On Sunday after our lovemaking, Brett brushed his teeth while I rinsed off in the shower. Checkout was in an hour and soon we would drive home to L.A. I watched through the steamy glass while he packed his toiletry kit, razor, and toothbrush into separate plastic cases, toothpaste neatly rolled halfway with a metal key. I stifled the desire to grab him from behind, bite his neck, and lick away the beads of sweat that dripped down the fuzzy gully between his back and his ass. I turned off the water and reached for a towel.

“Hey, Jackie Gold.”

“Hey yourself.”

“I sure do like you, Jackie.”

“I sure do like you too, Brett.”

I more than liked him. A lot more. His sweetness, his good manners, his goofy Texas way of speaking. Even his acting insecurities didn’t bother me. I could relate, though his were even worse than mine.

I forced myself to walk past without mauling him, out of the bathroom, over to where my suitcase sat packed and ready by the door. All my sexy lingerie, tags still on, stuffed in, strapped down, zipped up, and hidden away.

CLOSE UP: BRETT HANEY’S FACE

FX: MAGAZINE COVERS SPINNING

1996

With the film’s premiere, Brett rocketed to the top of the A list. “Space Story is this generation’s Star Wars,” said Variety. The Hollywood Reporter called him “the next Tom Cruise.” Film offers showered him. Vanity Fair, Rolling Stone, Swanky, and GQ all booked shoots for their covers. Everybody wanted Brett Haney. Especially me. I wanted him all the time and with the attention he was receiving, I had him less and less. Not that I was faring badly; my reviews were good, if not spectacular. Penny was pouring over scripts, looking for the right “vehicle,” determined I wait for a “serious” role.

Brett and I went on a press tour of eighteen cities, making love in only four of them despite my pleading. And though it wasn’t the sexcapade I’d hoped for, I managed to be a good sport and refrain from the kinds of drunk-and-disorderly behaviors that plagued my previous junkets.

When we landed back in Los Angeles, Brett asked me to live with him.

“Yes,” I said. “Yes!”

I couldn’t wait. It would be different than with Peter. We’d be starting fresh, choosing our home together. It felt old-timey and innocent. Like sweethearts from a small town, quietly taking the next step.

A parade of media vans and two helicopters followed us as Brett drove our U-Haul through the streets of Bel-Air to our new home. The announcement set off shock waves.

“Are you engaged?” Regis asked in the morning.

“When’s the big day?” Jay asked that night.

“Why the rush?” Larry asked by satellite.

“Christ, Jackie! Are you pregnant?” Daddy yelled on the phone.

“Of course not!”

“I read about this in the goddamn trades!”

“The press got wind of it so fast I—”