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The Truth about Porn Star Boyfriends
-- EXCERPT: I slept over at his house. I did. I just couldn’t go home after everything he told me. I didn’t accept the invite to come with him on the boat today though. I didn’t ask him if he was going without me either. If he is, wouldn’t he be inviting some “friends,” some Alicias or Silks? I don’t want to know. It’s not difficult to get my shifts back at Mintrer’s. With Il Signore’s nonna at the hospital, the family spends as much time at her bedside as they can. Mom calls. She sounds okay. I need to verify in person even though Paul is next door, hopefully keeping her busy with his garden statues and homemade fountains. He likes my quirky mother because he’s quirky himself. That’s my guess anyway. I don’t think I can handle any new rocks hurled at Status Quo at the moment, especially not from Mom. The boat is ready. I only returned to my house two hours again, and this is what Ciro texts me? I roll my eyes. Frieda lowers the bagel she held up for me—everything or just sesame seeds?—and says, “That isn’t the porn star, is it?” “Yeah, it’s Drake Constantine.” I pull out the syllables mocking him even though each sound opens my chest again. “Well, at least he’s got a nice artist name. He’s no Jake daBoner or Cassius Erectus.” I snort. “Drake Constantine boned me in the ass last night,” she quotes as if from Shakespeare. She gazes beyond the bagel she now holds up like a skull. “What’s he saying?” “He tells me he’s got the boat ready.” “For that Catalina trip?” “Mhmm.” “You’re not doing that too, are you?” She drops the halves of the bagel into the toaster. “Not the everything,” I say. “Can I have the sesame seed one instead?” She presses her mouth together in a stern line but listens and fishes the everything one out and drops the sesame bagel in instead. “Happy now?” “Very.” “You’re not going, right?” “No.” I want to slap my heart and my body for agreeing that we should say yes. “I already told you. I’m visiting Mom this morning, and then I’m working. If I get to do some overtime this weekend, I’m happy. I need the money, and I really don’t want to mope around the house.” I’ll wait for you if you’re asleep. I said I wasn’t going. Can’t. We I hit “send” before I can finish the “We’re over, remember?” part. It was easier to yell it to him when I was furious. Today, I don’t know how I feel. Why can’t you? He doesn’t ask about the We part? He knows. “He’s so stubborn,” I murmur and type again. Because, when are you seeing someone else for a f*** fest? He deserves that I’m being crude. Hell, he’s being crude every hour of every work day. He takes a moment to reply. Long enough for Frieda to scoot a plate and the tub of cream cheese in front of me. “Stop texting with him. You’re only dragging it out. You know that, right? I thought you’d blocked him.” “He has a work phone too. On-freaking-call cell. Ha!”
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