The Life and Times of Totally Tyler

TO READ PART ONE OF THIS STORY, CLICK HERE

I jolt awake at 6:30 and check my phone. There are no messages from The Man. At this point, his meeting with the photographer has lasted over three hours. Surely he is ready to hang out. “Hey, how are things,” I text. “Gonna be hungry soon?” I get up, pee and putter around my apartment for a bit. I make sure my sheets smell clean and then thumb through a recent New Yorker magazine.

My iPhone chimes DING-ding! and vibrates. “Things are great,” replies The Man. “Yes, I’ll be hungry soon ”

I look in the fridge and wonder if I should actually cook dinner or if we’ll order out. I can’t cook. I mean, I can, but not confidently enough to cook for other people. I can make pasta and I can fry an egg but beyond that, there isn’t much I can do, especially with an oven that reeks of cat pee whenever I turn it on.

I sigh and twirl onto the sofa, snatching up the New Yorker again and dig into a lengthy article about the evolution of the Lower East Side. Lola jumps up on the sofa and nestles next to my bare legs. I make a mental note to walk her around the block when I finish reading the article.

And the article is long. My eyes zip across the page, consuming the words but my mind does not digest them. I’m distracted by noise on the street. The buzzing of the oscillating fan. The dripping faucet in the bathroom. I shake my head as if doing so will allow me to focus and dig back into the article.

When I reach the final sentence, I shout a hearty, victorious “Woo-hoo!” that excites Lola and, as if she can read my mind, she jumps down to the floor and stands on her hind legs, ready for her walk. I look at my phone. 7:45.

At this point, The Man’s meeting with the photographer is fifteen minutes away from lasting five hours. I decide to walk Lola around the block and to not text The Man again until 8:00.

I slip on my flip-flops, attach the retractable leash to Lola’s collar and then venture out into the warm night. The sun has just set and the city is still baking. The brutal humidity is suffocating and nearly unbearable but Lola is happy to be outside, sniffing the concrete while her tail joyously sways back and forth.

My mind is else where, wondering why The Man’s meeting with the photographer is taking five hours. I’ve had actual photo shoots that have lasted less than five hours. Why would a meeting take five hours? Especially on a Saturday night!

I can’t wait until 8. I text. “So…uh, how’s it going?” I delete and retype the message a number of times. Do I sound angry? Do I sound casual? Lola and I retreat back into the cool haven of my apartment where she eats dinner, her tags clanking against the bowl, and I pace around, checking my phone every other minute for the next fifteen minutes. Is the volume turned up? Do I have a signal? I recognize that I am beginning to spiral out of control and that I -

DING-ding! I spin and dive for my phone to read the text message I just got. “Go ahead and eat without me,” the message says. “We just now started taking test shots.”

I look at the clock. 8:27. Inside, I am fuming. I’m not upset that The Man and I won’t be having dinner together. I’m upset because The Man is having a insanely long meeting. With a photographer who just happens to also be a tantric massage therapist. A Latino tantric massage therapist. Who just also happens to have a full bar. But wait. Am I allowed to be angry? Do I have a right to be suspicious? Am I overreacting? Am I acting crazy? I’m so used to men telling me how they think I should feel.

I kick the New Yorker magazine across the room and Lola darts for cover. Fuck it! I am pissed! I swallow down the huge lump in my throat as my fingers furiously tap an angry text message to The Man. “I don’t like this,” I say. “I’m not comfortable. This meeting is taking too long. You’re drinking and you’re with a tantric massage therapist.”

I put my phone down and pick up my laptop, allowing Facebook to distract me. Over a half an hour later, at 9:10, I hear DING-ding! and my phone vibrates. The Man’s reply does not ease my concerns. “Tyler, tantric massage is a respectable form of massage therapy. It’s about the body, mind and soul.”

“More like the body, mind and HOLE!” I angrily respond, my shaking fingers tapping a little too hard on my iPhone. “Why the hell is your meeting taking so long? And you’re JUST NOW taking test shots? What have you been doing since 3:00?”

After a few more minutes, my phone vibrates and makes that dreaded DING-ding! sound. The text from The Man does not give me answers. It does not give me comfort. It does not give me reassurance. “You either trust me or you don’t,” it says. And that it all.

And The Man is right. I can’t pick and choose when I want to trust him. Trust can’t be ala carted. It’s an all or nothing deal. Why is it so difficult to trust people? And why is it even harder to trust your instincts? And when all the chips are down, why do we stay when we should be running away? Is being alone more frightening than living with a lie?

I don’t respond. Instead, I do what I normally do when I can’t think straight. I pour myself a cocktail and play Madonna on my iPod. Eventually, it is time for bed and despite the the heat if the day, the sheets are cool on my legs and surprisingly, sleep comes easy.

But then, in the still of the night, I hear DING-ding! and wake up. The Man has sent another text message that reads, “Finally leaving. Are you awake?” I look at the time. 1:15am. His meeting with the Latino photographer/tantric massage therapist has lasted over ten hours. I’m not sure if I should text back. My mind races. Then my iPhone rings. It’s The Man. I don’t answer. I just lay there and look at the ceiling, now illuminated by the bright screen of my phone. Eventually, the ringing stops and when the screen goes dark, so does my room.

The Man and I are having brunch at HK. It is crowded and we have been seated at a table for two, nestled tightly in a row of tables-for-two along the wall. As I squeeze into my seat, I make a mental note to not drink too much. My bladder is now landlocked by three tables and I’ll have to ask six strangers to stand up if I need to pee.

It won’t be easy to refrain from gulping down a sea of cool, refreshing drinks. The city is suffering from yet another heatwave with temperatures soaring over one hundred degrees and a crippling humidity. The walk from the subway was unbearable because of a stifling, thick haze. I wanted to join the chubby children that were playfully splashing in an open fire hydrant but the thought of air conditioning and a cold mimosa was all the motivation I needed to forge ahead.

All the Hell’s Kitchen boys are here in the restaurant, wearing their dark Ray Bans and flip-flops. The restaurant is abuzz with gossip from last night’s debaucheries: who got drunk, who hooked up and who showed out. Sweat drips down their tanned faces from their moussed coifs as they nurse their hangovers and fumble with their iPhones.

Between the closeness of the neighboring tables and the Lady Gaga remix blaring from the speakers above, having a conversation is next to impossible but The Man and I try anyway, discussing a meeting he has later in the day with a photographer. In an effort to build his massage therapy and personal training clientele, The Man is designing a website and will need new photos.

“I don’t know why I’m so nervous to have this meeting,” says The Man.

“Me either,” I say. “It’s not like it’s an actual shoot. You’re just talking.”

“No, he said he might take some test shots.”

“Oh,” I said, taking a sip from my mimosa. “Did you bring different outfits or anything?”

The Man lightly kicked at his ugly multl-colored messenger bag at our feet. “Yup. Some skimpy workout clothes.”

“Oh, you’ll have to model them for me sometime,” I said with a wink. “So, tell me more about this photographer. What’s his name?”

The Man looks down and slowly speaks just as he always does when he’s carefully piecing together an answer. “Well, his name is Enrique Munoz. And he’s actually only a photographer on the side. He’s a massage therapist, too. Do you know what tantric massage therapy is?”

I smirk. Do I know what tantric massage is? For a moment, I consider playing stupid just to see what The Man says. I try to ignore the protruding acidic pangs that stab into my stomach when I think about the obvious Latino ethnicity of the photographer/tantric massage therapist. The Man prefers to date Latino guys and I, obviously, am not Latino. “I write about dating, relationships and sex. Of course I know what tantric massage therapy is. Do you know what it is?”

The Man doesn’t answer the question but continues talking. “Well, that’s what he does. His studio is not far from your apartment, actually, so maybe after my meeting with him I can come over and spend some time with you. Maybe dinner?”

This makes me smile. Maybe dinner? “Yeah, that’d be nice.” And maybe some sex, too? I wonder. With complicated work schedules, The Man and I rarely get to spend time alone and seeing his excitement about the photoshoot is a turn-on. Ambition is an aphrodisiac. The Man’s gonna get some tonight, I think.

The rest of brunch is filled with flirty chit-chat as I nibble on a salad and The Man squelches his nervousness with mimosas. We make goo-goo eyes at each other while under the table, our legs occasionally rub together. Above the table, The Man reaches for my hand and holds it, gently caressing my wrist with his soft fingertips.

Rather suddenly, The Man looks at the chunky watch on his wrist. “Oh shit, we gotta go. My meeting is at three and its almost two-thirty!” He pops out of his seat, grabs his ugly multi-colored messenger bag and hurries me out of the restaurant. “C’mon, c’mon!” We scurry out of the restaurant and make our way to the Upper West Side, he to his meeting and me to my apartment.

At three-thirty, The Man sends me a text message. “This guy has a full bar in his studio! Yaaaasss!” I send The Man an LOL and lay down to take a nap, unaware that in just a few hours, I will be forced to make a difficult decision that would change things between The Man and I forever.

TO BE CONTINUED

CLICK HERE TO READ ABOUT THE BOYS ON THE COVER OF MY BOOK

CLICK HERE TO READ PART ONE

“I lied to you about something,” says The Man.

No, no, no, no, no! I think, my mind racing. Not now! We just ran through the rain together and made out in the back of a cab! We were having such a great date! Don’t fuck it up! I scan the Galaxy Diner, where we are eating dinner, and shove my plate out of my way. The Man seems to be shrinking in the booth and his face is red with embarrassment and then white with fear. The waiter heads in our direction but quickly does a smooth 180 when he sees what I’m sure is steam coming out of my ears.

“What is it?” I demand. I skipped being hurt and went right to anger. I am very annoyed. I am highly irritated. “Tell me. Now. C’mon. Out with it.” Within seconds, a wall is erected around my heart and I sit straight up, feeling aggressively defensive, ready to hear the bad news. I am already imagining what I’ll be drunkenly telling my friends later, over martinis at a near-by bar. The Man wants to break-up. The Man met someone. The Man cheated on me. Or-

The next thought- the next possibility that I think of- knocks the air out of my lungs and sets my stomach ablaze. No, no, I think. Please, no. Not THAT. A shiver crawls up my spine and my mind frenetically rewinds to last autumn…

The Man disappeared without explanation. Thing were going well between us and then suddenly, The Man stopped returning calls and texts and just…vanished.

In the weeks that followed, I cried and cursed and tried to figure out what I had done wrong. I searched for answers and rambled on and on about The Man to anyone that would listen, thinking out loud. Why did he leave? Where did he go? Why couldn’t he just tell me? What did I do wrong? Most people shrugged politely but it was at a drunk brunch at Upper West Side’s Regional one chilly morning when Danny, a friend of The Man’s, let the cat out of the bag.

“Tyler, The Man left because he found out he is HIV positive and he didn’t know how to tell you,” he said, just before gulping down the last of his fifth mimosa. “He told me that he tested positive about a week or so before he left you.”

I was stunned.

In the middle of Regional, I cracked open like a volcano, loudly spewing red-hot questions in the air and wildly gesturing. “What?! Why didn’t he tell me? Did he think I would care?! What was he afraid of?!” Even though Danny is known to be a gossip hound who exaggerates stories and broadcasts everyone’s business, I believed Danny. Without The Man around to defend himself, having disappeared and taken every ounce of trust I had for him, why wouldn’t I believe Danny?

Then, months later, in the spring, when The Man and I met at a Union Square diner for a reconciliation lunch, I confronted him with Danny’s proclamation.

“Danny said you left because you tested positive for HIV. Is that true?”

The Man’s head quickly swiveled in my direction, shocked. “WHAT?! No! That’s not true!” He audibly exhaled and wrinkled his brow, incredulous and angry. “Why would Danny say-”

I cut him off. “Well, are you HIV positive? Just be honest.

“NO! No! I’m not! Why would Danny say that?!” The Man was visibly angry, and he seemed to shake in his seat.

I shrugged, not sure what to say. A part of me felt guilty for causing The Man to get upset. Then I became nervous, wondering if I had inadvertently started a chain of events that would result in a dramatic blow out between Danny and The Man. While The Man fumed, I began to doubt myself. Maybe I misunderstood Danny? Maybe I misheard him?

“We can go get tested right now,” The Man blurted. “Or let’s call Danny right now and-”

“No, no, no!” I said, putting my hands up. “I don’t want to cause any drama.” I proceeded to talk The Man down from the ledge and the subject of Danny’s lie was never brought up again in the following months while The Man and I slowly found ourselves once again transitioning from friends to dating…

Is that what The Man has lied about? I silently wonder while adjusting myself in the booth at the Galaxy Diner. Did he lie about being HIV positive? The Man has spent the last five minutes stammering and stalling. I am out of patience. The suspense is too much. He takes a big gulp from his ice water, finishing it off, and begins slowly and quietly speaking.

“Okay, well, I lied to you about something and I-”

“Are you HIV positive? Is that what you lied to me about?”

His face contorts into a puffy circle of angry red wrinkles. “What?! NO! Why would you- What?! NO!” I immediately release a sigh of relief and loosen my grip on the table’s ledge, but only momentarily, when I realize that he still hasn’t revealed what he’s lied to me about.

“What then?! Quick dragging this on and on! Just out with it already!” I fight the urge to kick him under the table.

“Okay, okay,” he starts again, slowly. “You know, all this time, I’ve told you I live by myself in Astoria. Well, I don’t. I have a roommate.”

I blink. Of course my mind races to next worst possible scenerio. He has a live-in boyfriend, I think. “You have a live-in boyfriend?” I blurt out.

“No,” he says, rolling his eyes. “I live with a woman- she’s a student from the Ukraine and we don’t get along. At all.” He sits in silence, waiting for me to react. I look him over and wonder if there’s more.

‘Is that it? That’s all? Why didn’t you tell me?” As if I just ran an exhausting marathon, I fall back into the booth and exhale. The Man is relieved because I’m relieved, so he perks up and becomes more chatty. He signals the waiter for more water. “I’m so sorry. I know I should have told you. I didn’t know things were going to get this serious between us and I never really had a chance to tell you the truth. And you just mentioned coming over to my apartment, so I thought I should tell you now. I’m sorry.”

“So, this Ukrainian woman- she’s not cool with you having company? Is this why you’ve never had me over?” He nods his head. It might seem odd that a thirty-something year old man is not permitted to have guests visit his home, but after having lived with Dr. Mary Jane for two long, dreadful years, I’m a little too familiar with this type of situation. I, too, was forbidden to have guests and had to live by ridiculous rules that were created by a bra-less landlord who often smelled like pot and hummus. I imagined The Man coming home at night and finding a middle-aged woman in an ugly night gown with crazy red hair and a large black mole on her cheek, spitting deliriously and cursing at him in Ukrainian with a rolling pin in her meaty hand. Maybe even a cigarette dangling from her snarled lips. The Man tells me it is not that bad, but it is quite tense and he is looking for a new place to live.

“You could have told me,” I say, getting back to the matter at hand. “In fact, you should have told me. We’re supposed to be building a relationship and you need to trust me just as much as I need to trust you.” He nodded silently and looked at me sheepishly, waiting for my scolding to end. I pick up a fry and nibble on it’s crispy end. “And if you ever scare me like that again,” I smirk, “I’m gonna kick your ass.”

I smile. He smiles. The rest of our conversation is filled with chatter about apartment hunting and bad roommates. The Man orders us dessert, and while I wonder if I’m supposed to be mad that he’s been lying, I feel good that he finally confessed.

We eventually spill out onto the busy sidewalk. There is a hug and kiss goodbye before he hails me a cab, because, you know, that’s what tops do for their bottoms. I get in and he shuts the door, blows me a kiss, and the cab takes off as The Man disappears, swallowed by throngs of faces in the summer night.

The Man and I are sitting in a booth at the Galaxy Diner in Hell’s Kitchen. It is a Saturday night in late August. Earlier in the day, the humid air thickened and the angry clouds rumbled. Then the sky opened, releasing a steady drizzle that hit the sweltering streets like water in a hot skillet. People squealed and scurried under umbrellas and awnings for shelter. The storm clouds eventually dissipated and the retiring sun turned the sky orange and purple before descending behind the murky Hudson River and the Jersey landscape beyond.

I’m normally too busy to pay attention to things like sunsets and shit like that, but when you are falling in love, you see the world in Technicolor. The Man and I had just spent a lazy day together dodging the rain, first by taking in a early matinee, then by stealing away in random shops in the East Village. During the movie, our hands slipped between our seats and our fingers fumbled until they met and intertwined. I caught myself watching The Man watch the movie, his face illuminated by the screen and his eyes twinkling. Afterward, we giggled while running in the rain, finding refuge in one of those head shops on St. Marks, where, near a glass counter that housed glass pipes and cheap nipple rings, my heart melted when The Man gave me a goofy grin while trying on a silly hat.

There was more walking, spontaneous champagne in a sexy bar with dim lighting and red velvet wallpaper and then, when the rain stopped, we walked back to the west side, taking in the colorful sunset. We strolled through Chelsea and caught a cab to Hell’s Kitchen where we have ended up at the Galaxy Diner, one of our favorite low-key dinner spots.

“Today was a good day,” I say, nodding and smiling while dipping a fry in ketchup.

“It was!” he replies, grinning and flashing his eyes at me seductively. I slip my foot onto the seat next to him and he reaches down and gently massages my bare ankle.

I close my eyes and rest my head on the back of the booth. “Oh that feels so good. I could use a real massage,” I say, hinting.

“I can give you one,” he quickly says.

I shrug. “Babe, you give massages all say long- it’s what you do for a living. I couldn’t possibly ask you to give me a massage after hearing you complain about how hard it is.”

He calls my bluff. “Nonsense. I want to give you a massage. I’m serious.”

I smile at his eagerness. The Man is a freelance massage therapist that works at spas and physical therapy centers. He takes great pride in his work and it is a part of his life I’d like to know more about. “Okay, fine, what about one night this week? By the way, I’m totally paying you. This isn’t gonna be a freebie. And you’d better not cop a feel of my ass.” He smirks and half-chuckles as if he knows I don’t mean it, but I do.

I want my massage with The Man to be as professional as possible. If he’s so easily willing to fool around with me on his massage table, I may wonder how easily it happens with others. And let’s face it, dating a massage therapist isn’t easy. There are a lot of stereotypes. When I tell friends what The Man does for a living, I’m often met with a raised eyebrow or a side-eye. “Girl, dating a massage therapist is like dating a stripper,” one friend recently suggested. Or, “You can never trust flight attendants, massage therapists, or bartenders,” another friend scolded. I shrug off these comments because I want to trust The Man and I know that trusting someone takes effort.

“So where will this massage take place? A spa, my place, or your place in Astoria?” I ask then sip from my glass of ice water.

“I share a studio space with other LMT’s. I’ll just reserve a time.”

I nod and then we eat in silence, occasionally locking eyes and smiling. It’s sweet and romantic but then, as if a light switch has been flipped, the glow dissipates from The Man’s eyes and I can tell that something is wrong. The mood is suddenly heavy and air is thick. As if on cue, he clears his throat and speaks hesitantly. “So, um, Tyler. Um, there’s uh, um, something I’ve been, um, meaning to tell you.” He bites his lower lip and I can tell he is very nervous.

I’m sure the color has left my face. I hate surprises. Even good ones. “Um, okay. Is this bad or good?”

“Bad.”

The air leaves the room. My stomach suddenly fills with acid, as if a dam has broken. Immediately, beads of sweat rolls out of my armpits and my mouth is dryer than the Sahara. I reach for my glass of ice water and see that my hand I shaking. I try to call his bluff. “You’re joking, right? You’re jut trying to be funny?”

The Man slowly shakes his head and when he swallows, it is audible.

“Uh, what…what is it?”

He sighs and opens his mouth, the words catching in his throat. And then, he blurts it out.

“I lied to you about something.”

TO BE CONTINUED

Click Here to Read The History of The Man

I have such a fear of vomiting that, if I feel the slightest bit nauseous, I make deals with God to keep me from throwing up. God, if you keep me from throwing up, I’ll never be gay again. Of course this doesn’t work. I end up heaving into the toilet and laying on the bathroom floor with a burning throat, watering eyes and sore abs. Thanks a lot, I sarcastically think, raising a fist towards the heavens above. Just for that, I’m gonna go suck a dick tonight!

I also have a huge fear of scorpions. I regularly have nightmares of being trapped in a dark room with a multitude of the creepy-crawly critters. In my dreams, I can hear them as they rapidly scurry around, their sharp tails hungry for blood and virgin skin. Once, in a zoo, I knocked a toddler down while trying to flee the insect house when I realized there were scorpions on display. And quite honestly, I’d do it again. I read somewhere that some scorpions can grow up to a foot and a half in length! Nothing should be that long. Not even a penis.

Strangely, one of my biggest fears is something that most people do every day, several times a day. I have a fear of driving. Sure, I know how to drive but whenever I do, my knuckles turn white from tightly gripping the steering wheel. I clench my jaw and I require silence in the car. My head nervously darts around, looking in all the mirrors. I constantly pump the brakes on especially crowded highways or curvy, country roads, ready to come to a screeching halt should a dog, deer, old lady, baby carriage, or plastic bag meander into my path. The entire car stutters, passengers get whiplash and forgotten treasures roll out from underneath the seats.

On a heavier note, I’ve had a bad accident before, flipping my car several times, and, in 2008, my younger brother lost his life in a tragic car accident. So, when I drive, my foot is forever hovering over the brake pedal. I am frightened, of course, of crashing and creating a gruesome scene of crunched metal and shattered glass. I am terrified of the eerie quietness that follows a crash, when all you can hear is the hissing, hot engine as the motor fluids drip from the carnage onto the pavement.

I suppose another fear that I suffer is having my heart broken. It’s difficult for me to trust men. I’m already leery of people’s intentions- I live in New York City, for Christ’s sake. Everyone is on their hustle, climbing over one another like ants and kissing each other with one eye open. It can be unsettling and nerve wracking. This is why I was apprehensive to start dating The Man again. His previous disappearing act left me confused and hurt. How could I trust him to not do it again? Still, I agreed to meet him for a date. And another. And another. There were dinners in diners and drinks in bars and hot and heavy make out sessions on my bedroom floor. Before I knew it, July rolled into August and we were essentially back together.

I was resistant at first. “I can’t do this,” I texted to The Man on a rainy morning in late July. The night before found me pacing around my tiny apartment, martini in hand, frustrated that The Man was not responding to my text messages. Correction: he was responding, but his texts were short and abrupt. “Are you home?” I typed.

“No”, he responded. I waited a few moments for a follow up text, telling me where he was. It never came and after ten minutes, the suspense was killing me.

“Where are you?” I typed, hating that I was feeling anxious by his short responses.

After ten minutes, he answered. “Chelsea.” I sighed. For those of you that don’t know, Chelsea is a section of New York City that covers about thirty blocks. The Man, as I was learning, was not one for specifics. I, on the other hand, am a detail-oriented fella. If you ask me where I am, I will tell you exactly where I am.

Unless I have something to hide.

Did The Man have something to hide? He had a penchant for answering questions with basic, simple one-word answers. I tried asking open-ended questions yet he still kept it elementary. “How was your day?” I’d ask.

“Fine,” he’d shrug, offering nothing else but silence.

Or, “what did you think of the movie?” I’d question.

“It was alright,” he’d say, followed by a another shrug and more silence. Growing up, I used to do this to my mother when she interrogated me after I’d come home late from a school dance. It drove her nuts and it drove me nuts when The Man did it. It made me suspicious and paranoid. With the heartache caused by his previous disappearing act still healing, I finally came undone.

“I can’t do this,” I texted the next morning. “I don’t think we should see each other again.” I wasn’t sure if I really meant it, but I knew one thing to be true: I needed The Man to be more forthright. Perhaps I was overreacting and just wanted The Man to call my bluff. You might say I was pumping the brakes, worried that our relationship would careen out of control. Worried that I would get hurt again.

It wasn’t long before The Man was knocking on my door, wanting to talk. Eager for a resolution, we sat on the sofa and he quietly reached for my hand while I told him I needed him to be more forthright. The vague texts made me suspicious. His quietness seemed secretive. I wanted to trust him but I was afraid.

“Afraid of what?” he wanted to know.

“Afraid that you’re going to up and run away like you did before.”

He sighed and stared down at his Nikes in silence. After a few moments he looked right into my eyes and the floodgates opened. “I’m not going anywhere. This time is different,” he said softly, squeezing my hand a little. “So what if I’m not always chatty? That’s just the way I am. And I was in a hurry, running late and trying to get to the subway when you were texting me last night. And it was raining. I’m sorry. I’m not hiding anything. I really want this to work and I need you to trust me.” I thought I was going to start crying. It was the exact reassurance that I needed. He tugged at my hand and pulled me into a hug.

I felt like a foolish drama queen. I had paced around my apartment, conjuring up a million other horrible reasons for his abruptness. I jumped to conclusions and freaked out. I needed to take a leap of faith, let go of the past, and trust The Man. He hugged on me for a while, rubbing on the back of my bald head. He eventually pulled away to look at my face and smiled. “Are we good?” he asked, with raised eyebrows.

“Yeah,” I nodded. “We’re good.” I collapsed back into him, giggling a little. In his arms, I felt safe.

Who knows? Maybe The Man would be the one who would protect me from the scorpions. Maybe he would be the one who would hold me when I’m sick and laying on the bathroom floor. Eventually, I had to either get out of the car or I had to stop pumping the brakes. I had to let go and coast along. I had to surrender my worries and enjoy the ride.

CLICK HERE TO READ ABOUT THE MAN’S DISAPPEARING ACT