I was sitting at Java Detour on Santa Monica Blvd. when Brett walked in.
Brett and I met three or four years ago at the after party for a runway show I was helping to produce. Brett was one of the models. I gave him a ride home and then I gave him a ride home.
The next morning, he made breakfast and told me he had a great time, but his girlfriend was coming back from New York later that evening, so our rendezvous was a one time deal. "I'm sure you understand," he said.
I wasn't angry or even that upset because he was so nice about the whole thing. It's probably because he's Canadian. Brett was one of those touchy-feely, 'I don't wear labels,' 'sexuality is fluid,' 'I'm not gay, I'm not bisexual, I'm just sexual' guys that we sleep with once and end up becoming friends with, if for no other reason than, because they're enigmas.
Brett and I remained close friends for a year and then drifted apart. I guess in the whole scheme of 'friends for a reason, season or lifetime,' he was Mr. Winter 2005.
I looked up to see Brett's smiling face and the wave of his left hand as he walked in from the street. As he rounded the corner, I saw his right hand was clutching the hand of a small child.
"This is Matty," he said beaming. Matty was his three-year-old son and miniaturized version of himself.
I choked. I suddenly felt like I was the guy in that Heart song All I Wanna Do Is Make Love to Youand he was Ann Wilson.
Seeing the panic in my eyes, he quickly said, "He's not yours."
Truer words have never been spoken.
"I knew you'd be here," he said. Hottest, stalker, ever.
We made quick small-talk. The weather. I'm looking good. He's looking better. The girlfriend is now the wife. He's no longer modeling. He's now working in landscaping.
After a few minutes, he leaned across the table and said, "He said, 'no,' didn't he?"
I honestly had no idea what he was talking about. "The guy in the column."
Ah, yes. Him. Davis the Australian.
"What makes you think he said 'no,'" I asked.
"Because if he really liked you, you wouldn't have had to ask."
I sat there in silence for a good, long minute, feeling stupid. "Well, his answer wasn't 'no.' It was much worse than that."
The day my column went up, Kitty, Bill, our friend Sharon and I went to Disneyland. I was in line at the Indiana Jones Ride when he called. All I heard after a long pause was, "I'm afraid to say anything for fear it will be used against me in your column" and then, "I'm sorry, but..."
"I'm sorry, but" is always my cue to hang up. Nothing good can come from "I'm sorry, but." It's Pavlovian to me. It goes back to when Adam the First broke up with me over the phone. Since I couldn't hear what Davis was saying from all the screaming around us on the ride, I said, "No worries, we'll talk later" and hung up.
Shot down at the happiest place on earth. Awesome.
A few days later, after I rebuilt some of my obliterated ego, I called him back. I thought we could still be friends. I got his voice mail and left a message. I saw him on Facebook later that night and sent an instant message. He logged off. I texted him, "I hope you're okay."
I had a hard time believing that me asking a boy out had actually rendered him speechless. I sent an e-mail to Davis saying, "Hope we're cool and hope you're not the kind of guy who shuts down when a boy tells you he likes you."
His response was not what I was expecting.
He felt betrayed that I had used his life and things that he had said in my column. He felt that he couldn't trust me. He said that he realized that writers take from the world around them, but that he felt it was too close to home.
I didn't feel that I revealed to the world anything personal about him. It's not like I announced he had a small penis. There's obviously much more to the story. Out of respect for his feelings, I won't go further.
It hurt. I was shocked, more than anything. I was nervous that he was going to say 'no' because he didn't feel the same way. I had no idea that I would set off a shitstorm.
Brett just smiled and said, "Ally, you deserve better. He wasn't worth it."
I had to cut him off with, "I deserved the truth, but I can't say he's not worth it."
I wouldn't have invested anything in him if I thought he wasn't worth it. Maybe I just didn't see what was clearly right in my face. But I thought he genuinely liked me.
He's smart. Funny. Sweet. Talented. I don't know what I saw in him and I don't mean that in the angry sense. I mean whatever I saw or felt wasn't something I can verbalize. When we first met, it was like we had known each other for years and that kind of connection is hard to come by. Like the Fox says to the Little Prince, "What is essential is invisible to the eye."
I felt like the column was creative way of asking someone out.
"He used you," Brett started before I cut him off by saying, "No, he didn't."
"Then he's an asshole. Stop trying to defend him. You took out the friend while he was working. You took them hiking. You gave him flowers. There wasn't a single thing in that column of yours that was personal. What, you mentioned he returned your phone calls and that he got an e-mail from some guy while you were sitting there. He's a pussy! He used you. He got caught. And rather than say, 'I'm sorry I don't have feelings for you,' he's going the pussy way out by saying, 'I thought I could trust you.' He had to invent a way to make himself look like the victim, because he got caught."
Maybe Brett was right.
The thing that stung the most for me was the fact he said "I guess that's what writers do, take from the life around them," because I was helping him write a novel that was based on his life. Hello, Kettle? This is Pot. You're black.
While we continued to post-mortem the Davis situation, two guys at the table next to me started scrutinizing all the guys passing by on Santa Monica Blvd. "Gay men in LA are a bunch of 10s looking for an 11."
I groaned. I hate it when people steal movie dialogue for their own attempts at clever diatribes. Can't anyone be original in this town?
However, I guess being witty, unique and bold in an attempt to get someone's attention only works in the movies.
"You always seek out the ones you think you can save and help. You have to stop that," Brett said.
"You knew he wasn't interested when he mentioned that he had friends that were going to set him up with movie stars. You knew when he mentioned that guy and the e-mail. It's your own fault, Ally. You've got to stop leading yourself on. You're only breaking your own heart."
Brett and I hugged goodbye and then he kissed me on the lips. He smiled and said, "The next time one of these guys kisses you, he better mean it." I watched as Brett picked up Matty and slung him over his shoulders as they pushed through the crowd on their way to the Yogurt Stop for dinner. Brett will always be that person who swoops into my life and bequeath a brilliant font of information, knock me senseless and take off in search of cake batter ice cream.
"You can do better," he screamed as they crossed the street.
Later that night, Ryanne and I went to see Wolverine at the Arclight. Ryanne had gone nearly two weeks without processed sugar or carbs. When I mentioned of the word 'popcorn,' her eyes narrowed, turned red and twin cyclones kicked up in the lobby.
"First off, he don't look a damn thing like Hugh Jackman," she said about
Ryanne was referring to a young Cuban waiter I met in Miami fifteen years ago. I somehow missed the day in orientation when it was explained how to manipulate foreskin of an uncut partner without causing bodily injury. Diego kept screaming, "You're hurting me!" and I refused to go near anything Latin, British or European ever again.
When I asked Ryanne if my column was a bad idea, she said, "No. It was creative and sweet. Ain't your fault you're a hopeless romantic."
"No, I'm just hope-less."
Call me crazy, but I want someone who is going to do something exciting and fun to get my attention. Like in the movies. That's my problem. I don't want life to imitate art. I want life to beart.
Like how Tom Cruise bursts into Renee Zellweger's house in Jerry Maguire, and tells her that she "completes" him and Renee tells him to shut up because he "had her at hello." Or how Leotook Kate to the front of the Titanic to make her feel like she was flying. Or how Patrick Swayzecomes back for Jennifer Grey, because "nobody puts Baby in a corner."
Ryanne's eyes flew open and piped up with "Oh my God, you're totally Julia Roberts! You're 'I want the fairy tale.' You're 'I'd rather have thirty minutes of wonderful than a lifetime of nothing special.' You're 'I'm just a girl, standing in front of a boy.' You're 'I just went out there and performed sexual favors. Six hundred and thirty-four blow jobs in five days and I'm really quite tired-'
"I
I don't regret writing the column. And I don't regret the subsequent response that I e-mailed to him. Maybe Brett was right. Davis just got caught. It's easier to say, 'You upset me' than it is to say, 'I'm sorry, I don't feel the same way.'
I miss my friend. I miss hanging out with him. However, I've been through some rather explosive and huge life changing experiences in my life recently and I'm not going to allow someone to deflect their insecurities on me. I can't allow that to happen. I won't allow that to happen.
I want someone like in Love, Actually who will stand outside my door and flip cards, just to tell me they like me. I want someone who will ask me to meet them on a baseball mound for nothing more than a kiss. And I want someone who will stand under my window, holding a boom box and blast In Your Eyes. Maybe that makes me stupid or childish or delusional.
And yes, I want the motherf*#king fairy tale. I want the once upon a time and the happily ever after. I thought I had found a prince a few times but it turns out they were all frogs. Your loss, bub.
I'm not going to change. If you think you can tame me, come and get me.
I dare you.
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