was no longer listening. All that mattered was that Joey’s new boyfriend had a monster face. I now refer to him as Herman. I have no idea what his real name is, and I don’t care to know. Herman suits him just fine.
My arm is going stiff lying on my side.
“Fuck.”
I sit up again, letting out a long sigh. I know now it’s impossible to fall asleep without chemical assistance. I throw off the sheet and place my feet against the hardwood floor. Even before I make it to the bathroom I remember that I’ve used up all my sleeping pills. Insomnia has been a rather frequent visitor to my room these past several months.
“Damn,” I say, flicking on the light and looking at myself in the mirror.
What I notice first are the bags around my eyes. When did they become so prominent? When did I start looking so old? Then my gaze drops down to the tiretube of flesh jiggling above the waistband of my Calvin Klein boxer briefs. What the hell was Gale thinking when he asked me out? If he’d seen me like this—the real me—he’d never have gotten such an absurd idea. Like I’m going to want to take my shirt off in front of Mr. Four-Percent-Body-Fat!
I decide to try some of that Sleepytime tea Lloyd keeps downstairs for guests. No caffeine but plenty of chamomile. It’s not Ambien, but it’s something.
I creak open the door and start down the stairs to Nirvana’s common room. I don’t want to wake any guests; the last thing I want right now is to make small talk with a couple of horny middle-aged guys from Pittsburgh or a large baby dyke from Ottawa. We’ve got a full house tonight, and each and every one of them was wide eyed and eager to start exploring Provincetown when I checked them in this afternoon. They all got my very best Chamber-of-Commerce spiel, recommending restaurants and explaining shuttle schedules. But now, at half past twelve in the morning, I’m not in the mood to play tour guide.
I’m in luck. The common room is empty. I hurry over to the bar, where in just six hours I’ll be putting out blueberry muffins and croissants (reheated from yesterday’s batch, no way I’m getting up an hour early now to whip up some new ones). I fumble around in the darkness, not wanting to switch on a light, searching for the little baskets where we keep tea bags and sugar packets.
“And what are you lurking about for at this time of night, Mr. Weiner?”
I jump, even though I know the voice.
“Lloyd,” I say, not bothering to look up. “I can’t sleep. I need some of that tea. Or better yet, if you have some Ambien lying around…”
“No need for all those toxic chemicals,” Lloyd tells me. He easily finds the basket with the tea and motions me to follow him into the small kitchen area. It’s thankfully separated off from the common room by a solid oak door. Once inside, Lloyd flicks on the overhead light. I blink, my eyes adjusting, while he drops a tea bag into a mug filled with water and pops it into the microwave. “So, tell me, Henry,” Lloyd says, while the tea spins slowly inside, brewing, “what’s keeping you awake and prowling the halls?”
“Oh, nothing much,” I say. “Except my entire life.”
Lloyd smiles. The microwave beeps. He carefully removes the mug of tea and sets it down in front of me. “Honey?” he asks. I shake my head no—too many calories. He tells me to wait a couple of minutes before drinking. “It’s hot.”
I look over at him. Nothing in the world feels better than being taken care of by Lloyd Griffith. He always knows just what to say, what to offer, how to be. Once, I really believed we were right for each other. Maybe I still believe that. Jeff doesn’t appreciate Lloyd the way I do. Jeff’s always too busy, always rushing off somewhere, to just sit and be, the way Lloyd prefers. Jeff never pauses long enough to listen to Lloyd’s soothing, wise words and truly take them in. He’s never admitted as much, but I think Lloyd agrees with me about the whole monogamy thing—that if Jeff didn’t insist on remaining a tramp, he’d reel him in, and they’d have a lovely, one-on-one, monogamous relationship.
He could have had it with me—but the one blind spot in Lloyd’s wisdom is his love for Jeff. What he puts up with from that man! Today, while Lloyd was probably here at the guesthouse, Jeff was back in their bed fucking Luke’s hot little butt. As much as Jeff is my friend, I really don’t see what keeps Lloyd so attached to him. They’re day and night, black and white. And now they’re getting married.
“Your entire life,” Lloyd says, sitting down at the table opposite me. “That’s a lot of territory.”
“Not really,” I tell him, holding my hands against the sides of the hot cup. “My life is pretty small, in fact. There’s the guesthouse, you, Jeff, Ann Marie, J. R., visits to my parents a few times a year…that about sums up my life.”
“Oh, we’re reducing Henry Weiner to exteriors again, are we?”
I manage a small smile. “I just mean…”
“You mean, you’re lonely.”
How is it that Lloyd knows so much? How is it that in just one phrase he can sum it all up for me? Yes, I’m lonely. And I’m tired of it. Way past tired of it.
“I got asked out today,” I tell him. “And I just started thinking about things.”
“About Joey.”
I smile, more easily this time. “Yeah, he was one of those things.”
“Who asked you out?”
“This guy I’ve seen at the gym. Do you know him? A real cute, humpy little guy named Gale?”
“Oh, yes,” Lloyd says, nodding. “Very cute. I’ve met him, but don’t really know him.”
“Well, anyway, I saw him at Mojo’s and—” I decide against telling him the exact situation that prompted our meeting. I’m not sure if Lloyd knows that Jeff tricked with Luke. “And he asked me out to dinner tomorrow night.” I make a face and finally take a sip of my tea. “Actually, tonight.”
“Good for you,” Lloyd says.
I find his soft green eyes. Is there any jealousy there? Any hint of a pang? Any suggestion that somewhere, deep down, Lloyd might wish things had turned out differently, that he was marrying me instead of Jeff?
No. I see nothing there. I can’t even pretend I do.
“Henry,” Lloyd says, “I’ve said it before and it bears saying again. The universe has a plan for you. You’ve just got to trust.”
“Oh, I trust the universe just fine,” I tell him. “I just happen to think its plan for me is to be alone, and I think it sucks.”
Lloyd laughs. “I don’t think that’s the plan for you.”
“How do you know? Come on, Lloyd. I’m thirty-fucking-three.”
“Good God,” he says. “Decrepit.”
“And I’ve never had a boyfriend last past the one-year mark. Meanwhile, I’ve been hung up on Joey for longer than we were even together!”
“That’s because your ego was wounded, Henry. He left you. It fits into your core belief that you aren’t worthy of being loved.”
It’s Lloyd’s psychology background coming out. There’s truth to his analysis, I’m sure, but it still sucks. It’s not like I can rationalize my way out of feeling bad about being dumped.
“If you truly believe you aren’t good enough to be loved,” Lloyd’s telling me, “then you’ll always fail at relationships. If you can change that deeply held belief—”
“I know, I know. I should get back into therapy.”
Lloyd shrugs. “Couldn’t hurt.”
“Or maybe I should just drive out to West Springfield next weekend and tell Mom and Dad ‘fuck you’ for screwing up my sense