The One That Got Away (20 page)

The cheers of the crowd increased in volume as the
Parents and Friends of Lesbians and Gays marched by. A woman who was wearing a I Love My Lesbian Daughter t-shirt, opened her arms as if she would embrace us all, and my eyes filled with tears. I knew my parents loved me, but it was one thing for them to tell me, and quite another to proclaim it to the world.

I called out to Maxine as she walked by with Lesbians Out in Academic Environments, and she broke away from the group and came running over to me. “I'm collecting kisses from women-born-women wearing lipstick,” Maxine said, turning her head from side to side to display her collection. “My lips are off-limits, though,” she warned.

“Would you mind?” I asked Angel.

“I guess not,” she replied. “It's an interesting approach to body art.”

I handed Angel my hat and sunglasses to hold, and spreading the collar of Maxine's denim shirt, bent my head, aiming for the delicate hollow at the base of her throat. In preparation for landing, I wet my lips and parted them slightly. I hovered for a moment, then lightly pressed my lips to the spot, dabbing the salt of her sweat with the tip of my tongue. When I pulled away, my lipstick, Manic Panic's Sacrifice, had left a noticeable impression, but Maxine seemed unaffected by the experience.

Annalise, who never wore lipstick and had no use for rules, bounded up out of nowhere and gave Maxine a huge kiss on her off-limit lips.

“Hey!” Maxine yelled. “I didn't consent to that.”

“So sue me,” Annalise said. “The lesbian and gay lawyers are right behind you.”

I turned to take my hat and sunglasses back from Angel. “I hope your lips aren't off-limits,” I said.

“Not to you,” she replied.

Ellen and Annalise had invited me to an after-the-parade party at their house. Angel had some computer work to do on a missing person case, so I went by myself.

Natalie lounged on a cushioned lawn chaise like an odalisque, while Maxine sat on the grass beside her, looking as if she should be cooling her with a feathered fan. Lacking one, she was amusing herself by tying some of the helium balloons to Natalie's ankles and wrists.

Natalie told me she had watched the parade from a lounge chair on the sidewalk.

“Didn't people try to stand in front of you?” I asked.

“I invited a friend with two Dobermans to watch with me,” Natalie said. “We had plenty of room.”

Meanwhile, Bridget and Gayle, who had come from New Jersey for the Pride celebrations, were shaking hands. Actually, they were not so much shaking as gripping, in a way that made me think of John Wayne. “What's with those two?” I asked Annalise.

She tsked and made an impatient gesture with her hand. “Oh, back in the Ice Age Bridget beat Gayle at arm wrestling, or Gayle went home with some femme Bridget had her eye on, or some such nonsense.”

Eventually they both let go and Bridget bounced onto the wicker settee next to Gayle's lover, Hannah. The grin on Bridget's face approached a leer, and Hannah was a woman on the verge of a simper. Bridget put her arm across the back of the settee as Hannah turned her body toward her. “So, Bridget, I want to hear all about your latest conference.”

“I'm going to be motivating the National Society of Cereal Chemists,” Bridget said. “In Vienna.”

“Vienna! How exciting!”

“Actually, it's the one in Illinois.”

“What?”

“Vienna, Illinois,” Bridget said.

“Oh, Bridget, you're such a tease.”

“Well,” Gayle said, “I'll just leave you two alone now.” She strode over to the grill, where she flipped the hamburgers with more vehemence than skill.

I settled into an old webbed aluminum frame recliner and regarded the cloudless sky through a leafy veil. I had a paper plate with just-made guacamole and sun-warmed chips on my lap, and I held a frozen strawberry daiquiri in my right hand. I took a sip, swishing the delightful slush around in my mouth, and wondered what my cousin Sarah and her partner, Cathy, were doing in Berkley. My cousin David and his partner, Phillip, were either hosting a party or going to one. I tried to remember if London's Pride celebration was the same date as New York City's. Was Jean still dating the woman she'd mentioned in her last letter, three months ago? I watched sunlight spill over Bridget's hair and imagined her face a kiss away from mine. I swallowed the last of the daiquiri and closed my eyes.

When I opened them, Bridget was bending over me, refilling my glass, and Natalie was mouthing words at me. I couldn't figure out what she was trying to convey.

Natalie rose from her chair, sauntered over to Bridget, and put her lips very close to Bridget's ear. Suddenly Bridget shimmied back three feet or so. “Nasty girl,” she murmured, “blowing in my ear.” Natalie looked at me significantly.

I was more confused than ever. Had Natalie been trying to tell me to blow in Bridget's ear? Why would she do that? Or was she just trying to impress me with her technique?

Bridget returned with the daiquiri pitcher and began
making the rounds once more. “May I top you?” she asked me.

“Please.” I held up my glass.

Maxine frowned. “I think you've had enough, B.D.”

I had had a vision that I was eager to share. “I know what you should do for next year's parade, Natalie,” I said. “You should have Bridget and Maxine carry you in one of those things.”

“What are you talking about?” Natalie demanded.

“It's like a stretcher,” I said, “except that instead of a piece of cloth there's a sort of throne with a canopy. You could wear something golden and shimmery. The throne and canopy could be red and purple or purple and red, and the poles could be wound with ribbons in the colors of the rainbow flag. Bridget and Natalie could wear loose pants and vests and little embroidered hats and trot down Fifth Avenue with you in-between.”

Natalie was not amused, but Bridget was laughing. “Are you wasted, bambino?” she asked, ruffling my hair. I butted her hand the way a dog does when it wants you to keep petting it.

Gayle and Hannah were talking about people they'd seen that day—old friends, former rivals, exes and enemies. I thought I recognized one of the names as that of a locally prominent grassroots organizer.

“I had sex with her in a bathroom one time,” Annalise said.

Ellen looked shocked, and a little jealous.

“It was long before I met you, honey,” Annalise told her. “I was bad when I was young.”

“I was bad too,” Bridget said.

“You were the worst,” Annalise replied.

Why couldn't I have known Bridget then, I wondered. I might have had a chance for a night with her. I raised my glass and said solemnly, “Timing is everything, isn't it?”

“Are you OK?” Bridget asked me.

“I was just thinking about all the years I wasted, not knowing who I was,” I said. “I can never get them back.”

“Do you have any regrets?” Bridget asked Maxine.

“None whatsoever,” she replied in a self-satisfied tone.

Bridget turned to Natalie. “What about you? Any regrets?”

“Yes,” Natalie said. “You.”

I started to cry.

“It's OK,” Bridget said, turning back to me. “I'm used to it.”

Maxine lit into Bridget. “Why did you give B.D. all those drinks? You know she has a very low tolerance for alcohol.”

Bridget affected the innocent surprise of a cat that has inadvertently knocked an invaluable
objet d'art
onto the floor.

“I hope she doesn't throw up,” Natalie said.

“Are you getting your period?” Annalise asked me.

“I'll drive B.D. home,” Bridget said.

Natalie stared at her a moment. “Fine. I'll be at Maxine's.”

“Bitch,” Bridget said, ever so softy.

In the car, I started to cry again—a slow-motion procession of single tears. “If you were my girlfriend,” I said, “I'd let you eat whatever you wanted. I'd tell you every day that you're the most wonderful woman in the world.”

“B.D.—” Bridget began, I interrupted her. “I'd take you to Paris, France.”

“It's just a crush, B.D.,” Bridget said. “Let it go. You've got Angel now.”

I hate the word “crush.” It's like being told that some treasure, imbued with emotion and history because it's
been in your family for generations, isn't worth jack shit in the real world.

“Angel's my lover,” I said. “But you're—my soul mate.”

“B.D., I'm not the woman you're making me out to be.”

“Maybe you're just not seeing yourself clearly. Or if I am mesmerized by an illusion, maybe I'm not the only one.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Is it worth it? Is whatever you get from Natalie worth the constant chipping away at you?”

“Well, obviously it must be.”

“Fine,” I said as the car slowed down in front of my apartment building. “As your friend, I just want you to be happy. If it makes you happy to have Natalie slice and dice you, then I guess my role is to offer you the novelty of kindness.”

I got out of the car.

“Don't slam the door, B.D.,” Bridget warned.

“I know—your car is fragile, but your ego isn't. You can fucking close the door yourself, Bridget.”

As I stomped up the steps to my apartment building, I felt the thud of the car door closing and heard the tires sigh as Bridget drove away.

Chapter 23

My emotional hangover was worse than the one from the alcohol. I dreaded going into work, for Eduardo was as adept at extracting intimate details from me as a gourmand at prying a juicy escargot from its shell. He never scheduled clients for the day after Pride Sunday, so there was no question of hiding behind my professional demeanor.

When I walked in the door, Eduardo took one look at my face and came toward me like an undertaker greeting the next of kin.

“
¿Que pasa, bebé?
”

I didn't even try to put up a front. “I had a fight with Bridget.”

“What about? No, wait—go out to our little garden, sit down, relax, and I'll bring you some breakfast.”

“I'm not hungry,” I said.

“Oh, please, B.D. Now how about some music? What are you in the mood for?”

“Mozart's
Requiem
.”

Eduardo put his hands on his hips and regarded me over the top of his glasses. “B.D., who is
la loca
in this office?”

“You are, Eduardo.”

He turned and walked toward the CD player. A moment later, Judy Garland was singing “
On the Sunny Side of the Street
.”

When Eduardo joined me in the garden, he was accompanied by André from the bakery around the corner. He was carrying a tray with two bowls of café au lait and freshly baked croissants and
pain au chocolates
.

“The ultimate in decadence,” Eduardo declared. “Having your breakfast delivered.”