Fallout (29 page)

AWASH

In love’s pastel afterglow,

we drive slowly back toward

town. Back toward Matt. Still

wondering what I’ll tell him, but

worrying less about his reaction.

As we turn down the dirt track

toward home, Kyle pulls over.

He gives me a long kiss, then

says,
I’ll pick you up tomorrow
,

okay? We’ll deal with Matt together.

He puts the truck in gear, and

as we near the trailer, I notice

Dad sitting outside, smoking.

When he sees who I’m riding

with, his body straightens.

Kyle stiffens a bit himself. I can

almost smell the testosterone

exchange.
Is that, like, your
father?

“Well, yeah.” Who else would

it be? “Come say hello.”

We get out of the truck, but

Dad doesn’t budge, just sits

staring. Kyle offers his hand.

Hey, Mr. Kenwood. I’m Kyle.

Good to meet you.
Quite polite.

At least Dad shakes his hand.

Uh … yeah … same here.

Dad’s majorly checking Kyle out,

and it’s making him uncomfortable.

Better go. See you tomorrow.

We watch him leave, and once

the dust dissolves, Dad asks,
Who

was that? Your boyfriend?

“Not exactly,” I lie. “And why

were you staring at him like that?”

Dad shrugs.
He kind of reminded

me of someone I used to know.

When I ask who, his answer

feels somehow a little evasive.

Just an old friend of mine. Trey.

V
ARIETY

HOLLYWOOD—Citing the usual “irreconcilable differences,” producer Chase Wagner split with Amanda Haynes, his wife of almost twenty years. Haynes, however, said those differences have everything to do with Wagner’s frequent dalliances.

“A marriage simply can’t survive the pain that comes from this sort of deceit,” Haynes said. “I thought I could make him love me. Guess I was wrong.”

Wagner has lately been spotted with Sara Leander, star of his upcoming
Nevada Heat
. But former fling Merri Childs maintained the relationship is likely doomed.

“Chase never quite got over his first love,” Childs said. “He only mentioned her once, but when he did, oh the sadness in his eyes! She was his high school sweetheart in Reno. No wonder he never wanted to film on location there.”

Wagner and Haynes will share custody of their three minor children. Their oldest son, Kristopher, is a sophomore at USC, where he follows in his father’s film-major footsteps.

Hunter
CONFUCIUS SAY

The more things change
,

the more they stay the same.

Okay, it probably

wasn’t Confucius

who said it, but

whoever it was had

it all wrong. In my

humble opinion,

the saying should go:

The more things change, the more

you wish they would stay the same.

I like things on track.

A railroad track, in

fact. Humming right

along, buzzing with

a regular rhythm. Slip

in a little adventure,

sure. But don’t flip

a switch and send me

down a different rail.

The more things change
,

the less I like my direction.

CHANGES

Donald and David have

taken up residence in my bedroom

at home. Despite Dad’s objections,

there wasn’t a better choice.

They just started Pleasant Valley

Elementary, the same school I went

to at their age. The transition has

been difficult. Okay, that’s putting

it mildly. Vegas to Reno is like Palm

Springs to Placerville. Low desert

heat to foothill chill. And that’s just

the beginning. After mostly running

roughshod over Kristina, adapting

to Mom and Dad’s rules is sort of like

a homeless guy going through boot camp.

I am, in turn, sorry for them and pissed

as hell that they have no idea how

to take care of my stuff—the stuff

I had to leave behind when I moved

in with Nikki. I knew I could talk

her into it. I’m a born politician.

THE NIGHT SHE THOUGHT

She kicked me out, I sat in the dark on

her porch, waiting for her to come

home. It was a long, cold wait. But

I wasn’t about to let us flame out

because of a little fight.

Especially not

one about my

previous mom.

So I zipped up

my jacket and

waited her out. When she

finally showed, I stowed

all trace of ego, begged

her to take me back.

My apology

was sincere.

But then, when

I threw in the

part about my

little brothers

needing my

room, and the

reasons why,

Nikki couldn’t

say no. Even so,
ORGIVENESS hasn’t come easy.

THE FIRST FEW NIGHTS

She made me sleep on the couch.

Refused to touch me. Barely

spoke in complete sentences.

I wormed my way back into

her good graces like any guy

with half a brain might—flowers.

Supermarket flowers, true,

but I half filled the house

with them. She came home

from work to find sunflowers

in the kitchen. Lilies, tulips,

carnations, and phlox on end

tables and windowsills. African

violets in the bathroom. Roses

(what else?) in the bedroom.

The place smelled like a florist

shop (or funeral, depending

on where your head is at).

She was completely stunned,

and helpless against my kiss.

When she kissed me back,

I delivered the coup de grâce,

making love to her on a bed

blanketed thickly with petals.

OUR TRUCE

Has been an uneasy one, exacerbated

by, of all things, Thanksgiving

tomorrow. Never let a woman

watch the cooking channel.

Especially not as the holiday

season approaches. After one

Saturday marathon, Nikki got

it in her head that she was going

to make a turducken. Not only

that, but she wanted to host the day

for her dad (who, I’m pretty sure,

would much rather spend it boinking

his boss), her mom (whose method

of drowning out that soap opera

is a pricey bottle of scotch), and me.

Now even if I wanted to deal with all

of the above, which I soooo don’t,

my mom expects my presence at

her
dinner table. It’s like being married,

only worse because I’m
not
married,

but have to act like I am anyway.

THE COMPROMISE?

Woo-hoo. Oh, yeah. Get this.

Mom invited Nikki to roast

her turducken at our house.

Mom’s doing side dishes, pies,

and a prime rib (
just in case!
).

Best of all, with the probable

exception of Nikki’s dad’s girlfriend,

the entire extended family plans

to come. No wonder I feel married.

Which explains why, fifteen hours

until total insanity, I’m well on

my way to a major buzz, here at

my buddy Jason’s. We’re talking

Jäger, Heineken, and some fat

blunts. It’s one hell of a party.

Nikki’s at work, so I’m basically

on my own, surrounded by stoners

smoking weed. And, in a big bowl

on the coffee table, are assorted meds,

confiscated from who-knows-where.

It’s a regular designer potpourri of sleep

inducers, mood enhancers, pain reducers,

and, for all I know, laxatives. Everyone

is welcome to play the pharm game. Only

one rule applies: You have to take three.