“Notreally. I’m more of a, uh, meatloaf kind of guy,” I replied, trying to keep mybreathing normalized
“Well,cornmaquechoux is a, hmm … creamysortacorn dish. Peppers and onion, garlic and pepper …It’s delicious, if you don’t have a sensitive stomach. Although, if you do,you’re in the wrong place,” she said with a giggle, and I was reminded of allthose women I slept with before Kylie. Too many women.
Idecided to not tell her that I do have a sensitive stomach. I also decided topush the fact, that Kylie knew that already, out of my mind. That Kylie neverwould’ve brought me to a place like this, that Kylie might have been out withsome guy right now. Eating, drinking, going back to his place.
Because,this is what we did, what we always did. We didn’t get attached; we just movedon.
Becca’shand slid over the table to rest over my wrist and I looked at her paintednails. They sparkled under the light, a holographic disco ball of colors, butwithout Kylie’s eyes to put the hue in my life, they grayed and dulledimmediately.
“I’venever been on a date with a celebrity before,” she said gently.
Itshould’ve been the worddatethat made me look up, but it wasn’t. It wasthat other one—celebrity—that peeled my eyes away from her nails, as Ifelt a cold shiver making its way over every ridge of my spine in slow motion.
“Youthink I’m a celebrity?”
Shegiggled again, looking away with giddy embarrassment. “Well, yeah. I mean, youhave almost a million Instagram followers, and—”
“Ido?” When the fuck had that happened? When the hell had I last checked?
“Yeah!”Becca’s eyes dropped back on me. “Your videos on YouTube get millions of hitstoo. Doyanot check these things?”
Ishook my head. “My, uh, my wife would look at all that stuff for me. I justpost the pictures to my Instagram, but I never see how many people arefollowing me. It never really mattered.”
Itwas her turn to drop her eyes to the table. “Your wife, huh.”
“Yeah,she’d handle all that social media stuff for me,” and I laughed, pushing a handthrough my hair, missing the length of it. “God, she’s obsessed with looking atthat shit. She gives me the play-by-play of that hashtag … What the fuck isit?”
“Daisiesand Devin,” she said, shifting in her seat and playing with the edge of hernapkin.
Inodded, smiling. “Yeah, that’s right. She’s always telling me what people aresaying, always …” And I stopped myself, my mouth hanging open as my eyesdropped to the tablecloth. “Or, she did, anyway.”
Lookingup at me, she asked, “Is she, um … alive?”
Startled,I blinked rapidly, nodding. “God,yeah, she’s—holy shit.”
“What?”she asked, bored, and not even trying to hide the fact.
“Iknow what she’s doing.” Becca shook her head in response.Ofcourseshe did, she didn’t know Kylie, or the past, and so, without asecond thought, I said, “Her dad was a drug addict. She’d sometimes say shewished she had stopped trying to make him better. She wished she had let go,let him fuck up sooner, instead of holding on for so long, because it wasalways going to lead to the same outcome.”
“Whathappened to him?” she asked, slowly developing an interest in my revelation.
“Hedied,” I said plainly, and that startled her.
Hereyebrows jumped, her lipspartedand her gaze fell tothe table in time for the waitress to bring our food. “I-I’m sorry to hearthat.”
Platesof crispy gator, gator sausage and cornmaquechouxwere distributed between us, along with two glasses of root beer. To mysurprise and despite my hesitance toactually eatalligator, it smelled ridiculously good and the growl coming from my stomachreminded me of how fucking hungry I was.
Igrabbed my fork and knife, preparing to dive in, when Becca asked, “So, what isshe doing?”
“What?”I asked, looking up to see she hadn’t even noticed her food was sitting infront of her.
“Yousaid you knew what your wife was doing, so … what is shedoin’?”
“Oh,”I said, putting the utensils back down. “She won’t lose someone else she loves,so she’s letting me go. She’s, uh, I guess, letting me fuck up my life.”She’sletting me become Robbie.
“Howthe heck could she think you’re fuckin’ up your life? You’re an overnightsuccess story. That happens to like, one in a million people, if that. You’reso incredibly lucky,” she said, shaking her head in disbelief. “I mean, gosh,you can’t turn on the radio without hearing your music.”
“Butit’s not my music being played on the radio,” I disputed. “That shit they’replaying on there? That’s what theytold memy musicshouldbe,and that’s why she left. Well … she left because she has a life in Connecticutshe needed to go back to, but she leftmebecause I was allowing them tochange me, for the fame.”
