Chapter One
Tyler Morgan had never expected to have his heart broken on a Tuesday. Tuesdays were all about business, cold and structured. Heartbreaks were messy, a roiling pot of emotions—something to endure on a weekend. Especially if one had to confront the blinding hangover that had now overtaken Tyler. There was no doubting it: Leo had left him. But couldn’t he at least have given Tyler’s assistant a heads-up? Amber could have scheduled the heartache and saved Tyler all this mid-week misery. Instead, he sat alone in his apartment—the apartment he had shared with Leo!—and shook from a rush of adrenaline. The breakup had happened so suddenly. It was as if his mind had just begun to process the shock his body was already experiencing. The soft hairs in his inner ear had absorbed the overflow of alcohol, amplifying his tinnitus to a piercing pitch. Tornado sirens, he thought—his head blared at the same frequency of those sirens from his youth. Where had everything gone wrong?
Through the fog, Tyler could see how all the signs of a foreboding breakup were there. Leo had been sorting through his belongings for weeks—maybe months—and Tyler hadn’t even thought to notice. Leo had removed the downtown artist’s portrait of Demi Lovato, a painting inspired by an unflattering paparazzo shot. The bookshelf was cleared of Leo’s favorite titles, including the first edition copy of Pretty Little Liars, a quasi-ironic gift to commemorate a television series they quasi-ironically binged. Even the unwashed extra set of Boll & Branch sheets that had sat in the corner of the foyer for months was removed—Tyler hadn’t been home enough to pick up on it. Two stuffed duffle bags were the last of Leo’s possessions, and they, too, went out the door with him.
“Tyler, I’m leaving you.”
Those were Leo’s words. So definite. So absolute. Tyler didn’t even know what to think—at first. His mouth opened and he wore an incredulous half-grin.
“What?”
“I’m leaving, Tyler.”
“But— but why!” he cried, reality setting in. “I don’t understand.”
He did his best not to slur his words. His nightly afterwork outing had devolved into several rounds of gin and tonics with friends. The acid in his stomach churned the cocktails, prompting spasms deep inside him. He collapsed to the floor and found himself crawling on his hands and knees toward Leo, begging him not to go. Tyler suddenly thought of the scene in Sunset Boulevard in which Norma Desmond begs her younger lover not to leave her palatial lair. Tyler had loved her extravagance, the camp of Gloria Swanson’s performance, but here he was now, beseeching his lover, on his knees, and this shit was in no way amusing.
“Look at you, Tyler. I don’t even know the last time I saw you laugh! Or kiss me! Or tell me you love me!”
“I love you,” Tyler pleaded. He reached out to Leo. “I love you!”
Leo wasn’t having it. “We have no relationship,” he said, exasperated. “And we haven’t for a long time. And what about the future? I’ve known you for four years, and it’s clear you don’t care about me. You come home wasted every night. I mean, falling-down, get-some-fucking-help, full-blown-drunk. Every night! And when you’re not drunk, you’re working. Or you’re drunk and working. And all for what? To produce some little movies that a bunch of Letterboxd-obsessed teens watch? You’re a shell of the man you used to be.”
That word hit especially hard. Shell. It made Tyler sound like a dried-out carcass. Whoa! Sure, he was getting older, and on some days he desperately needed moisturizer, but now he couldn’t get the image of a wrinkled Mother Teresa out of his head. He looked up into Leo’s emotionless eyes.
“I— I don’t know what to do… Leo! You can’t do this!”
“I loved you, Tyler. I loved you so much. But I don’t anymore. And you don’t love me either. You’ll see. You just need some distance.”
Leo turned the doorknob and pulled the door open. The hallway’s ghastly fluorescent lighting burned into the dark apartment.
“I will do anything. Leo! Please. Please just give me a chance! You can’t end it like this!”
“You made this decision for us long ago. I’m just the one who’s going to see it through. I hope you get what you need.”
And with that, he closed the door.
…
The next hours seemed impossibly long, measured only by P!nk’s “Just Like a Pill,” which Tyler kept replaying on his stereo as he laid on the floor in the foyer. On the nose, yes, but the song conveyed everything Tyler was wrestling with that night. It wasn’t supposed to hurt like this. He was proud, almost indignant, about how little he needed from Leo, emotionally. That was part of the draw. His career was in chaos, but he was able to come home every night to the one thing in his life that was stable: that six-foot swimmer he fell in love with all those seasons ago.
Now, the breakup spelled an uncertain future. All those dreams he and Leo had ceased to exist. The summer house in Woodstock they talked about buying. The vacations to Bora Bora. Having children—they even went over names that they liked. All gone. This gutting of possibility was what ripped through Tyler’s body, leaving him unable to move.
When Tyler’s phone died, drained by P!nk’s incessant heartbreak, he didn’t dare plug it in. He was afraid to see that the world had carried on without him while he was immobilized on the floor. The days passed, and Tyler drew the curtains throughout the apartment, sealing himself in his misery. He got by on microwaved popcorn and frozen pierogies, letting them barely thaw in the oven before pulling them out with his bare hands. Bathing was the first daily routine to fall by the wayside. Tyler also found himself no longer speaking. He didn’t utter a word after Leo shut the front door. He wondered what it’d be like never to speak again. How loud his life had become over the past several years. How loud he had become. Maybe there was something to it, the quiet. As quickly as the thought entered his mind, it left. Ding! His tinny door bell made him jump. Ding!
He stood frozen in the living room, scared of who could be on the other side of the door. The bell rang a third time, followed by a fist rapping on the solid wood of the door. Oh my God, he thought. It must be Leo! But wouldn’t Leo have his key? Maybe he left it behind, too proud to take it with him. A key found its way into the lock and turned. I really need to find a therapist and get this drinking under control, he thought, his hopes rising. He would finally figure out a work-life balance. He would make it work with Leo. He was ready!
But it wasn’t Leo who stood in the doorway. It was Alexa. He was ashamed. His physical appearance had deteriorated during the past few days, but he had also fooled himself into believing that Leo might actually come back to him. It had felt like just a few weeks ago when Alexa stood in that very spot, helping Leo and him move into the apartment almost three years earlier. Tyler stubbornly refused to hire professional movers, insisting that he possessed the physical strength and the friendships required to move unassisted in New York City. Alexa was assigned the thankless task of lifting the boxes out of the U-Haul, then carrying them up the four flights of stairs to the apartment door where Tyler, lofty as ever, had ordained himself with the mighty task of opening boxes and occasionally unpacking them. The three christened the apartment that day, passing around some indica that Tyler had brought back the previous week from work in Los Angeles, where he had begged (and failed) to acquire Lea Michele’s life rights for a biopic. Settled down by the marijuana, they rested their exhausted bodies on the hardwood floor, reveling in the cool of the overworked window unit. Dehydrated and soaked in sweat—it was Tyler’s brilliant idea to move in Manhattan in godawful August, when everyone they knew had the sense to be on Fire Island—they wolfed down some delivered pad Thai, accompanied by a middling bottle of rosé. Tyler thought the free meal was sufficient compensation for an entire day’s work. Alexa didn’t complain, knowing that Tyler would probably return the favor—if she asked when he was in the right mood. Three years later, Alexa stood at that same doorway, letting herself in to help her helpless friend yet again.
“Are you okay? Why haven’t you called!” Alexa rushed into the living room with the urgency of a best friend. She extended her arms around his shoulders, hugging him for what felt like minutes. Tyler had forgotten how good it could feel to be embraced.
“Talking about this would have made it real,” he said. “And I really don’t want it to be real.” He tucked his head under her arm.
“Honey, I know you live your life all out of sight, out of mind, but that just might not be the best way of handling a major crisis.” She was right, Tyler knew. He had gotten pretty far while keeping his skeletons buried in a closet—that one in the corner would serve as an apt metaphor, its mess of linens forever pressing up against the door. There was a certain shame in secrecy, but there was an even greater shame in denial.
“How did you know?”
“Your phone calls kept going straight to voicemail. So I called Leo. And he told me.” Tyler kept his head snuggled under her arm.
“How did he sound?”
“He sounded heartbroken, Tyler.” This soothed him. He had imagined Leo happily gallivanting about town, a man once again on the make, freed from his tormentor.
“What do you need?” Alexa asked.
“I say this with my entire being: I don’t know.”
“That’s perfectly understandable,” she said. “But what are you going to do?”
He looked at her.
“I have no idea. It’s too much him, even with all his shit gone. I can see him everywhere, and I can’t take it.”
There was something else, something he was too embarrassed to admit: losing the apartment would mean losing the lifestyle he had grown accustomed to. Sure, Tyler made pretty good money, especially compared to the paltry sums that so many of his contemporary millennials loved to complain about on Twitter. But he had grown to rely on Leo’s financial stability. The apartment would be ludicrous to pay for on just his salary alone—it was already over-budget for Leo and him as a couple.
“Please,” said Alexa. “No more hiding. If you need something, just ask. Okay? And no more hiding. I found out: you’re single. No shame.” She collected her purse from the coffee table, where she had tossed it.
“Off so soon?” Tyler asked.
“Well, now that I know you aren’t dead, I’m going to get home to my own life. Call me.”
“Okay, love you.”
“I love you,” said Alexa, closing the door behind her.
Tyler felt lucky to have Alexa in his corner, no matter the circumstances. He saw so many people around him who were truly alone—no friend, no lover, no child, no family. So many other friends had come and gone: there was Blair, his freshman roommate at NYU. The two had been fast friends, terrorizing the city together, never saying no to an open bar or an open bottle of poppers. They would harmonize lesser-known Reba McEntire songs and watched The Real Housewives of New York City every week with the fervor of devoted congregants. And then they slowly drifted apart. Blair had always been a bit unstable. He’d have one drink too many and pick a fight with random strangers. And so Tyler kept his distance, and soon they stopped speaking altogether. There were so many other friends with promising beginnings and fizzled out endings that Tyler couldn’t possibly remember them all.
With Alexa gone, the silence was far from comforting; it felt suffocating. He had no immunity against the quiet. He felt drained and was pale and beaded with sweat. He grabbed his Tumi purse from the ottoman and scavenged through it for the Xanax bottle.
Shit! He forgot to call his doctor’s office for a refill. The room began to contort and lengthen while his chest grew heavier. The dreaded, familiar yellow spots began to cloud his vision, and his knees buckled. He pressed his forehead into the floor in something like child pose, arms stretched out in front of his body. He shuddered as he gasped for air, eyes closed. He was desperate to find some semblance of breath. Missouri tornado sirens blared in his ears. The ringing continued to build as his anxiety swelled. Until … silence.
…
Speak.
He heard it so clearly.
Speak.
The voice was familiar. Tiny, yet still familiar. Was it his own?
Speak.
Uh, God? Hello? It’s been a long time. And I’m sorry about that. But I could use your help. Actually, I desperately need your help. Please. I’ve never felt so lost in my life. Nothing is right. I can’t keep going on like this. You probably know that already. I need Leo. I need him more than anything else, God. He’s my everything, and now he’s gone. And now I feel completely lost. So please, God, I’m asking for some guidance. Because, uh, because, I just really need a sign, please. I know, I know, you haven’t heard from me in a while, and this is such a needy request. So, thank you? Uh, goodbye for now. Oh, right. I should say “amen,” right? So… Amen.
Where the fuck did that come from? He hadn’t ended up in a prayer-like pose on purpose—it was his anxiety’s doing. But before he knew it, the words were coming forth, not even concealed within the privacy of his own thoughts. They were spoken aloud: a definite call upon the Energies of the Universe for some divine intervention. What did he even know about prayer? He was raised Southern Baptist, but it was more of a community gathering spot for other families in his hometown of Dexter, Missouri. Nothing more than some free babysitting on Sunday mornings and Wednesday nights. He grew up reciting the Lord’s Prayer and other archaic, hollow ramblings, of course, but Tyler had never spoken directly to God. At least not that he knew of.
Waiting for something, anything, Tyler opened his eyes and pulled himself up to his knees. The anxiety had released its choking grip from around his throat. Dust and crumbs from the unswept floor were pressed into his cheeks. He wiped the residue away and placed his hands at his hips, finally able to take in deep breaths.
Finding the strength to stand up, Tyler walked over to the couch and slid into its comforting cushions. Finally, some relief. He picked up his phone and swiped to pull up Doodle Jump—the best way to recover after one of his attacks. In the process, he saw a notification on the Facebook app. How gauche! Why did he even still have Facebook? It’s not like he was just dying to know his aunt Tina was promoting alt-right conspiracies that Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez was trafficking children on behalf of the Bidens and Obamas. Nevertheless intrigued—ironically!, he insisted to himself—he clicked on the app and saw the notification was a memory from ten years ago. He tapped on the notification. It was a photograph. There he stood, ten years ago, in all his nineteen-year-old, one-hundred-and-twenty-five-pound glory—with his Mom. Oh Mom, he thought, she was so beautiful. They stood under a marquee whose bright, red letters read EAT PRAY LOVE - PREMIERE - 8 PM, both pointing up with cheesy smiles reaching across their faces. The photo was from the 2010 Traverse City Film Festival, which his family attended every summer during their three-week stays at his grandmother’s lakeside cabin in Leland, Michigan. The place allowed the family to have a free little vacation between the farming season (which kept his father away most of the year, thankfully) and the upcoming school year. Two thousand and ten was his last year to join his parents in Michigan as he was leaving for NYU the following week. He and his mother were so thrilled by the idea of maybe meeting Julia Roberts that they stood in a standby line for six hours, begging passers-by for tickets.
Tyler felt a pang in his chest and clicked out of the app, afraid of what might come.
The movie had sparked a watershed moment in American culture. He remembered it so clearly. Women left their families, their careers, and their homes, all in the name of transformation—desperate for a taste of what Julia Roberts experienced in bringing Elizabeth Gilbert’s memoir to the big screen. It had enraptured him as a teenager, the Oprah-ness of it all. He saw himself so clearly in that story, even if he was an unmarried, underweight twink reared in America’s heartland. It was a time of unmatched change, unmatched possibility. There was a tangible hope that spread throughout the land. Years later, when Tyler would dabble in ancient Jewish mysticism at the Kabbalah Centre (thanks to Madonna’s Ray of Light), he couldn’t help but feel connected to that moment in which so many women had started over. There was something so resonant about Elizabeth Gilbert’s story. His heart skipped a beat and he gasped—the signature gay gasp! Wait a minute. This was it. Oh my God—God! This was the sign he prayed for!
