Crushing dread filled Ian as Emmet Meyers’ words exploded in his ears—“The property, the business, the liquor license…it’s all yours.” Everything else said after that was pale, hollow, including Ricky’s counsel and his assurances. Not that he didn’t appreciate it or mean it. In a month, he’d run out of second chances. Non-negotiable. For once since New Year’s, they were actually on the same page. They both wanted to go back to Palm Springs. Non-Negotiable! He would tell his agent to call his cellular phone number and send mail to his brand new P.O. Box. No more opportunities to screw up their lives because his past and future met again. He and Ricky could join a country club, learn how to golf, and socialize with the A-Gays of Palm Springs, which the city was never short on. Would they forgive them for their minor indiscretion? They’d be less judgmental than Kitty Darling and her troops. Surely, they didn’t need to scour all the way to the desert to find Fantabulous! a new owner. One with a bigger heart than he had deep pockets. A must for Jake’s family to approve. For Ricky to bless the transfer of power.
They didn’t need to be out like Jake and Ian. The latter felt like a hallucination. So absurd. But he was. Out, yes. And proud? Not like Jake, the staff, the crowd at the memorial. He was proud to be with Ricky. His agent cautioned him in that gentle yet no-joke manner Lawson Norris was adored for, there’ll be hell to pay from the network, from Glock fans. But not from Law. Yet. Not until his piece of the pie shrank. When the protestor called Ian a pervert, did he mean Tommy Glock as well? A jolt to his spine made him tremble. Was that just a taste of the future? Then they’d sell Fantabulous! for sure to a better man like Jake. Who?
Once Ian rejoined reality, he reached out to grab Ricky. This could not be solved tonight or tomorrow. He could at least keep the one promise he could. Go home. No nice folks would suffer. It’d become business. Nothing personal. Even if it’d been Jake’s fault. Kitty was right again. Why make him an even richer asshole? He hadn’t thought about the bar in years. Before his hand touched Ricky’s shoulder, Meyers shoved something else at his chest. It’d been a surprise in a day full of them. A small envelope with his name handwritten on it. Recognizing the tidy penmanship made him forget to breathe, but he caught it with his clammy hands. He returned to a numb reality that booze hadn’t obtained. The lawyer called it additional business. Wasn’t Fantabulous! enough? What else had Jake left him?
He couldn’t even remember which door he took. He sped from Fantabulous! with Jake’s letter pressed to his chest. To his heart. Ian only noticed and prayed Ricky wouldn’t read anything into it. He was choking as he finally felt the chilly evening air brimming around him. He gulped the salty breeze even if it tickled his tongue, then his throat. He squinted at the prize or cursed object he’d absconded with. Unlike the announcement and accompanying paperwork the lawyer passed on, he wasn’t sure what was in the letter. But it twisted the knife more severely. Whether he’d written it the day Ian had left or in blood as he lay dying, which it was not, these were Jacob Monk’s final words to Ian Hornsby. Even silently, reading it in front of Ricky and Jake’s chosen family felt inappropriate. He hadn’t worked out for whom.
Ian didn’t stop until his shoes hit the sand. The Pacific surf thundered around him as total darkness engulfed him. He knew where to go from memory alone. A lifeguard station, vacated at night, was far enough from the bar so he could enjoy his nightcap without anyone policing. That it was far more than the bottle of wine he and Jake ended the day with. Far more than what a customer put away to be pushed into a taxi. Far less to take away the undefined emptiness of his life. Why wasn’t happily ever after enough for Ian Hornsby? Didn’t he hit the life jackpot? Got the boy. Got the moolah. Got the fame.
He barely found the wooden building, which was painted a useless orange. He heard the American flag stuck on top flutter. From habit, he crawled under it then laughed. Someone probably found the bottles of liquor he’d buried. He couldn’t lose the letter for some Dutch courage they called it. He had to read it even if Jake hated him. Why he told him to “FUCK OFF!” by SMS. Why he left him his dream and overcritical family. As punishment. A final “FUCK YOU!” from his ghost. Did he really know him, or had he changed that much in four years? As bitter as his correctly catty protégée. One way to answer it.
Even under tonight’s new moon, the distant glow of the streetlights along Ocean Front Walk blazed as he sank into the cool sand, pulled his knees to his chest. For what seemed like forever, he just sat and listened to the waves crash and then retreat. Like him and Jake in their last months together. Always breaking apart, then coming together. Seemed every day. Why were they like that? One way to answer that.
He broke the seal on the envelope. A whiff of CK One off the page made him look behind. Had Ricky followed him out after all? When had Jake switched from his precious Calvin Klein Obsession? The crowds long gone, he held the paper close to his nose. It was nice that no one would question the intimacy with which he treated the letter. Jake’s change in scent was like an overdue conversation between friends. Well, more than friends. As his eyes grew damp from the realization, he kept it a safe distance from his face. From his tears. As he began to read, anguish held him once more.
October 11, 1994
Ian,
If you’re reading this, then I guess I kicked the bucket. Was it a heart attack? I at least hope I died with a smile on my face, thanks to some young hunk. As you see from today’s date, I’m writing this on my thirty-third birthday, so every gay man in Hollywood is at least three years younger than me. Were your Tommy Glock instincts right from the start that Devon Grossman murdered me? I’m humoring you. Things have been quiet on that front since the restraining order. Besides, I hired a superhero named Markus. Still, I’m dead. Sigh. I don’t mean to be flippant. Correction. I can be inappropriate. I’m dead. When we were together, I thought you’d go first. You’re the one who jumps in first without thinking. But you’re reading this, so you’re still alive, and I’m dead.
To Be Continued…
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