pages they’d written and sang songs about chilly wind and falling leaves. She introduced me to Elaine and June, who was indeed pretty hot but brought a boyfriend who looked slightly traumatized and out of place in a navy blue suit and striped tie from work. She also introduced me to Michael, the furry one, who had a long, curly red ponytail, a fuzzy beard, and matching chest hair peeking out of his shirt. We did spend ample time in bed, but the best parts were the walks with Ollie and the time spent sitting in our living rooms while I wrote.

All the while, I was keeping track of the RSVPs for my parents’ anniversary party. I wished my family was normal so that I wouldn’t think twice about bringing Lisa, but I knew it was going to be a shit show. Kevin told me that Missy had everything else taken care of, and would order food and drinks when we had firm numbers.

The day after Halloween, Lisa went out with her teacher crew. I wrote a little, but nothing good was coming out, so I took a break to scroll through email. That was when I saw it: a message from my publishing company. At first, I started to ignore it, thinking it was about submissions again, but when I read further, realized it was a congratulations, naming the finalists for the year’s Pride in Literature awards.

I didn’t open it. My heart began to race, and my brain went all kinds of places. I scanned my texts and other emails over and over, and even looked in my second account, but there was nothing from Jace. Every other year, she’d told me first, before the mass email could go out. Every year.

It was too early for the finalists to be announced, wasn’t it? It was usually the end of November. This absolutely could not be what I thought it was. I clicked it open and read through it once, twice, three times. It was, indeed, the list of Pride finalists, but Sacred Whispers was not on it.

God fucking damn it. I swept an empty soda can off the table angrily, then leaned back in my chair, staring at the screen. Six years in a row I’d been a finalist, and five times before that, once for best debut novel. I’d even won the best mystery/crime novel prize of five hundred dollars twice. Six goddamned years in a row and nothing. This was one of my best ones.

I didn’t enter the awards contests for the money or even the recognition, although that did help boost sales. I did it for the validation, to quell the imposter syndrome, to shut down the monster within my head. I did it because I’d had so few people to support my writing, to tell me I was wonderful, to encourage me to keep going. I entered all four of the big queer book award competitions each year, and I’d made the finals in all but one a couple of times. The Prides, though, had become my ace in the hole. I knew it was stupid to count on it, but this was one of my best ones. It was way better than the previous year’s entry, Money for Nothing, which had netted me a finalist slot.

As if on cue, my phone buzzed. The text was from Jace. Have you checked your email?

I didn’t want to bite. I wanted to leave it there and never answer. My stomach was sizzling where a red-hot poker had been driven, and a feeling of unquenchable emptiness had fallen over me, a weighted blanket of self-pity.

I knew I didn’t deserve it every year. I knew other people’s books were wonderful, I knew other people worked as hard as I did. I read some of those books and felt like shit when I was swept into the world of their characters, sucked into irresistible, brilliantly crafted plots. I hated to read other people’s work, but I did it.

By then, I’d gotten up and was pacing the house aimlessly. Ollie perked up like we might go out on a walk, but eventually surrendered to the reality of moving his tail out of the way every time I passed him in the hallway.

I avoided my reflection in the windows, but I knew I’d grown so much in the past few years. I knew I wasn’t going to do anything stupid, I was just upset. I had a two-inch scar on my forearm from the first awards I’d entered without placing. It didn’t hurt any less, I was just better equipped at this point. Probably.

I finally slumped back into my chair. I looked at my phone for a few minutes, then picked it up and considered what I was going to say. After thinking for a good long time, I came up with one word: Yes.

Jace wrote back right away. I’m sorry babe. I thought this was a particularly good one, but you can’t win them all.

I didn’t waste time considering my words this time. Nope.

I could imagine her sighing. Are you okay?

Now, I rolled my eyes and reached to pick up the soda can I’d sent flying. I felt horrible for the explosion. Yep.

Stonewalls still haven’t been announced.

I never won those. My style didn’t gel with any of the stuff that placed and I’d considered not even entering my book this year. I didn’t respond.

Did you read any of the finalists?

I had barely paid attention to the books that had been chosen. Yeah, Zena’s, I wrote back. It was good.

I know a lot of your self-worth is wrapped up in your writing. I just want to make sure you’re not too disappointed.

It’s not like we could change it if I was. I’m good, I wrote back, hoping that would end our conversation.

It did. I stared at the ceiling for a long time, wondering what I was supposed to take from this. It struck me that I was maybe supposed to want to go crying to Lisa or something, but she was out and I didn’t want to talk to anyone anyway, didn’t want to tell. I didn’t want anyone else to know it had happened let alone that I was upset by it. Did that mean our relationship sucked or that we just weren’t there yet? I’d celebrated the wins with Veronica when we were together. That was a totally different situation. I imagined picking up a bottle of cabernet, one of the fifty-dollar ones instead of the usual twenties, although I couldn’t tell the difference. I imagined putting Ollie’s bowtie on and hurrying over to Lisa’s house when she got home, ringing her bell, bouncing with energy I couldn’t contain. I imagined her answering the door, that sweet smile on her face, wondering what was going on.

Nothing. Nothing was going on but pathetic stewing. So irritated with myself that I couldn’t stand it, I closed my laptop and shut off the lights in the office. Was eight o’clock too early for bed? I wished I had papers to grade. I wished I had a show to binge. I wished I wanted to drink that bottle of cabernet by myself.

Did I wish Lisa was home? I lay on the sofa, the one she always used, tried to figure out if I could smell her scent there, but it was also the one Ollie liked best so I just smelled dog. I needed to have the furniture steam-cleaned again. As if on cue, Ollie trotted up and slurped me on the cheek.