After graduation, I spent three years writing puff pieces for the Toronto Star. Then, I took a detour into telecommunications. My 'big break' came when I landed an interview at Posh! Network Television, which specialized in reality programing and salacious celebrity gossip. I started behind the scenes. After five years of chasing celebrity sound bites, I was finally promoted to on-air talent. A part of me suspected that my sexuality played a more significant role in my success than did actual hard work. Around 2010, networks had begun to pride themselves on their diversity. Suddenly, having an openly gay correspondent was beneficial to their brand. So, they made me a weeknight co-host for Spotlight, an Entertainment Tonight knock-off. It aired every night at 7 pm unless pre-empted by a hockey game.
I had garnered popularity rather quickly, especially with women over sixty. I wasn't sure why. I suppose I reminded them of their grandsons. I was tall with lean muscle that I spent an hour a day on the treadmill to maintain. One of my blue eyes was larger than the other, which I felt made my face asymmetrical and unbalanced. It was a small imperfection that most people didn't even notice unless I mentioned it. I hadn't seen it myself until my makeup artist pointed it out one day. So naturally, it had become an area of self-consciousness. My skin was pale with a pink hue. My hair was the colour of chestnuts with flecks of ginger that made it look red in bright sunlight. I wasn't unattractive. I knew that. I had received enough compliments over the years to accept that as truth. I was also astute enough to recognize that I wasn't a supermodel. I had realistic self-esteem. I was attractive without being intimidating, and that worked for me.
A year ago, on top of my weeknights at Spotlight, they had offered me a daytime gig. I sat on a panel of five men of various ages and backgrounds, discussing current events and pop culture. They called it Locker Talk. I knew they had been hoping to attract the testosterone-driven male audience. In truth though, it was The View with fewer breasts and more sports references. The show was successful and had been recently sold into syndication.
No, I hadn't quite become Oprah Winfrey, but I had become successful in my own right. My face was recognizable, although not everyone knew from where. I got plenty of "You look so familiar" and "Have we met before?". Sometimes they'd confuse me for someone else entirely, usually "that guy from the news." It always surprised me when people got it right. They'd ask me to pose for a picture and sign a napkin, both I would do with patience and gratitude.
While onboard an airplane, it was the only time it ever felt invasive or frustrating. You couldn't excuse yourself while on a plane. There was nowhere to go. You were stuck -- belted in even -- forced to endure whoever sat next to you with a polite smile. So, I was somewhat relieved to discover the two other seats in my row were vacant. Upon landing, I was also thrilled to learn that the network had arranged a simple black town car and driver for me. He would take me the forty-five-minute distance to River Bluff.
The network had fabulous benefits. A death in the family warranted two weeks off with pay. They even covered any related travel costs to and from the funeral, if held out of the city. The human resources department also arranged for an embarrassingly large floral bouquet, which I could have sent to either myself or the grieving party of my choice. I had sent the flowers to my father but was careful not to include a detailed card. Only a generic, "my condolences." I hadn't even signed my name.
I cringed as we entered the town limits. The hideous sign welcoming me to The Home of The Grouch made it clear I had reached my destination. I had returned, which was something that once seemed unlikely. It was late June now, so the poplar trees were in full leaf, lining both sides of the street. They rustled in the warm summer air, as though waving in greeting. They were mocking me.
We drove down a familiar bank and over a small bridge, which was more modern than the wooden one I remembered. The town had made some upgrades over the years. The water beneath us looked brown and murky, much like my current mood. A flock of seagulls dipped and dived above the small stretch of gritty earth that lined the riverbed. A beach, it was not, even though the townsfolk often referred to it as such. Soon after crossing the bridge, we made a left. There was a small general store on the corner that marked the beginning of Main Street. Beside the store, was a red brick building. It was at least a hundred years old and housed a small bar with an upstairs motel. It wasn't the Hilton. If I rated it on the star scale, a half-star would have been generous. Still, I imagined it to be far more comfortable than the offer of my sister's sofa. I knew it would be more welcoming than my childhood home.
After I had sent the car away, I called Lauren to announce my arrival. It was five o'clock, so I was not surprised when she extended an invitation to join her and her husband for dinner. She would not take no for an answer. In some ways, she was much like our father. When she had her mind set, it was pointless to argue.
"We're only having pork-chops, nothing fancy," she said. "I'll send Oliver and Bryce to pick you up. They'll text you when they get there."
Oliver was a name I recognized, but the other name was new to me. "Bryce is...?"
"Oliver's brother," she explained. "They've been working on their bikes all afternoon, so don't mind if they're a little greasy."
As long as they didn't plan on rubbing their mucky coveralls against me, I was sure I'd be fine. "They don't expect me to ride on their bikes, do they?"
Lauren laughed. "As entertaining as the thought of you on the back of a Harley is, no. They'll have the truck."
While I waited, I settled myself into my room. My interior-decorator friend, Ronan, would have used the word "rustic" to describe it. I had left my rose-coloured glasses at home and chose to see it for precisely what it was — a dump. The brass, twin-sized bed frame was rusted. It also had a lumpy, spring-loaded mattress that made embarrassing noises when you dared sit on it. The linens were thin from over bleaching, and I cringed at the thought of what I would find under a black light. Blood? Semen? Or worse. I could tell that the walls had been white at some point, but those days were long past. Years of tobacco smoke had turned them beige. The ceiling was stained with brown spots and was warped from water damage. I only hoped it was caused by inadequate roofing and not poor plumbing. I shuddered at the genuine possibility of toilet water dripping on me while I slept. For a moment, I was reminded of Chanterelle and her crack den.
Dreading having to spend a moment longer than I had to in that room, I went down to the bar to wait. I had only started my gin when a message lit up my phone. I thanked the bartender with a tip and headed to meet Oliver in the parking lot.
I had only met Oliver once or twice. He and Lauren had flown to Toronto a handful of times over the years. Usually en route to more exciting and exotic destinations. Visiting me had never been the reason for their trips, so our encounters were always very brief. Often a quick drink in an Airport lounge or dinner in whichever hotel they were staying. Oliver was good-looking but not in a conventional way. You had to study him for a moment to see his handsome, deep-set eyes and full lips. His hair was the colour of chocolate, cropped short for easy maintenance. He looked thicker in the middle than when I had seen him last. That was bound to happen when your wife was an incredible cook. Oliver had an innocent, playful quality about him, which is what drew Lauren to him. She was a serious person. Always had been, even when we were children. She was a thinker. A planner. A worrier. Oliver was content to relinquish control and let life happen. I thought their contradictory personalities complemented each other.