Pageboy, page 18
We bantered back and forth, overtly flirtatious. I kept looking over my shoulder at Max, who was close by.
“Oh, he doesn’t care,” Kate said, noticing.
“Well, come over then, and I’ll make you a tofu scramble in the morning.” Now only half joking.
She laughed, I could make her laugh. We stood near, shoulders brushing.
Gulp. I looked to Max again.
Our conversation naturally came to a close, the flow and movement of the guests created a shift in migratory patterns. I found myself on the other end of the yard, having a cigarette on a long wooden bench, making basic chitchat with people I had never met. High from the flirtation, but assuming it was nothing, back to boring small talk.
During a moment of pause, completing the last couple puffs, the cigarette having burned to its logo, a man approached. He looked familiar.
“Hi!” the man said enthusiastically while he sat down next to me without asking. “You’re one of Ryan’s best friends, right?! I’m Matt!”
I looked at him, puzzled. He looked back with a big, annoying, goofy smile. And then it clicked. Something in me sunk, I just knew.
“Oh, are you two…?” I said, gesturing with my hand, implying together.
“Yeah! Oh, she didn’t mention?”
Fist. To. The. Gut. Ears. Ring. Heart. Stop. Now.
Breath.
“Oh, I didn’t um … how long have you…?” (same hand gesture).
“One month! I’m in love with her, she’s in love with me.” His body bounced on the bench. “Have you ever been in love?”
I looked to the ground, the world moved away like a k-hole.
Who the fuck asks that?
He kept speaking. He sounded like the adults in Peanuts.
I tried to not cry, to offer a smile, not too much though, and periodically, I gave a tiny nod.
“Where is she? She coming tonight?” I asked without looking.
“Nah, she was exhausted from meetings all day, she’s on her way to my place now.”
Fist. To. The. Gut. Ears. Ring. Heart. Stop. Now.
Breath.
“Sorry, I have to go to the bathroom. Nice to meet you, I’m sure I’ll see you around.” I left him there, basking in his euphoria—as vivid and vibrant as his tie-dye hoodie.
Panic swelling, vision blurred, no one at the party to turn to, I ran into the small half bath on the main floor. I sat on the toilet and immediately started shitting. I felt it in every part of my body. The grief, the shame. Dirt swept under the rug, left behind, but not fully disposed of.
I stared at myself in the mirror (never helpful). And then I left the party. I was sober, I had driven, my hands floated, separate from the rest, odd little aliens on the wheel. I shat it out, now I’d leave, just float above.
When home, I put on a Leonard Cohen record (not helpful) and smoked up the chimney (properly harmful). Why when hurting do we want to perpetuate the pain? Self-punishment?
Managing to hydrate at least, I went to the kitchen for water. My phone dinged—an email from Kate.
Wow, thank you for such a romantic goodbye.
I chuckled. A smile stayed on my face longer than was appropriate. I clicked Reply.
It was too painful to say goodbye.
Head on the pillow, I thought of him going home to her. I thought of her waiting for him.
Above all, I want to stop missing you.
I eventually fell asleep.
Kate and I kept talking. I was starting to sense our flirtation was not just a half-truth, for both of us. We spoke of getting together for a walk or maybe a dinner around our birthdays? We were Pisces buds.
It was a couple weeks later, on Valentine’s Day, that I came out as gay. I barely told anyone I was about to make that speech. I just wanted it to be mine, for myself, tired of gossip and speculation. The response was significant, it went “viral,” as the kids say.
Kate emailed.
Wait. You’re gay?!
Me.
Yeah, so make your move.
The day after I came out as gay, I flew to Montreal for brief reshoots on X-Men: Days of Future Past.
“You seem so different,” a producer remarked.
It was true, I had left a bag of bricks behind. More in my body, head high. Affable, less troubled, a break from the furrowed brow. I was on my way.
On my flight back to Los Angeles a few days later, I settled into my seat as a priest and his curate walked past, their seats were behind me. The curate recognized me, he was very kind and complimentary. I wasn’t expecting that.
I fell asleep on and off, read a script. A couple hours into the flight I felt a tap on my left shoulder. It was the priest and the curate, they passed me a piece of folded loose-leaf paper. A note. I smiled pleasantly and turned around to read it.
I unfolded it, expecting a kind message from an LGBTQ+ supporting, progressive religious leader.
No dice.
It began with him acknowledging that his companion knew who I was, but he did not.
I took the liberty of googling you. (Uh-oh)
He went on to say that what I am wasn’t real. A belief and just that.
Your soul is struggling. You need the arms of the Heavenly Father around you. (Ew)
And I kid you not.
Signed,
Your Heavenly Daddy.
There were a couple hours left on the flight. I was not sure what to do. Do I say something? Do I write a note back? I figured, what was the point? Truly. A quick convo is not going to change that priest’s mind, and giving any of it the time of day would let the toxins sink in. So, I refolded the note, stuck it in my pocket, and went back to my business. The plane landed. Welcome home.
A month or so later, Kate invited me to a BBQ at her and Max’s house at the top of a Silver Lake peak. Max had said yes to being in Into the Forest, I was excited to see him and celebrate, he’d be playing my love interest. Their place felt like a home. Cozy, nicely designed, personal. The living room had the kind of couch you want to disappear into. It was white, and I had no idea how they managed to keep it pristine. I get stains over everything. The kitchen was small, seemingly unchanged since the house was built in the 1930s. The sink, the backsplash, all perfect. Out a door from the kitchen was a sprawling, steep backyard. A deck off the living room, a firepit down below, and an area for her two Boston terriers.
We hugged, a long one. Introductions took place, I knew almost no one at the party. Kate and Max barbecued veggie burgers and regular burgers. Kate and I sat next to each other on the steps that connected the house to the firepit.
We sat close, flirting. Max stood nearby, not giving it a second look. Magnetic and immediate, a feeling better left without words.
A couple days later we finally hung out one-on-one. I drove to her house to go for a walk. We climbed in her SUV with her dogs in the back and headed down to the Silver Lake Reservoir. It was the same. Smiles you try to hide. Avoiding the eyes.
We pulled into her garage, and she turned off the car. Sitting in silence for a few beats, a telepathic touch.
“We should get dinner soon,” Kate said.
I paused.
“I don’t think we should go to dinner,” I replied. Which was my way of saying I think we should go to dinner.
Another pause. Car airtight.
“I can ask Max, talk to him about it, I really don’t think he would have a problem.”
My chin moved to my chest as I attempted to hide a smile. I was not expecting to hear this, but it was all I wanted to hear. An unmistakable feeling, electric and warm. I yearned to be near her.
“Well, if Max is fine with it, then fuck yeah,” I said.
He was. Totally fine with it, supportive of Kate exploring her connection with me.
So, we planned a date for the following week, a dinner in West Hollywood.
Kate came to my house first. When I opened the door, she had that look, that smile, a glare that is simultaneously sweet and assertive. Our lips met for the first time, a shiver, my knees were ready to snap, our tongues spiraled as we swayed toward the couch.
Kate pulled away.
“Not yet, let’s go have dinner first,” she said.
We headed up Laurel, over Mulholland, down toward West Hollywood. The Uber took a right at the corner where Ryan’s poster had stared at me for the first time. Having been distracted during Kate’s initial arrival, I could fully see her now, streetlights shining in. The yellows and reds, a glow around her, incandescent. Her dirty-blond hair sparkled subtly in the passing beams. Her tight black pants squeezed her thighs, I avoided looking down. She wore a gray T with a button-down open under a black jacket.
If you had seen us, you would have thought it just a regular date. How we touched, how we stared, how we laughed too much. Salads and french fries and tequila and wine. She had such presence, assertive posture, just a wink made the room disappear.
That night the paparazzi took photos of us while we were getting in an Uber to return to my place. It was as if I were in another dimension, all the anxiety of being “caught” was no longer. When we got back, we immediately went to my bedroom. Kate lay on her back, removing her clothes, while I stood at the base of the bed removing mine. I moved to crawl on top of her. Our mouths fused, our bodies meeting for the first time. Kissing her neck, I placed my hand on her inner thigh, slowly moving my fingers up.
It was a successful first date. So they continued.
We’d hang with mutual friends or go to a party, and people assumed we were together. There was no shame or hiding, just unabashed attraction. I knew quickly it wasn’t just lust, chemicals bouncing around, there was deep care. Still is. We love each other.
After our first couple of dates, I knew I was falling. I could not stop thinking about her. The flash of a memory that catches, making you laugh out of nowhere in your car on the way to a meeting. Starting and stopping texts. Preoccupied by a word choice for seventy-two hours. That person who comes to mind.
An earthquake skyrocketed me out of bed one morning, not long after our first date. My heart leaped from my body. My brain told me to go stand in a doorframe, so I did, which it turns out you are not supposed to do. Nonetheless, I waited for the shaking to subside and breathed a sigh of relief. Now I know what to do, here is what the CDC says, so we are all on the same page:
If you are able, seek shelter under a sturdy table or desk. Stay away from outer walls, windows, fireplaces, and hanging objects. If you are unable to move from a bed or chair, protect yourself from falling objects by covering up with blankets and pillows.
When everything calmed, pulse returning to a steady beat, I picked up my phone. My first instinct was to text Kate, to see if she was okay, which caught me off guard. It felt a little much, this was all brand-new, and I reminded myself of the boyfriend and my responsibility to not be an asshole. Ready to put some coffee on, I set down my cell and walked to the kitchen. PING! I turned back to look, it was Kate, she was making sure I was okay. I stared at the text, out came my unprompted, soft chuckle again. Fuck.
There is a moment I will never forget, where it sunk in, when it went somewhere else. Spike Jonze invited us to a double birthday party. Held in an old school, it was Spike’s friend’s fiftieth and his pal’s daughter’s sixteenth. The main level had an auditorium, which was for the adults. A live band played, people danced and drank. Those brown-and-beige school colors gave the night a timeless sheen.
Arm in arm we went up to the roof, which was the sixteenth-birthday zone. A tall chain-link fence enclosed the rooftop basketball court, and teenagers stood about. A DJ was set up playing sick tunes, but none of the kids were dancing, not one. I imagined they were discussing how to get alcohol, or whatever it is teenagers do in Los Angeles.
The DJ was more our vibe than the downstairs band. Beyoncé, Missy Elliott … we dove in without speaking. Lost in movement, Kate, the only thing in focus. Nothing but us. We stared directly, unshakable, bodies feeding off each other, saying what words could not. The dancing, more intimate than touch, was shameless and unreserved. I’d never seen Kate that unconstrained. I felt the universe split open. And myself with it. I was a goner.
A week later, we sat on the lawn on the northeast side of the Silver Lake Reservoir, immersed in our bubble, jotting down notes in a small Moleskine. We thought it was a fantastic idea to make a film together, specifically a love story. Kate and I emailed our agents about finding something for us to do together.
The wheels were set in motion. Quickly we were sent a script by Joe Barton. It was short, only eighty-something pages, it needed work and expanding, but the skeleton of a painful but beautiful film was there. Joe Skyped with us, a lovely Brit who wrote queer female characters with such nuance I was shocked. We discussed story, the characters, and what we felt needed elaboration.
“I wrote that script so long ago. Give me a month and I will come back with a new draft,” Joe said.
And he did, taking the script to a whole new level, and the project started to develop.
Time away from Kate started to hurt. Electric and elated, flying high in the moment, but always an end. The places we couldn’t go. The places I should not have been wishing for. Friends would encourage me to step back, rightfully so, again someone is unavailable. Even now that I was out, I found something to get in the way.
“You remind me of my friends who only date married men,” a friend said to me. Chasing the high, coming down, searching for it again.
Later, the same friend saw us as a duo in the flesh, and got it, which was validating and annoying. The love was tangible, we glowed together.
But Max. Max! Max. A truly delightful human, he has been nothing but wonderful to me. Kate loved him, how could she not? But whatever was happening between us was finding new language, it seeped through the cracks. Well, I was letting it. I shouldn’t have. I was the one entering a situation involving a serious relationship.
The first time I was struck with a pain too sharp was when Kate and I were supposed to have time in New York City together, but schedules were altered and Max came with her. I’d been anticipating a delightful romantic couple of days in NYC. It hurt. It really hurt. But again, I took it as being on me, the side piece.
I was there doing press for X-Men: Days of Future Past, a film where I spent almost all of it sitting behind Hugh Jackman, an unconscious Wolverine, with my hands held on either side of his head, hovering by his temples. A lovely place to be every day, Hugh Jackman is so fucking nice it is annoying, one of the kindest people I’ve ever worked with, literally never have I seen him in a bad mood.
But after this news from Kate, I was in a pretty bad mood. When I saw paparazzi photos of them walking around the city, I was in a worse mood. And when I thought of them fucking, well. I was doing an interview with Josh Horowitz when a fan question from someone named Kate asked what I thought about bananas. It referenced an inside joke we had together. Kate was friends with Josh and thought this would be funny. It took a second, then I got it. It wasn’t comical to me. I was in pain, missing her.
I was angry. Pissed. It felt manipulative. This was a pattern I was familiar with, that I perpetuated and shamed myself for. I found myself blaming her: if she couldn’t be with me, she’d manage to find another way to enter my field, my mind. I’d always get sucked back in, convincing myself it was healthy, convincing myself that my yearning wasn’t slowly chipping away at my integrity. I did not feel I was being treated thoughtfully, my feelings weren’t being considered. I unfairly assumed she could read my mind. I was saying, “all good, of course,” but I was asking her to interpret it as the opposite.
I probably should have bounced at this point, for many reasons. Mostly to be a good person and respect their relationship, but I was not feeling like a very good person, more like a selfish person who wanted someone. But a genuine connection, like the one we had, is rare and difficult to walk away from. I sat in my hotel room at the Bowery, smoking a cigarette on the balcony, Kate and I had been in this room before. I couldn’t help the flashes of her lifting me naked onto the desk, fucking me while she watched my ass in the mirror.
Everything with Kate was becoming more complicated, more loaded. I was feeling let down. Perhaps the excitement no longer outweighed the challenges. It was my choice to enter the situation, my decision to not take care of my heart, but to remain, ignoring the fissure as it grew. I was chasing something that could not be, letting lust overwhelm me.
This dynamic was familiar. Alone you thrive, secret and safe, but separate you feel invisible. It’s there and then it is gone, not even a second thought, but an afterthought. I was projecting this onto her, a pattern and a narrative that would take me time to shake—please love me.
Kate sensed my pain, the heartache, the last thing she wanted to do was hurt me. Kate was away working but made time to talk. I told her about the agony I had felt in New York.
“I was missing you so much, beyond excited to see you and then I couldn’t. I didn’t get to see you and I barely heard from you and then you do that,” I said, in reference to the interview. “It made me feel like shit.”
“I get it, I’m so sorry, I just thought it would be funny.” She paused. A moment of still on the screen. “I miss you, too. It hurt not to see you, too.”
And at that, the floodgates opened. I started to cry and then she joined in and we spoke of everything. Our love for each other, how organic and meaningful it felt, the depth of care.
“But I love Max, too, and we have a life together,” she said. “I didn’t believe someone could love two people at the same time before. I do now.”
We shared a sadness, the grief in letting go, but first and foremost we cared about having a future, however that looked, forming a new kind of relationship. We decided to take space, no correspondence for at least a month.
