**Part 3**

Anthony cupped my hands in his and said, "Now, I've got to be off, I've stayed about a half hour longer than I should have. I'm gonna get heat for that. I'm pretty well looked after in case you couldn't tell."

A half hour? I had been talking to him for about a half hour. He should have left before I even spoke one word to him. But... he didn't.

I stood up as he did to leave. He gave me a hug and pecked me on the cheek. I resisted the temptation to touch my face where he had kissed me.

"So, I'll talk to you later, eh?" He said turning to leave. "Oh, and uh," he glanced back at me, "don't forget your albums. Your friend will kill you."

I had totally forgotten, to tell the truth. I tried to busy myself picking them up and setting them straight so he wouldn't think and/or notice that I was gazing as he wandered off. I looked up to say goodbye, but he had already vanished.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

To say I was excited was the biggest understatement in all of eternity. I tried to be low key, but I admit that every time my phone rang I pounced on it and tackled it to the ground. My heart dropped whenever it would just be my mother or something.

Two agonizing weeks went by. He said only two other cities, right? Seattle then Vancouver? And then he was done? He did say he was going to get in contact with me again, right? I did give him my number, didn't I? Did I give him the right number though? I closed my eyes and tried to envision the soda-stained napkin that I'd scribbled the info onto. For as much as I strained the deepest fathoms of my brain, I couldn't focus on what I had written. Damn it, I probably wrote the wrong numbers. Or it was illegible and he couldn't read it. He lost it. He didn't care. He forgot about me. He was abducted by aliens...

Perhaps he was teasing me for his own entertainment. What a sick prank! No, I told myself, Anthony Rapp wasn't like that.

Maybe I had dreamed up the whole thing. Perhaps I'd made it all up, as if I were writing some fanatical Anthony Rapp fan fiction.

Naaahhh.

It was real. And I know it was because although I don't remember fighting the traffic home, downing a dozen green apple sodas at The Roxy, or almost running over a queen crossing the street, I distinctly remember someone back at the club breaking my daze by saying, "He's gay you know."

"What?" I blinked.

"He's gay. I can tell you're infatuated with him, but come on, even if you do ever see him again, he's gay, you're not gonna get him. Get over it." I don't think he realized that Anthony had actually said he would see me again, as our conversation had been pretty private and secluded in a dark corner of the room.

I vaguely remember setting this person straight by hurling an assault of Anthony facts that I knew, including that he was gay, at him. Turns out I knew a million times more than he did. Jerk.

Although, I had to admit, for as much as I admired him, his work, his music, his personality; I did find myself very... attracted... to him. There were actually a few other gay boys I'd had quite a likening for in the past, so it wasn't too terribly surprising.

Talk about a psychiatric torture on yourself. Loving someone you for sure could never have. Ever.

The day the call came though, I was reassured that I was not dreaming at all. It was very real. I had settled down on my mad phone answering skills, and to tell the truth, I almost missed the call. I was in the laundry room, starting the dryer. With all the noise I only heard the phone ring it's last ring before the answering machine caught it. I strolled into my living room, anticipating the voice of one of my friends, or a salesperson or something.

Beeep.

"Uh, hello? Bobbie? I'm sorry that I missed you. This is Anth-"

I about hung up on him trying to pick up the phone and turn off the machine at the same time.

"Hello? Hello?" I breathed into the phone, hoping he hadn't hung up. There was a moment of silence that seemed like the whole of eternity to me. Finally he spoke.

"Well hey girl," he chuckled. "I suppose you thought I abandoned you or something. There was this whole GLAAD thing I got involved with in Seattle and I - how are you?"

"Absolutely ecstatic," I said. What the hell was I thinking? Why did I say that? "Er, I mean, I'm good, you know, getting along..."

"Fabulous. So, I'm here at this hotel in Portland. It's actually pretty fancy. I dunno, they find these places for me... What are you up to right now?"

I wanted to make up some fabulously entertaining story full of glitz and glam and impressive activity. But...

"Folding laundry," I sighed.

For some reason beyond my comprehension, he found this amusing.

"So, when do you work? I mean, I'm pretty free twenty-four hours a day for awhile here," he offered.

"All the time."

"What?"

"I work all the time," I repeated. "I'm actually pretty bohemian, in the sense that, I can't afford to pay my rent hardly because instead of working in a steady normal job, I insist on torturing myself to do art."

"Oh yeah? That's good though. You're doing what you want."

"Yeah, I write articles for children's magazines, hack away at screenplays and theater scripts, audition for an acting role every now and again, take photographs, work for the Teen Theater Group every now and then when they need extra help, try and sell any of the above at Saturday Market... basically I do whatever someone will pay me to do and involves my interests."

"So you're telling me you're free then?" he pressed. Somehow I knew he was grinning ear-to-ear trying not to burst into hysterics.

"Yeah, that's pretty much it," I laughed. He gave me the address of where he was and I gripped it in my hands, careful not to lose and/or destroy it. I tried to keep it crisp even.

"So, I'll see you in a bit?" he asked.

"Yeah, I'll be right over." We said our goodbyes and it wasn't until I heard the buzz of the dial tone that I hung up.

I stared at the phone for about two seconds before I jumped into action, collecting up my keys, jacket and rushing out the door.