believe this: Around 3:30 p.m., I got a call from him, but for some reason I didn’t answer. I didn’t feel like talking to him. So, I check the message immediately, and this is what he says: ‘Hi Stella, it’s Eric. Ummm…so I’m going to Amsterdam. I’ll be back on July 4th around 5 p.m. I’ll leave you my credit card in case you need anything.’ Ten minutes later he called again, this time ON HIS WAY TO THE AIRPORT.”
Apparently, his “acting class” had scored a “last-minute deal” to take a “sightseeing trip” to the red-light district of the world. Needless to say, Stella wasn’t happy about this—Eric’s thespian pursuits or his unknown proclivities. My tongue was losing muscle function from all the biting.
“He’s out there sticking his penis in someone’s butthole, dude.” Gina was the only one I told. Promise.
“What is he doing, dude?!”
I told Stella that there was a slight, minuscule, almost-not-even-worth-talking-about chance that this guy was leading a “secret life.” And finally she agreed—sort of.
“The fact that I’m not even sad right now means that this is long overdue,” she wrote back. “If anything, I feel bitter because of the time I wasted. Eric must have always known that he could never truly give me what I need. I resent him a little for pretending to be that person.”
Was he pretending, or was Stella? Because this wasn’t the first glimpse she’d had of his “acting” skills. It was the weekend of her graduation from law school, and a spot on their pullout had been reserved in my name, and despite a slight hesitation about the proximity to which that would place me to the sounds of their lovemaking, I hopped on the Chinatown. No worries though, if there was any hanky-panky going on in there, I didn’t hear. I did, however, get an earful from Stella immediately upon my arrival. The week before, she accidentally discovered through some very thorough cybersleuthing (they grow up so fast!) that he’d planned a trip to Vegas with his “boys” to “watch” the “ultimate fighting championship.” On the day he was supposed to leave, he still hadn’t said anything about it. While Eric was out getting “coffee,” Stella came and sat on my sofa bed to discuss her options—go blind or go ape-shit.
“Maybe he isn’t going,” I said, not even convincing myself.
“Maaaybe….” she said, probably thinking up all the things that are legal in Sin City.
She was cut off by the sound of the door unlocking. And there was Eric, without a latte and with a lined-up fade. My main concern was the permanent retinal damage I was risking by zipping my eyes back and forth between the two of them like a cornered wild thing.
They walked silently into the bedroom. Five minutes later, Stella came out alone.
“He’s going to Vegas.”
“Whaaaaa?”
“He said that he didn’t even really want to go, and that he’d totally stay if I wanted him to, but the point is I want him to go. I don’t want him to feel like he can’t be with his friends or whatever. I just wanted him to tell me.”
It took him ten more minutes to pack a bag, and then he was off to watch grown men manhandle each other in a giant steel cage. Jesus, Stella. And now less than a month later, he was off to Amsterdam with his “acting class.”
“Dude, are they ‘acting’ gay?” Gina wanted to know.
Who was acting here—us or them? Because eventually Eric came home, and instead of marching him down to the free clinic, Stella took his ass back—literally. He’d sent her a bunch of e-mails about her “beauty being the guiding light to his inner peace,” and they fell right back into the whole “we really love each other deep down and it’s been almost like two years, and we’re professionals so we might as well make something work even though we spend most of our free time complaining about how much the other one fucking sucks” thing. But instead of judging her, I recognized her. If Gina was the gay monkey on my back, then I was riding Stella’s. “Maybe Amsterdam is the community theater capital of the world,” I told Gina, hoping that maybe I'd be right about something for once.
A few weeks later Stella and Eric were over (for good this time, maybe), and I walked into work after a high-profile date the night before that left me…unenthused. Emily, my white work wife, wanted to know all about