Last time I offer her gum—I’ll tell you that.
Here I was, thinking we had all these pillars of our friendship in a row. Only it ends up that they’re dominoes. And all it takes is a pack of gum to send ’em tipping over.
She’s lying. I know she’s lying. But if she’s not going to admit that she’s lying, it’s just as bad.
Domino. Domino. Domino.
“You’re lying,” I say.
Domino.
“So are you,” she says back.
Domino.
“Guys?”
“Yes, Bruce,” Naomi asks, clearly annoyed. I take some consolation that it’s not only me.
Cutie Pie starts barking up a storm. Maybe all this lying’s made her want to pee.
“Nothing,” Bruce the First says.
Cutie Pie’s now acting like King Kong’s blowing a dog whistle.
“You see,” Naomi says, “even Cutie Patootie knows you’re lying.”
“Cutie Pie,” Bruce corrects again. And for a millisecond there, I actually like him. He never stands up for himself, but at least he stands up for the dog.
Naomi lets out this pout-snort that’s like her impersonating Madonna impersonating the Queen of England.
Cutie Pie’s straining at his leash, pulling for the door. And I swear Naomi’s looking at him like he’s telling her things about me.
“You’re acting weird, Naomi,” I say.
“And you’re just plain acting, Ely,” she says back.
This from the girl who was a drama queen before we were old enough to go to Dairy Queen.
I have no desire to see the night crash to the ground. I want to go out, have a good time, appease Naomi, and get back to Bruce in my bedroom. I don’t see any reason why I can’t do all of these things.
“Look,” I say, “is this about Bruce?” I figure we might as well talk about it instead of using all our energy to avoid it.
“What about me?” Bruce-who’s-downstairs-with-us asks.
“Not you,” Naomi says. “The other one.”
Bruce seems a little pleased that he’s the primary Bruce.
“Is he coming, too?” he asks.
“Why don’t you ask Ely?” Naomi says, both bitter and brittle. Britter.
“Can we just go?” I say.
But Bruce the First is still inspecting the starting block. “Wait—what’s going on?” he asks, dumbwildered. “Isn’t he here with you, Naomi? I saw him go upstairs.”
Oh Lord. Just my luck he chooses this moment to be Encyclopedia Brown.
“Is that right, Bruce?” Naomi says. She looks like she’s about to pet him.
“Naomi—” I start.
“Yeah, he came in a few minutes ago,” Bruce continues.
“Look, Naomi—” I offer again. There are very few situations that can’t be saved with an explanation.
But Naomi isn’t going to let me continue.
“Well,” she huffs, “it looks like it’s Colonel Bastard in Ely’s bedroom with a candlestick. Or is it a bludgeon, Ely?”
“I’m not really sure I’m following you two,” Bruce says.
At least Cutie Pie, quiet now, seems to have pieced it together. He doesn’t want to miss a word.
“Look,” I say, “I was going to go out with you anyway. He can wait. You’re my top priority.”
“Oh, that’s brilliant, Ely. That’s just super. I’m so flattered that you’d put my needs over the needs of my boyfriend.”
Okay, if we’re going to start using kneejerks to knock down the dominoes, allow me to add:
“Well, Naomi, I think it’s safe to say he’s not your boyfriend anymore.”
Naomi smacks her forehead. “Well, gee, how stupid of me to think that someone would let me know.”
Oh, enough already. “You know none of us meant for this to happen. It’s like the whole Devon Knox thing.”
“Ely, DEVON KNOX WAS STRAIGHT. Your crush didn’t count. And that was THREE YEARS AGO.”
“He was on the list.”
“I forgot, okay?”
Cue: Inspector Bruce.
“What’s happened?” he asks.
“Look, Bruce, could you just leave us alone for a second?”
Okay, so the city has 311 for you to call to ask for repairs and shit, and 411 to get people’s phone numbers, and 911 to call the police or the fire department or paramedics. Well, I propose they add 711, so if you find yourself stuck in the lobby of an apartment building with an irrationally tirading best friend and her unbuff buffoon of an ex (and a hot doorman looking on), you can dial three simple digits and they can send a calm, sane person to help you explain what’s going on. Right now, my best bet is the dog, and he seems to need to pee again.
“Okay,” Original Bruce says to Cutie Pie in an oopsy-woopsy voice. “Brucie’s gonna take you out for a wee-wee.”
Cutie Pie looks like he’s going to rip Bruce’s throat out for talking to him this way. I can’t say I blame him. I’ve lost erections to vocal mannerisms like that.
I’m so absorbed in the dog’s resistance that I almost don’t hear Naomi say, “Ely, I can’t do this anymore.”
Here we go. Moment of truth.
I look her right in the eye. She turns to the side, so I scoot over and face her there.
I know she doesn’t want to hear this. But I have to say it anyway.
“Naomi, I like him. I really do.”
There. It’s out there.
And she doesn’t believe a word of it.
“Is that why you’re hiding him?” she asks. “Because you like him so much?”
“You really want to know why I’m hiding him?”
“Why?” she asks.
I wish she hadn’t.
Why?
“Because I’m afraid of you.”
It’s true. I am. Always have been.
“Well, I’m fucking afraid of you, too.”
We stare at each other for a second.
Bruce jumps in. “Look, you two . . . maybe you should just cool off for a second.”
“SHUT UP, BRUCE!” we both yell.
Well, at least we agree on something.
Hurt, Bruce starts pulling Cutie Pie away.
“C’mon, Cutie,” Bruce says. “Let’s go. I guess we’re not wanted here.”
Oh great—now the wittle boy’s feewings are hurt.
“I’m coming with you,” Naomi says. “I wanna dance with somebody who loves me.”
Shit, girl—I pour out the truth of my heart and you’re going to use Whitney against me?
“HAVE FUN!” I yell after them.
All the dominoes are down. No word back. Just the echo of Gabriel the hot midnight doorman wishing them a hot goodnight as they leave. Then the door closing. The elevator behind me making its way up to someone else’s floor. The otherwise silence.
It takes me a second to remember that Bruce is waiting in my closet.
And that I like him.