"Be as honest as possible about everything," Sabrina told me. "That's what you're known for. That's what they want. And what we all need. Honesty."
So what do I say? That I'm seeing a psychologist? I've worried maybe the world is better off without me in it since I was a little kid? I can't sleep some nights without two melatonins, even though I've got the love of my life pressed up against me, stroking my hair? Maybe they would like to know that I feel guilty every day for my choices, but I can't tell my husband because he'd feel guilty.
There's so many things that I can't tell him now that he's my husband. More than there ever used to be.
I've been up here at my desk for hours, but I'm not sure what to say in the small talk I’ll give before I start taking their questions.
I think I slept an hour last night—even though it was Rayne’s turn for baby duty. I'm tired, and I feel weary to the core. One of my dad's friends emailed and said he thought my father would be very disappointed. It was one of those guys who came to Tahoe that weekend.
I feel the old way, but I can’t tell anyone. Like I’m slipping under water, and I can’t open my mouth to say so. Derek says it's a ‘trigger’ reaction. Almost like PTSD. I can't believe that, though. Not really. I've had a life of privilege. My parents were almost always supportive and loving.
I scrub my fingers through my hair and let a breath out. Maybe I'll just wing it. I do that sometimes, and no one on my team worries when I do. I think well under pressure. It's one of my particular skills. One of the main ones that's enabled me to do this so effectively.
And you do. I hear V's voice say the words. You do it damned effectively, McD.
"You're the talent. You're the star. You're young and beautiful and charismatic. Honest. Kind. You're a catch. I caught you, but they get to share you. Let yourself be loved by them. And trust it."
That's what he told me before I drove here. He and Eden won't be here till around—I check my watch—right now.
I lay my head on my desk. Cover my head with one arm.
God, please. What if I can't do it, I just get up there and freeze?
"This is soul-deep," Derek told me last time we talked. "Think of what happened to you as an event that left little hooks in your soul. And when you move around and knock them on something, they get uncomfortable. What we need to do here is remove them. One by one. Through logic and mindfulness and addressing your feelings."
"I don't have any feelings. They were misguided; my dad made a bad choice, but he didn’t mean to. Simple as that."
I'm a liar. Even Derek knows it.
Lord, please. Just help me know the answers. And not sound like a crock.
Do what you always do, a voice in my head tells me.
I don't feel it, though. I don't feel anything. I walk over to the windows, where I watch a sea of people drifting across the lawn. Walking into the church. To listen to me talk about gay marriage and the Bible. Some of them are here to poke holes in what I say. To tell themselves or me or others that I'm full of crap. Because I'm biased.
"Wouldn't a gay man say it's okay to be gay?"
Talk shows, Bible studies, and forums the world over have been buzzing with that question—or so I’m told by P.R.
If I question whether being out and gay is Biblically okay and say I'm just doing what I think is best for me, it's a condemnation. It could even cause violence.
But you believe it is okay. You believe that deep down. You're going to have to say it, Sky babe.
Vance is in my head. It's kind of cute.
And then he's in my office.
“Sky?”
I turn from the window, drinking him in. He looks like a whole meal in a black suit with a pale blue dress shirt—its collar unbuttoned—and just a little stubble on his jaw and his, soft short hair. “Looking sharp,” I manage.
He smiles. “Edey’s in the nursery.”
"Come here," I murmur. Just one stride and he's in my arms.
"Hey, my Sky babe." He kisses my cheek and then inhales. Then he pulls back, smiling gently. "How ya doing?"
"I'm okay." But the words catch in my throat.
He rubs his palms down my upper arms and gives me a sad smile. "No you're not. You're nervous as hell, and you look tired."
"That's good," I say, sounding like Eeyore even to my own ears.
"Nobody else will know, except maybe Pearl. I can read you like a book, McD." He holds me closer. "Tell me what’s up." He kisses my hair, and I let myself relax against him.